After an afternoon of wandering through the Central Park Zoo on wednesday, Mike came back with me to visit Dad. Dad was in an unusually argumentative frame of mind. It took some cajoling to get him to eat dinner, and he did so grumpily. While he ate, Mike and I sat on the couch, petting Kristen. “What are you two doing over there in the dark?” Dad suddenly asked. All the lights were on. “Dad, it’s not dark,” I explained, “your eyes are bad.” He clearly didn’t believe me, but kept eating. A few minutes later, he said, “You just came here to fuck.” “That’s not true,” I told him. “I came here to see you,” added Mike, who is in a committed relationship with someone else, but Dad was not mollified. He took a few more mouthfuls. “I’ll be out of the way in a few minutes,” he said. No amount of reassurance could convince him that he was not in the way, and he headed off to bed.
Sexuality seems to be this week’s theme. When I arrived on Thursday, Dad wasn’t wearing any pants. I figured he was going to bed soon, so I didn’t make a fuss about it, but then he started fondling his penis. While I was trying to work through my shock and figure out what to do, Dad must have picked up on my vibes, because he asked, “Does it bother you when I play with my toy – this thing?” “People usually do that in private, Dad,” I told him, struggling to keep my voice calm, because I didn’t want him to feel bad. “I’m not doing it in private, am I?” Dad asked. “No, you’re not,” I told him. “Better cover up,” he said, pulling his sweater down over his thighs. And that was that.
On Friday, Dad was investigating the wall of his apartment. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m looking for my visibility. I don’t know where it is,” he responded.
Dad signed my birthday card! I didn’t know he could still write, but Kate S. gave him a pen and he wrote three shaky letters, “D-A-D,” followed by an exclamation point. When Kate S. asked him what the exclamation point was for, he said “I can’t remember the word.” “Emphasis?” she asked. “Yes!” said Dad. We celebrated my birthday at his house, at our Friday night dinner, with an accidentally flourless cake. Nobody knew there was anything wrong until I admitted my mistake (after they’d eaten it!). I guess I’m a little frazzled these days.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Nov. 9, 2009
11/9/09
Something’s up with Dad. On Friday, when Kate S, Brianna and I gathered for our Friday night family dinner at Dad’s place, we found him in bed, asleep. He didn’t emerge until 8pm, stayed up for an hour and a half and then went back to bed. He was asleep again when I arrived on Saturday, didn’t get up until 5pm, and then headed back to bed at 8pm. On Sunday, he was awake, but when Michael tried to give him dinner, he said he wasn’t hungry and refused to eat it, a very unusual behavior for Dad.
I asked him if he felt sick and he said no, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not sick. I think I’ll take his temperature tonight, just to be sure. Of course, this behavior could also be the result of a psychological issue – Alzheimer’s usually makes people sleep less, not more, but I suppose he might be waking up at night when we’re not there and then sleeping during the day to make up for it. I’m seriously considering setting up a “Dad-cam” in his bedroom so that I can see what he’s doing late at night. If he is becoming nocturnal, then it has implications for scheduling his care – there’s not much point in having people go over there when he’s asleep, but I’d have to hire someone to sit with him at night if he’s awake then. I don’t know how we’d pay for it, but my friends and I can’t stay up at those hours. If he is waking up at night, it must be really late because I stayed at his house until 2am Thursday since I had to catch a 3am train, and he was sound asleep.
Another possibility is depression – or boredom or a combination. His world is definitely becoming increasingly limited. It’s hard to know what to do if depression is the problem – I’m hesitant to add any psychotropic drugs to the mix since they tend to have a lot more adverse reactions in the elderly and his brain’s already pretty scrambled. I suppose I could take him to Dr. Honig, but it takes forever to get an appt with him. If he’s bored, then we need to find more activities for him – a challenge when you add his blindness into the mix. But what if he’s going to bed because the world is too confusing and bed is where he feels safe? In that case he might need less stimulation, not more.
It’s so difficult to figure all this out when dealing with someone who can’t communicate clearly. I almost wish I could bring him to the vet – he’s used to figuring out what’s going on in patients who can’t talk.
Something’s up with Dad. On Friday, when Kate S, Brianna and I gathered for our Friday night family dinner at Dad’s place, we found him in bed, asleep. He didn’t emerge until 8pm, stayed up for an hour and a half and then went back to bed. He was asleep again when I arrived on Saturday, didn’t get up until 5pm, and then headed back to bed at 8pm. On Sunday, he was awake, but when Michael tried to give him dinner, he said he wasn’t hungry and refused to eat it, a very unusual behavior for Dad.
