The Package Inspector

This is a story I have debated telling since the day it began. I have finally decided to tell it simply because it’s too funny (and sad) not to share it. Please note, Dad does not remember anything about the 27 days of our hospital/rehab/hospital ordeal in June and July. I am thankful he can’t remember these particular events. I hope you will agree, it’s hysterical (and sad) and, that it’s for the best that he doesn’t remember…



On the second day Dad was in rehab, he was sitting in his wheelchair while I straightened up his room. An elderly woman wheeled in and headed straight for him. She rolled to a stop next to him.
“May I help you?” he asked with obvious surprise.
“No,” she replied.
I said hello to her and she turned an icy stare my way. “Go away,” she demanded. She then reached a shaky hand over and placed it on Dad’s knee. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, “CRAZY”.
I stood there with my mouth gaping as I watched her smile and put her hand back on his leg (on his thigh this time). He politely told her hello. She began humming under her breath as she slowly started to rub his leg. When she didn’t respond, he asked again if he could help her. Once again, there was no response.
Not at all sure what I should do, I casually made my way over to the bed. As I straightened the linens, I pressed the nurse call button. I turned around to see her hand groping his crotch. Thanks to the Depends he was wearing, I don’t think he felt a thing. He was looking from her to me and appeared completely oblivious to where her hand was. I was frantically searching my mind for a way to handle the situation when the nurse walked in. She took the whole scene in with a quick glance.
“Now, Ms. G, let’s leave these nice folks alone to visit.” The nurse gently but firmly disengaged Ms. G’s hand and started to wheel her out.
I thanked the nurse as they were passing me. The old lady turned her head to look at me and leaned in my direction. Her voice was a loud, scratchy hiss, “BITCH! He’s mine and you can’t have him!”
My mouth dropped open as I looked from her enraged face to the smiling face of the nurse. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Ms. G used to have a “friend” in this room. She has trouble remembering he’s gone. She knows she’s not supposed to be in here so just call us if she comes back. Sorry.”
She leaned down and said to the old lady, “Come on, Ms. G, I’ll take you back to your room.”
As they made it to the door, Ms. G started to whine, “It’s my job. I’m the package inspector. Let me finish my job. Why won’t you leave us alone and let me do my job…”
Dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Poor thing,” he said, “she’s crazy.” He shook his head sadly as he stared at the empty doorway. And as he does with anything distasteful to him, he promptly forgot any of it ever happened.

Our second encounter of another kind with Ms. G came a couple of days later. Dad was stretched out on his bed behind me while I was gathering his daily laundry to be washed overnight and returned the following morning I heard him say, “Well… hello.”
I turned from the closet to see Ms. G wheeled up next to the bed with her hand up the cuff of Dad’s pants leg.
“May I help you?” Dad asked very politely while looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“I’m going to help you,” she said as she slid her hand further up his leg.
He cleared his throat and asked, “What’s your name?”
She began to hum by way of a reply and continued her upward trek, now somewhere in the region of his knee.
With no hesitation this time, I jumped for the nurse call button and summonsed help. “Ms. G, don’t you think you should go back to your own room now?”
She turned to stare blankly at me before she demanded through clenched teeth, “Get out! Can’t you see we want to be alone?”
She had made it to Dad’s thigh by now and realized she could go no higher than his lower thigh with his pants on. Not to be deterred, she simply dropped her other hand onto his lap and began groping him. I was beyond relieved when the nurse walked in. She immediately began trying to untangle Ms. G’s hand from Dad’s pants leg with one hand while she attempted to remove the still groping hand with the other.
As soon as she had a hand free, Ms. G reached a hand out to Dad. Much to my surprise, he asked the nurse to wait a minute and he took it in his own, patting it softly. “Thank you for stopping by,” he told her politely.
She grasped his hand and pulled it to her cheek. “Was it as good for you,” she asked, “as it was for me?”
As the nurse ushered her out of the room, Dad looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “Poor thing,” he said, “She’s crazy you know. Poor, crazy, lonely thing.”
I am happy to say that Ms. G was successfully kept out of his room after that (or at least to my knowledge she was). But, from then on, when we would encounter her in the halls, Dad would sadly shake his head and say, “Poor thing. Poor crazy, lonely thing”.
And to this day I am convinced he wasn’t at all aware that she tried to feel him up. I’m not sure which I am more thankful for in this case… the Alzheimer’s or the Depends!