Just call me Florence Nightingale

I spent the weekend being Florence Nightingale to my mother. The poor old dear had her right hip replaced. Old, of course, being relative - she's 60. That may seem young for a hip replacement, but I figure that she was probably better able to tolerate the operation being younger. But hey, I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV.

I think she's doing pretty well: she can get around fine with a walker (a Zimmer frame, to my UK readers), less well with a cane. Her incision is only about 5-6 inches long, and has a lovely zipper-effect from the staples. She's taking lots of pain medication, so naturally, she's pretty happy most of the time. She got a bit grumpy when she missed it by a half-hour.

The thing that irks her most, though, is being constipated. My mother gives new meaning to the term "anal." She enjoys a good BM more than most people. Besides that, she's relentlessly tidy and organized. Sort of like an American Hyacinth Bucket ("It's pronounced 'Bouquet," dear"). Coming to my house makes her practically break out into hives, as I'm allergic to housework and have a "dirt problem." Guess that makes the WCM and me Daisy and Onslow.

Whatever. Let's all pray for some "regularity" to come to my mom's house. And soon!

***

Ok, I just got off the phone with the woman herself. I won't OVERSHARE go into the gory details of the conversation, but let's just say that the phrases "like shitting bricks," "Fleet's enema," "rubber gloves," "Vaseline," and "pull it out," were employed during the chat.

Hallelujah, praise Jesus, my Mother's regular again.