I asked him if he felt sick and he said no, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not sick. I think I’ll take his temperature tonight, just to be sure. Of course, this behavior could also be the result of a psychological issue – Alzheimer’s usually makes people sleep less, not more, but I suppose he might be waking up at night when we’re not there and then sleeping during the day to make up for it. I’m seriously considering setting up a “Dad-cam” in his bedroom so that I can see what he’s doing late at night. If he is becoming nocturnal, then it has implications for scheduling his care – there’s not much point in having people go over there when he’s asleep, but I’d have to hire someone to sit with him at night if he’s awake then. I don’t know how we’d pay for it, but my friends and I can’t stay up at those hours. If he is waking up at night, it must be really late because I stayed at his house until 2am Thursday since I had to catch a 3am train, and he was sound asleep.
Another possibility is depression – or boredom or a combination. His world is definitely becoming increasingly limited. It’s hard to know what to do if depression is the problem – I’m hesitant to add any psychotropic drugs to the mix since they tend to have a lot more adverse reactions in the elderly and his brain’s already pretty scrambled. I suppose I could take him to Dr. Honig, but it takes forever to get an appt with him. If he’s bored, then we need to find more activities for him – a challenge when you add his blindness into the mix. But what if he’s going to bed because the world is too confusing and bed is where he feels safe? In that case he might need less stimulation, not more.
It’s so difficult to figure all this out when dealing with someone who can’t communicate clearly. I almost wish I could bring him to the vet – he’s used to figuring out what’s going on in patients who can’t talk.
Monday, November 2, 2009
October 31 2009 Halloween
I brought Dad to my house today so he could hand out the Halloween candy. He looked adorable in his jester’s hat and it was warm enough for him to sit out front with the basket of candy. It went well at first, though he kept getting impatient during the intervals between children and he kept trying to give candy to passing adults.
The trouble came when he needed to use the bathroom – the bathroom in my house is up a flight of twisty wooden stairs and Dad just couldn’t manage them – he went up about three and then it became clear he couldn’t do it. All my neighbors’ houses are set up the same way, so the only solution was to walk down to the bar on the corner. All the way, Dad kept complaining about having to walk a “half-mile” and saying that he should just “piss out the window,” an activity that would cause a riot in my uptight neighborhood.
Once we got back to his house, Dad was struggling to understand where we’d been and why. “We were gone for several days?” he asked. “No, Dad, just six hours.” I told him. Realizing the difference between his perceptions and the reality of what had actually happened made Dad worry about his brain. “Am I liable to jump out the window?” he asked me. After I reassured him about that, he asked, “Am I going to walk and walk and walk and not remember where I am?” Although this scenario was more likely than his jumping out the window, I reassured him again and reminded him that he doesn’t go out alone. Even if he did venture out alone, he wouldn’t get very far, since half a block is his maximum walking distance these days. And then came the third question, one he has never asked before,“Is there a cure?” I tried to be as gentle as possible as I explained that there is no cure, but it was a heartbreaking moment.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
October 28, 2009: yogurt
This week has been challenging for Team Dad. On Monday, Kate S. was talking to Dad on the phone and told him she would be coming to see him the next day. Then I, desperate for conversation topics, told Dad that he would be coming to my house for Halloween, to hand out candy to the kids. He loves children, and has always enjoyed this in the past, so I thought it would make him happy.
Unfortunately, all this information about the future overloaded Dad’s fragile memory banks and sent him into a spin. He spent the entire rest of the evening interrogating me: “Tomorrow is?” he would start. “Tuesday, Dad,” I would answer. “And something is happening?” he inquired. “Big Kate is coming to visit you,” I’d tell him. “What time?” he wanted to know. “4pm.” I answered. “Do I need to dress up?” he’d ask, in a worried tone. “No, just wear pants,” I’d tell him. “Pants?” he’d ask, confused. “Trousers!” I shouted. “What’s tomorrow?” the loop begins again. “Tuesday, Dad” . . . and we did that for HOURS.
On Tuesday, when Kate S. actually arrived, Dad repeated the exercise, except this time he was asking her about Saturday. “Something’s happening on Saturday?” he’d ask and on it went, repeating until she was on the verge of tears.
Today, during the day, Dad had forgotten all but “Something’s Happening?” which he repeated to his housekeeper so often that she called me to see if I had any idea what he was talking about. I explained to her that he’s coming to my house for Halloween, but I have no idea if she tried to explain it to him because by the time I got there tonight, he had forgotten all about it and didn’t mention it at all.
