This isn’t a rant, but it is a ridiculous story I feel the need to share — one that ended with rug burns on my knees and me staring at the ceiling in disbelief at the absurdity of it. And again this morning.
I’m going to call them diapers. Not “adult briefs.” Not “pullups.” Don’t fault me for that. Especially after last night, they were and are diapers, in every sense of the word.
It all started innocently enough. I let Dad sleep in later than usual. Figured, why not let him rest a little longer? I’d been giving him fluids and his medications throughout the day, so I thought all the bases were covered.
They weren’t.
When I finally sat him up, to get him up for the rest of the day, I noticed wet spots on his pajama shorts — right around where the catheter tube exits. My first thought: Oh no, the tube’s leaking. But it wasn’t a leak.
It was diarrhea.
It had been collecting in his diaper and had started to seep out — right where the catheter exits. The thing is, just two hours earlier, when I had him up for medications, everything was fine. No indication this storm was brewing. I should’ve remembered the golden rule of caregiving: After sitting someone up in a diaper, check the diaper before you let them lie back down. Because sometimes, just the act of sitting or standing is enough to get things… moving.
What makes this all feel especially ironic is that my most-viewed YouTube video is me explaining which side of a Depend pull-up goes in front. One viewer even dubbed me “the diaper man.” And oh, did I live up to that title last night.
Now, as anyone who’s done this long enough knows, most adult diapers are designed for urine. They might absorb a gallon of that, but diarrhea? Not a chance. There are specific briefs made for fecal incontinence — and I do have them — but I only use them when I know, because they’re more expensive and I try to be careful with money. But I didn’t know I’d need them until it was too late.
And what I found in that diaper… well, let’s just say it was no match for even the best marketing promises. It was everywhere. Front, back, middle, down a leg. I sprang into action like I was responding to a hazardous spill. I grabbed the absorbent pads, got him on his feet, helped him shuffle to the shower. Peeled those diapers off and launched into cleaning mode.
He fought me through the entire process. Didn’t want to be cleaned. Kept saying he wanted to go back to the bed to lie back down. It was like chasing a muddy dog through a very small bathroom. I used at least ten pads. Had to clean his feet three — no, four — times. And we still weren’t done. As I walked him back to the bed, more came out.
I realized at some point during this struggle that I was burning up. The kind of heat that makes you stop and wonder if you're coming down with something — only to discover the thermostat had been left too high. It was 97°F outside. I hadn’t cranked up the AC enough. My shirt was soaked, my glasses fogged, and I had flashbacks of saunas I never meant to enter. That’s the caregiver balance: we set the temperature to keep our aging loved ones comfortable. But that usually means we’re dancing right on the edge of overheating ourselves. Just a few degrees too far, and we’re suddenly working in a greenhouse.
Eventually, he was clean, dressed, seated in his chair, sipping coffee. Then he asked for a snack. I brought him two mini cupcakes — the kind with the paper liners. He had them, smiled, and all seemed calm.
Until I brought his meds and he looked up and said, “I can’t find my left hearing aid.”
Of course he couldn’t.
I frisked him like TSA. Checked shirt, pants, neck, hair. Tore apart his leather recliner — cushions, crevices, only finding tons of snack remnants and a penny or two. Nothing. I turned it over. Searched the side tables, behind the couch, around the couch.
Then the bed — sheet by sheet, pillow by pillow. No hearing aid. I asked, only halfway joking, “Did you throw it? Did you swallow it?”
My knees, already raw from the earlier clean-up crawl, were back down on the carpet again. I lifted the couch one-handed like some delusional superhero, prompting a twinge in my lower back that reminded me of birthdays gone by. Can I still do it? Yes. Will I regret it? Also yes.
Finally, I just stood there. Looking at Dad. Him blinking at me like he was wondering what all the fuss was about.
And then — I remembered the cupcakes.
I walked back into the kitchen, stared at the plates, and there it was: nestled deep inside one of the cupcake liners, blending in just enough to vanish. His hearing aid — hidden in chocolate-stained paper like the world’s saddest Happy Meal toy.
I laughed. I yelled at the ceiling. And I thanked every force in the universe that I hadn’t taken the trash out yet.
Even now, I catch myself drifting back into that moment — shaking my head like someone who just stepped out of a carnival funhouse. It wasn’t my worst day as a caregiver. But it was the most ridiculous. The most head-spinning. The most “what on earth is happening right now” kind of night I’ve had in a while.
My back still aches. My knees still sting. But I know I’ll find a way to laugh at this. That’s what I do. That’s what saves me.
I always call this my life in pants. And yes, it’s unzipped. Now you know where that name came from.
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