Of course, having had broken bones myself that yes, do on occasion cause me a twinge...it's an easy enough bandwagon to mount. That, and I know the argument has worked before when Grandpa is having a "I have this pain in my back" moment.
Grandma called Savannah this morning to tell her that Grandpa was complaining. A little while later she called again and I answered the phone. I told her I'd come out and see if I could talk to him. He's back on his cancer meds after a hiatus and it causes him to become confused and also to fixate on things.
Well, I went out there and Grandpa was sitting on the edge of the bed, half-dressed. He clearly wasn't in quite as much pain as he was making out (I can read his pain pretty well, after all, I know how to make him cry from the ol' therapy days and we didn't get there), even though he made some remark about "I'm dying" (mayhap a little too chipperly).
Savannah had called Mama...who called Grandma...who put Grandpa on the phone...and then it was my turn. :) Phone tag of sorts.
Anyway, I put some muscle rub on Grandpa and stretched his back out by putting my right hand over the "spot" and putting my left arm across his shoulders in the front and simultaneously pushing forward with the right and backward with the left arm (probably got closest to tears then; but I couldn't really see his face being behind him, but he wasn't sucking his breath in bad enough for that either). I know he gets tight simply from sitting slouched over with his chin on his chest.
Then I proceeded to convince him to let me help him finish dressing and to come out and eat his breakfast. (By this point it was actually after noon.) I managed to rip the back of his depends...badly, in fact...but he said it'd be fine and so we went ahead and got him into his pants. I helped him transfer from the bed to the wheelchair (though he did do most of it himself...I try not to help too much.)
Then, while he busied himself in making his way to the kitchen, I cleaned up the bathroom and turned out the lights back there. I brushed his hair (he always grimaces when I do that...I cannot be sure if I hurt him or not or if he's just closing his eyes in case I accidentally stick the hair-brush in his eyes?) and moved his shoes out from under the table.
Then, I came in for my lunch.
I confess that as I readied myself to go out, that I felt rather irritated; "Why does Grandpa have to be a hypochondriac? Never be a hypochondriac!!"
But then...I remembered...he's "only" 92 years old...and I may not have him for very much longer. That changed my attitude pretty quick...Yes, even I have to be reminded of my own mantra about the privilege and honor it is to serve our elderly. It doesn't mean that it's always easy, and dealing with hypochondria can be rather taxing at times, but I should never let my own selfish interests come between me and doing what I can to bring ease and comfort into the lives of my aging grandparents. NEVER.
I'll pop back out later to take them some more eggs and check on everything....