I guess it’s a lesson for us Dad-keepers: don’t mention future plans because he remembers only enough to make him know there’s more he should know and it makes him anxious.
Luckily, this evening with Brianna and I, he was pretty mellow. “What are you doing now?” he asked me. “I’m looking at you,” I told him. “That’s all you’re doing?” he replied, “Jesus, that’s dangerous!”
Later he asked me, for the umpteenth time, how old he was. “86” I replied. “Is it possible that I be that old and still walk around and talk around?” he asked me. “How old can a person be and still have kittens?” he wanted to know. “Babies?” I asked. “Yes.” He replied. I broke into laughter at the idea of a person delivering a litter of kittens.
He was playing around with his voices again, too. “Kitty cat, kitty cat, kitty cat, where are you going kitty cat?” asked his normal voice. He replied, in his special cat voice, “I’m going to shit.” The cat herself slept through this performance.
Somehow we wound up talking about yogurt, and Dad was fascinated by the sound of the word. “Yogurt. Yo-gurt. Does that mean anything?” he asked me. “I don’t think so,” I responded. “’yo’, that means ‘I’ and ‘gurt’ – I don’t know,” he said, startling me – I didn’t know he remembered any Spanish.
And then there were the just plain mysterious remarks: “There’s something different about the animal catching or seeing or believing, I think. In the old days, they either fucked him or washed him away,” declared Dad, authoritatively. I have no idea what he meant.
Unfortunately, all this information about the future overloaded Dad’s fragile memory banks and sent him into a spin. He spent the entire rest of the evening interrogating me: “Tomorrow is?” he would start. “Tuesday, Dad,” I would answer. “And something is happening?” he inquired. “Big Kate is coming to visit you,” I’d tell him. “What time?” he wanted to know. “4pm.” I answered. “Do I need to dress up?” he’d ask, in a worried tone. “No, just wear pants,” I’d tell him. “Pants?” he’d ask, confused. “Trousers!” I shouted. “What’s tomorrow?” the loop begins again. “Tuesday, Dad” . . . and we did that for HOURS.
On Tuesday, when Kate S. actually arrived, Dad repeated the exercise, except this time he was asking her about Saturday. “Something’s happening on Saturday?” he’d ask and on it went, repeating until she was on the verge of tears.
Today, during the day, Dad had forgotten all but “Something’s Happening?” which he repeated to his housekeeper so often that she called me to see if I had any idea what he was talking about. I explained to her that he’s coming to my house for Halloween, but I have no idea if she tried to explain it to him because by the time I got there tonight, he had forgotten all about it and didn’t mention it at all.
I guess it’s a lesson for us Dad-keepers: don’t mention future plans because he remembers only enough to make him know there’s more he should know and it makes him anxious.
Luckily, this evening with Brianna and I, he was pretty mellow. “What are you doing now?” he asked me. “I’m looking at you,” I told him. “That’s all you’re doing?” he replied, “Jesus, that’s dangerous!”
Later he asked me, for the umpteenth time, how old he was. “86” I replied. “Is it possible that I be that old and still walk around and talk around?” he asked me. “How old can a person be and still have kittens?” he wanted to know. “Babies?” I asked. “Yes.” He replied. I broke into laughter at the idea of a person delivering a litter of kittens.
He was playing around with his voices again, too. “Kitty cat, kitty cat, kitty cat, where are you going kitty cat?” asked his normal voice. He replied, in his special cat voice, “I’m going to shit.” The cat herself slept through this performance.
Somehow we wound up talking about yogurt, and Dad was fascinated by the sound of the word. “Yogurt. Yo-gurt. Does that mean anything?” he asked me. “I don’t think so,” I responded. “’yo’, that means ‘I’ and ‘gurt’ – I don’t know,” he said, startling me – I didn’t know he remembered any Spanish.
And then there were the just plain mysterious remarks: “There’s something different about the animal catching or seeing or believing, I think. In the old days, they either fucked him or washed him away,” declared Dad, authoritatively. I have no idea what he meant.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
10/24/09: gangsta Dad
Kate S. took this picture of Dad, wearing his hat "gangsta" style.Dad found my pants, which I had hung in the bathroom to dry. He came shuffling out of his bedroom with the elastic waist drooping around his hips and crinkly purple fabric ballooning around his skinny legs. "Dad, you're wearing my pants!" I exclaimed, and led him back to his bedroom. While I was helping him change, I said "Dad, didn't you notice that they were too big?" "Huge," he said "huge!"
