Day 233: The Frugal King

It’s my last visit to the hospital because my grandpa’s coming home.

When I arrive, he’s gobbling up his final dinner of turkey breast, rice, and salad. He’s going at it the same way we used to ravage Asian buffets back in the day, stacking plates with so many empty snow crab leg shells that even other diners would look at us funny. I can’t imagine the hospital food tastes as good as he makes it out to be. Must be the special flavor boost of it all being free.

The nurse, a young Asian nun dressed in gleaming white from her veil to her spotless Adidas shoes, walks me through his discharge papers. His sling needs to stay on his left arm for a week. He shouldn’t hold weight with it for two weeks. Someone will call you tomorrow to set up a home visitation. Set up an appointment with the cardiologist in 7-10 days. Make sure his diet is low-sodium and low fat. If he feels shortness of breath, call the cardiologist; if he doesn’t pick up, don’t hesitate to bring him to the emergency room. Avoid putting pressure on his chest where the pacemaker was implanted. Strong magnets are bad; microwaves are fine. Have him take this medicine, which will lower his blood pressure, but stop taking this other one which is now redundant. Reduce this one from 100mg to 50mg. It’s a lot, but she goes slowly and gently explains every step and answers every question, much to the appreciation of my sleep-deprived brain. When she finds out that my grandpa isn’t already seeing a blood specialist for his abnormal platelet, she returns with a packet of notes from his oncology examination to pass onto his primary doctor. Her warmth is both surprising and comforting — she seems to care in a way that extends beyond the cool professionalism of most nurses.

When she leaves to finish some tasks, my grandpa tells me to tell her that he thinks the world of her. Make sure you say it in those terms, he says. The world. He points to the rolling table where his meal tray and a few other items lay and tells me that he wants to take it home. I ask him what he’s referring to. The roll of toilet paper? He says yes. They’re going to throw it away, so it’s better that I take it, he explains. I tell him that it’s terrible one-ply. I still want it, he says. The nurse returns and I ask if we can take the toilet paper. She laughs and says yes.

I tell my grandpa to wait while I use the restroom, and when I return, I see him quickly shuffling back from the bathroom and dropping something in his bag. What was that, I ask. He tells me that he wanted to keep the toothbrush they gave him. I look inside and see a cheap, disposable brush like the kind dentists hand out at the end of a visit. I never understood that — wouldn’t they want me to use something more effective? Do they think I don’t have a toothbrush? Are my teeth that terrible? I tell my grandpa that he has his toothbrush at home but he again says that it’ll be a waste if they throw it away. Inside his bag under the toothbrush, I see the laminated menu of the hospital meals. I don’t ask.

On our way out, I try to translate the magnitude of my grandpa’s gratitude for the nurse. She smiles. I can’t imagine that she doesn’t hear this all the time.

When we arrive home, I saunter back to my room and open my laptop. A few minutes later, my grandpa enters, holding a bill from Spectrum. He had switched our Internet provider a few months ago after finally being seduced by the endless advertisements in our mail. This resulted in much distress for my sister who was tasked with setting up appointments and figuring out why the phone service stopped working. All so my grandpa could save a few bucks. Do this for me, he says. I groan because I know that this will likely mean a world of hassle for me and for such a meager cause. Why do you not like making money, he says.

Even with a transformed heart, my grandpa’s still the same as ever. I guess that’s a relief.