10:30pm and I get the call-button to put my father to bed¹, and my besocked foot steps in a puddle. His urostomy bag had leaked, substantially. Then I find the quilt was also wet, so now that's in the washer and he's using a different blanket. ‹sigh›

[1] He's not allowed to do that alone after he botched the transfer from wheelchair to bed, sagged to the ground, and sat there for over two hours without pressing the call button — which he wears around his neck — for help.