The Bed

Mom has a fancy bed. We got a fancy warrantee, and we're using it.

Didn't I already describe this? In December I learned that the bed remote wasn't working. I went over to diagnose the problem. Sure enough. Not working. So I crawled under my mom's bed, which is one of the filthiest places known to man, and shimmied on my back over dust bunnies and dried spills to see what the parts looked like. Is there a reset button? No, but there were the dangling contacts of two 9-volt batteries hanging lifeless. Maybe that was the problem.

I went over to the Walgreens nearby to buy batteries. If you want to see random behavior, go to any drug store these days. Guy in line picking a fight with an unhoused person who is dripping? That's Walgreens. Every Walgreens. Also CVS.

9-volt batteries did not do the trick. I found the warrantee (thank you, middle sister, for saving that!) and called the number. They wanted a bunch of codes that were on various parts of the bed, cord, remote. None of our numbers (many texts with the caregivers for this) gave the folks on the phone the information they needed. After a few calls they allowed a service call.

Service call required me to be up and at 'em on last Monday's holiday (window: 8-noon). I get to mom's and wait. At 9:30 the guy calls to say that he's gotten halfway to my mom's but is sick and needs to go home. I explain to the scheduler that my mom is 96 and is in pain because of the bed situation. We reschedule for today, Monday from 10-2.

The weekend, as I have explained, was pretty awful. And mrguy got another migraine yesterday. Is that his 13th in two months and his third this week? Not sure. This morning we were able to have some coffee together and then the phone rings. It's repairman. It's 8:20. He says he'll be there in 20 minutes. I text the caregiver, who is expecting him between 10-2. She doesn't get the text and is surprised, but whatever.

I jumped in my clothes and went over to mom's, finding the repair guy kneeling by the side of the bed and mom gently kicking at him from under the blankets, telling him to go away.

He says that the control box needs to be replaced. He’ll send it to Mom’s address and when we have it we can make an appointment for the install.

He left, and the woman who was moments ago slapping the repairman’s bald head (according to our caregiver) smiles at me and says “How are you, my sweetness?” 

Uh…

I asked her how she was doing and she said “Perfect”

I told her I was just passing by on my way to work. And then I left.

The end.

It is 10am.