The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Read Online Free PDF Page B

might secure a piece of rented power equipment.
    Forced to choose, I pick the ancient diner downtown for my last meal as a caregiver, the one that looks like an old Airstream splashed with neon.
    â€œListen,” I say as we bump up the driveway. “About yesterday . . .”
    â€œMy mom already told me.”
    â€œShe did?”
    â€œAs long as it’s just allergies, I’m not worried,” he says.
    A warm sense of relief washes over me. “So, uh, why are we going out to breakfast, anyway?”
    â€œI fucking hate those waffles. Th ey taste like cardboard.”
    â€œFor real?”
    â€œMy mom makes me eat them. Th ey’re healthy as shit.”
    â€œAhhhh.”
    He bobbles his head toward the side window. Still, I can see in the mirror the suggestion of a grin playing on the corners of his mouth. “Fucking flaxseed goes through me like birdshot.”
    â€œAh man, why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve made you something else on the sly—smuggled you some Frosted Flakes or whatever.”
    Craning his torso to one side, Trev does his best to wave the subject off, offering a little flipper motion with his right hand.
    Th e Whistle Stop is so packed that the windows are fogging up. Th e tiny parking lot is at capacity but for the disabled spot. Unfortunately, a black Escalade is spilling over into the ramp clearance, so I’m forced to leave the van idling in the middle of the lot as I crawl around undoing the four buckles, circle the car, and lower the ramp, making Trev’s entrance all the grander as the platform eases him gently onto the wet pavement. It’s an entrance worthy of Queen Victoria. A few curious diners have pressed their faces to the window. On the pavement, Trev whips a three-point turn and waits off to the side in the rain as I raise the ramp, circle the van, and guide it in the handicapped spot, leaving a loogie on the driver’s door of the Escalade, as is my custom when somebody blocks the ramp clearance.
    No sooner do we reach the entrance than I note the three cement steps and the absence of a disabled ramp.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” I say.
    Our predicament is not lost on the proprietor, a morbidly obese gentleman in a white apron with a film of sweat on his forehead visible from thirty feet. Just as Trev is whirring a one eighty, and I’m mentally preparing myself to jockey the van around, he rushes from behind the counter, waving madly at us, and drawing to our little drama the further attention of his patrons, who are now as attentive as any Greek chorus.
    Bursting through the glass door, the fat man huffs and puffs as he beckons us back with his spatula. “Come! Come! Around back!”
    Here we have no choice but to oblige. We circle the shiny structure and arrive at the back door between two Dumpsters, where the fat man greets us urgently.
    â€œJust one little one,” he says, indicating the single cement step.
    Before anyone can object, the services of the dishwasher have been employed to lift, and Trev finds himself hefted wheelchair and all, rotated, tilted, and generally finessed like an oversized sofa through the narrow doorway. Slightly unnerved but safely on the ground, he whirs past a stupefied line cook and through the kitchen, where he appears to the diners as a severed head gliding smoothly across the countertop.
    By the time we emerge from the kitchen into the dining room, we are nothing less than a curiosity. People are craning their necks. Th e waitress and the busboy are clearing a booth furiously to accommodate us. Obviously, Trev’s not going to fit in a booth; thus his place is being set on the end of the table, where his wheelchair will occupy the better part of the narrow aisle, creating a clusterfuck for not only the waitstaff but anyone who wants to use the john. Adeptly, with a series of clicks and lurches, Trev finesses himself into these tight quarters. Almost instantly, a curious