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
october 8 2009: arrogance lesson
10/8/09
Showing up at Dad’s, I find him in bed, but not asleep. He’s very surprised to see me and asks what time it is. When I tell him it’s 5 o’clock, he thinks I mean 5am, and I can’t convince him otherwise. When his friend Peter calls, he wonders why he’s calling at such an odd hour. To me, he says, “your parents don’t complain about early business?” “You are my parent,” I tell him. “So, I have to pay you,” he says. “No, you don’t,” I tell him, surprised by the twist the conversation has taken. “Yes, I do,” he insists.
“Big Kate is at an Arabic lesson,” I tell Dad. “An arrogance lesson?” he asks. “No, an Arabic lesson,” I clarify. “What’s that mean?” he wants to know. “Arabic is a language,” I explain.
“How old are you?” Dad asks me for what seems like the millionth time. “33,” I answer. “Mini, mini, mini,” he comments.
He’s struggling with his words, getting words that have the same sounds or rhythm mixed up. He starts a sentence, “I, under the underhand . . . “ when he means “I, on the other hand . . . “
“I’m very unused to this,” Dad declares. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Unused to what?” I ask. “This usage of philosophy,” he responds. We have not been discussing anything remotely philosophical. “Oh,” I say, lost. “So you’ll have to be very careful,” he continues, “this should be an adventure.”
Showing up at Dad’s, I find him in bed, but not asleep. He’s very surprised to see me and asks what time it is. When I tell him it’s 5 o’clock, he thinks I mean 5am, and I can’t convince him otherwise. When his friend Peter calls, he wonders why he’s calling at such an odd hour. To me, he says, “your parents don’t complain about early business?” “You are my parent,” I tell him. “So, I have to pay you,” he says. “No, you don’t,” I tell him, surprised by the twist the conversation has taken. “Yes, I do,” he insists.
“Big Kate is at an Arabic lesson,” I tell Dad. “An arrogance lesson?” he asks. “No, an Arabic lesson,” I clarify. “What’s that mean?” he wants to know. “Arabic is a language,” I explain.
“How old are you?” Dad asks me for what seems like the millionth time. “33,” I answer. “Mini, mini, mini,” he comments.
He’s struggling with his words, getting words that have the same sounds or rhythm mixed up. He starts a sentence, “I, under the underhand . . . “ when he means “I, on the other hand . . . “
“I’m very unused to this,” Dad declares. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Unused to what?” I ask. “This usage of philosophy,” he responds. We have not been discussing anything remotely philosophical. “Oh,” I say, lost. “So you’ll have to be very careful,” he continues, “this should be an adventure.”
Saturday, October 10, 2009
10/10/09 Coming Out Day
10/10/09
As soon as I got to his house today, Dad announced, “Thank goodness you’re here, now I can get some rest!” and headed off to bed. About an hour later, he emerged. “Are you up?” I asked him. “I don’t know if I’m up, down, or sideways,” he replied.
I tell Dad the story of Pax’s tail-vs.-flypaper incident this morning, but I had to describe flypaper to him: “it’s a strip of paper coated in glue so that bugs will stick to it and you can get rid of them,” I carefully explained. When I got to the part about Pax trying to outrun the flypaper wrapped around his tail, Dad burst into laughter.
Later, he asks me what kind of work I do. “I work with young people,” I tell him. “So you always have people alive,” he observes. “There’s not much you can do for people who aren’t alive,” I respond, trying not to laugh. “Except bury them,” he says.
Continuing on the same general subject, Dad says, in a confused tone, “people who are alive live longer than people who are not alive, is that it?”
Dad is obviously searching for something, feeling various objects in his vicinity. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Any idea where a posture, a commonplace, is?” he responds, unhelpfully. When I don’t respond, he elaborates, “something to put over me?” “A sweater?” I ask, bringing him one. “Yes.”
“Where are we now?” Dad asks, while we are sitting on his couch. “In your living room,” I tell him. “I know that,” he says, impatiently. “Where are we technologically?” I am at a loss.
“What do you think the percentage is of people who don’t get born, but come alive?” I think of Frankenstein. “Zero,” I say. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
After dinner, Dad gets into a thoughtful mood. “In a sense, I’ve been ashamed all my life,” he says. “Ashamed of what?” I ask. “Everything,” he says.
