I'm Just All Fouled Up

I call Frank Thursday evening to confirm our meeting 'scheduled' for the next afternoon.  He answers the phone in a tone that I've grown to recognize - frustrated stress.   

I ask in a friendly, almost desperate tone, "Is it OK if I come up tomorrow?"

"My wheel chair is broke!" Frank exclaims.

I immediately have the image of Frank frustratingly and roughly pushing the joy stick like knob back and forth, pressing the buttons again and again with his gnarled trembling knuckles, while stating out-loud, 'Dag nab this wheelchair!  Come on get moving!'   

"Are you stuck somewhere?" 

"Well, my bed." Frank expresses lightheartedly.

I sigh for a moment, relieved that he isn't stuck somewhere, trying to get himself back to his bedroom. "Would you like some help?"

"No, David's taking care it."  Frank states in his matter-of-fact tone.  You know that tone, the one that is similar to the clank of the judge's gavel as it's tapped officially against the judge's bench - the one that tells you there's no questioning my decision.  Yep that's the one.

Frank keeps Dave on his toes.  With Frank's body riddled with the side effects of several strokes, some days his mind body connection is working, others it's not. Dave, Frank's second to youngest child, has become his caretaker, guardian, and protector.  

 

"I'm just fouled up! Don't come."  Frank exclaims.

   

I hang up, chuckling to myself, true to Frank fashion, he tells it like is.  Unapologetically he doesn't mix words and emotions.  Expecting only respect for his words, without any hard feelings in return.