31

 

Marcy is getting Dad settled into his comfy lift chair when I come downstairs. She’ll leave soon, and I’ll give Dad lunch. It’s my third trip down this morning because I’m worried about him. He’s been really lethargic. In fact, he’s fast asleep.

“How’s he doing?” I ask Marcy.

“He seems awful tired this morning.” She lets out a big sigh. “It was tough to get him in and out of the bath, ’cause he wasn’t cooperatin’ at all.”

“I’m sorry, Marcy. Please, call me down to help anytime. I don’t want you or Dad getting injured.”

“I will, don’t you worry. But right now I’d say he might have a UTI comin’ on. My grandma got them about every other month.”

“That’s right, you said she was a diabetic.”

“Yeah, she was. Why?”

“Diabetics are more prone to UTIs.”

“They are?”

I’m surprised that she’s never heard this from a doctor.

“Women much more so than men. Dad has had his share of them before, but I’ve worked hard to make sure he doesn’t get them the usual ways, like not emptying his bladder. I make sure he stays on the toilet until he’s gone all he can.”

Marcy nods her head. “I do that, too.”

I think about Dad’s asking to go to the bathroom more frequently, even though he’s drinking less and less water. That’s another symptom, feeling like you have to urinate even when you don’t. I chastise myself for the few times I’ve said, “But Dad, you just went. Can you hold it a little longer?” It is a chore that never gets any easier.

I should have been more on top of this, seen the signs earlier. I don’t share my shortcomings with Marcy.

“Or it could happen because of a high blood glucose level, though it’s been within target range since he came here.”

“I think it’s ’cause he holds it in until he gets to a toilet. He don’t never have a wet diaper.”

“That’s a good thought, Marcy. If he holds it in, or doesn’t go completely, the urine stays in the bladder and becomes a breeding ground for bacteria.” Now I’m becoming really worried. “Did his urine have a strong odor this morning?”

“It’s coming on. That’s what made me think of it.”

“I’ll go call his doctor. Maybe I can get him in today. Thanks, Marcy.”

She gives Dad a kiss on his forehead and pulls a blanket over him. “He seems chilled, too. He was real cold in the bath, even with the heater in there running. I got him out quick.”

Now I know I have to get Dad in to see Dr. Baird today.

 

 

“I’d like to admit him to the hospital,” Dr. Baird says.

I’m crestfallen. “You don’t think a round of antibiotics will cure it?”

“Joe’s got a lot going on anyway, and I want to keep an eye on this UTI.” He hesitates before he continues. “Mortality from a UTI is five times higher in patients aged sixty-five and older who have diabetes. I don’t want this to get out of control. I want to start him on a drip with antibiotics. I also want to get him fully hydrated.

“Right now,” he continues, “It looks like a lower UTI, and I want to keep it and kill it there. It’s just affecting the bladder. But the infection can spread as the bacteria move up from the bladder through the ureters. If they reach the kidney, they can cause a kidney infection, which can become a very serious condition. If it gets to that point, it can be deadly for someone like Joe. If he’s in the hospital, I can keep a close eye on him.”

After that explanation, any arguments I might have put forth are fruitless. I already knew all of this, because I had been through it with him before. Dad’s going to have to be admitted. He’s vulnerable, since he’s already had a TURP procedure for an enlarged prostate. That almost killed him because the catheter that had been inserted a week before the surgery had created both a lower and upper UTI, and the surgeon didn’t bother to get a urine sample before surgery. The operation had caused the bacteria to enter his bloodstream, and it was the closest Dad had come to dying since he was wounded at Anzio.

I recall sitting by his hospital bed in Florida when his granddaughter, my niece, called. I handed him the phone and he said to her, “Pray for Papa. I’m real sick, honey.”

Dad was the very definition of stoic. Such an admittance shook me from my complacency in believing he’d be just fine, and drove me to take action.

I’d had his general practitioner call in a specialist, and it was just in time. It was touch and go for a couple of days, but Dad recovered.

I can’t take a chance that he could get that sick again because I’m not sure he could survive. He’s six years older now, and his health is much more precarious.

“Then let’s get him admitted and started on the antibiotic drip,” I say, with a mixture of conviction and dread.