And the beat goes on. and the beat goes on
So we take a family vacation.
My sister, nieces, some various and sundry friends and THE 'RENT. Yes, we even bring the 'rent on vacation.
To the beach.
On oxygen.
And bascially dependent upon everyone else to do everything for her.
Yeah. The brain trust hauled her and her two oxygen concentrators to the beach.
We get her up a flight of stairs. A. LONG. FLIGHT. OF. STAIRS. (Again, breathing issues)...
Get her settled.
Make a grocery list for all of the items we didn't get prior to our drive and then made a plan to go to the store.
See, that was the FAIL right there.
We made a plan.
Outloud.
Where the 'rent could hear.
And for some reason, beyond my ability or my sibling's ability to fathom, the 'rent has decided that we must ALL GO to the store. All being, Sibling, Mom, The Oxygen Concentrator, and I, the resident unpaid servant to the 'rent. AND our portable wheelchair in case wherever we end up does not have "carts o' terror" we have the means to get her about the store. <blank face>
We are staying in an unfamiliar area, so finding stores is a little bit of a challenge and not really a two minute drive. So we pile into the car with chair and the concentrator and OFF WE GO.
After going in the wrong direction for several miles we just say screw it and go back the way we came to where we knew that regular grocery stores would be rather than continue the pursuit of the mega store.
The aformentioned Parade O' Spaz ensues. All the way through the store, we would look up and the COT was just gone. So we would have mount a patrol to locate her, and then POOF just gone again. MEH. I have a vision of the cart o' terror just riding off into the sunset. But alas, that is not to be.
My sister, nieces, some various and sundry friends and THE 'RENT. Yes, we even bring the 'rent on vacation.
To the beach.
On oxygen.
And bascially dependent upon everyone else to do everything for her.
Yeah. The brain trust hauled her and her two oxygen concentrators to the beach.
We get her up a flight of stairs. A. LONG. FLIGHT. OF. STAIRS. (Again, breathing issues)...
Get her settled.
Make a grocery list for all of the items we didn't get prior to our drive and then made a plan to go to the store.
See, that was the FAIL right there.
We made a plan.
Outloud.
Where the 'rent could hear.
And for some reason, beyond my ability or my sibling's ability to fathom, the 'rent has decided that we must ALL GO to the store. All being, Sibling, Mom, The Oxygen Concentrator, and I, the resident unpaid servant to the 'rent. AND our portable wheelchair in case wherever we end up does not have "carts o' terror" we have the means to get her about the store. <blank face>
We are staying in an unfamiliar area, so finding stores is a little bit of a challenge and not really a two minute drive. So we pile into the car with chair and the concentrator and OFF WE GO.
After going in the wrong direction for several miles we just say screw it and go back the way we came to where we knew that regular grocery stores would be rather than continue the pursuit of the mega store.
The aformentioned Parade O' Spaz ensues. All the way through the store, we would look up and the COT was just gone. So we would have mount a patrol to locate her, and then POOF just gone again. MEH. I have a vision of the cart o' terror just riding off into the sunset. But alas, that is not to be.
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