Where have I been? Just a minute ago it was two weeks ago! Sister St. Aloysius is off on her yearly Think Tank sabbatical. I thought I was going to have to go it alone with Sister Mary Fiacre, but it's really a two man job. A two nun job. A two person job. We have it down to a science, getting her in and out of her wheelchair, and in and out of bed, the medication schedule, the TV shows that seem to entertain her. Trying to explain our inanely complex routine to an 'outsider' is almost embarrassing.
"You put the empty bread bag under her left foot and then pull her up and spin her around into the wheelchair."
"Yes. The bread bag under her foot lets her foot spin like a ballerina. Otherwise she could snap her ankle."
The bread bag was the brain child of Sister St. Aloysius. Genuis. No wonder they have her at the Think Tank every year.
"If you cut the cookie into pieces and stick a piece between her fingers, she will eat it herself automatically. But you have to pry her fingers apart."
"Pry her fingers apart?"
"Yes. with your own fingers. You won't need any tools or a crowbar or anything."
Around this time, some people flee, with their hair on fire.
I had lined up several of the church ladies to drop in from time to time to pick up the slack. Or the bread bags. We were good to go.
You may remember that last year...was it last year? I lose track. Anyhow, we had St. Nicolas during Think Tank season. I didn't think I'd get any help from the powers that be this year. It's harder and harder to find a spare nun anyplace. So you can imagine my surprise, just after returning from a whirlwind trip to the airport after we realized we misread the ticket and the time was 12 noon, not 12 midnight (poor Sister St. Aloysius thought she'd be sleeping through a redeye and didn't bring a thing to read, this is where a rosary is so handy!), to find a certain Sister Julianna parked on the door step with her little black bag.
I thought she was sitting down when I saw her, but she was standing up. She's two feet tall! No, she isn't. But she is very tiny. I feel like a Yeti standing next to her. She's Cuban.
Actually, she isn't really. We talk that way here in America. "I'm Irish!"
No, you aren't. You may be of Irish decent. But you are not Irish. If you go to Ireland and tell them you're Irish, they'll shake their heads and say, "You're an American." And they'd be right.
Sister Julianna is of Cuban descent. She does wonders with a sweet garlic sauce and those little bitty bananas. Who knew garlic and bananas would be a good thing. Although they did not agree with Sister Mary Fiacre at all. So we won't be having them again. I'll offer up my suffering for the Poor Souls in Purgatory.
So it's going very well! Her hair didn't go on fire when I showed her 'the routine' and she can pivot a person on a bread bag with the best of them.
We're back in business!