“50 years ago, people thought about it, but didn’t talk about it, but now they talk about it. If you talked like that 50 years ago, you’d get fired,” says Dad, rather mysteriously. “Now, they don’t care. ‘I’m not normal’ ‘oh,OK, teach your class, everyone’s a little different.’ But 50 years ago you had to shut up and I’m so old I don’t give a damn.” Am I hearing right? Is my Dad talking about being a closeted teacher?
“Some people are absolutely against all of this and the moment there’s any suggestion of –‘out! Get out!’” he continues.“Nobody’s going to kick you out or fire you now,” I reassure him, since he seems genuinely alarmed at the thought. “No, of course not, not in this City. They might have been the best teachers around, but bang!” he says.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be a big march for homosexual rights in DC,” I tell him, purposely using the word that he and his octogenarian friends tend to prefer. “Really?” he asks. “I’d like to see that. And I bet nobody throws anything at it, but 50 years ago . . . “
This is not the first time in his post-Alzheimer’s life that Dad has raised the issue of his own sexual identity, and it really confuses me. I always thought he was straight, but then again, people have a way of not noticing things that are under their own noses. Was I in denial? His many gay friends, his total acceptance of me and my queer friends, the money he gave to ACT UP and GMHC, the gay pride parades . . . those could all be seen as clues.
On the other hand, what about the collection of black cheerleader porn? Or his love for Andy Dupee (who herself married a closeted gay man)? Or my mother? I only saw him touch her in a romantic way once, but it was undeniably genuine. On the morning she died, when he came to relieve me after I’d sat with her all night, he climbed onto her hospital bed, gathered her in his arms and began kissing her gently all over. I fled the room, went home and fell into bed, and he was the one who was with her when she took her last breath.
I guess it’s really not an either/or situation – I, of all people, should know that sexual identity is a spectrum and he has said himself that he never knew whether he was straight or gay. At the time, I thought maybe that wasn’t really what he meant, just the dementia mixing up his words, but now I wonder whether what’s actually happening is that the dementia is lifting away his inhibitions, making him free to come out.
Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day.
As soon as I got to his house today, Dad announced, “Thank goodness you’re here, now I can get some rest!” and headed off to bed. About an hour later, he emerged. “Are you up?” I asked him. “I don’t know if I’m up, down, or sideways,” he replied.
I tell Dad the story of Pax’s tail-vs.-flypaper incident this morning, but I had to describe flypaper to him: “it’s a strip of paper coated in glue so that bugs will stick to it and you can get rid of them,” I carefully explained. When I got to the part about Pax trying to outrun the flypaper wrapped around his tail, Dad burst into laughter.
Later, he asks me what kind of work I do. “I work with young people,” I tell him. “So you always have people alive,” he observes. “There’s not much you can do for people who aren’t alive,” I respond, trying not to laugh. “Except bury them,” he says.
Continuing on the same general subject, Dad says, in a confused tone, “people who are alive live longer than people who are not alive, is that it?”
Dad is obviously searching for something, feeling various objects in his vicinity. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Any idea where a posture, a commonplace, is?” he responds, unhelpfully. When I don’t respond, he elaborates, “something to put over me?” “A sweater?” I ask, bringing him one. “Yes.”
“Where are we now?” Dad asks, while we are sitting on his couch. “In your living room,” I tell him. “I know that,” he says, impatiently. “Where are we technologically?” I am at a loss.
“What do you think the percentage is of people who don’t get born, but come alive?” I think of Frankenstein. “Zero,” I say. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
After dinner, Dad gets into a thoughtful mood. “In a sense, I’ve been ashamed all my life,” he says. “Ashamed of what?” I ask. “Everything,” he says.
“50 years ago, people thought about it, but didn’t talk about it, but now they talk about it. If you talked like that 50 years ago, you’d get fired,” says Dad, rather mysteriously. “Now, they don’t care. ‘I’m not normal’ ‘oh,OK, teach your class, everyone’s a little different.’ But 50 years ago you had to shut up and I’m so old I don’t give a damn.” Am I hearing right? Is my Dad talking about being a closeted teacher?
“Some people are absolutely against all of this and the moment there’s any suggestion of –‘out! Get out!’” he continues.“Nobody’s going to kick you out or fire you now,” I reassure him, since he seems genuinely alarmed at the thought. “No, of course not, not in this City. They might have been the best teachers around, but bang!” he says.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be a big march for homosexual rights in DC,” I tell him, purposely using the word that he and his octogenarian friends tend to prefer. “Really?” he asks. “I’d like to see that. And I bet nobody throws anything at it, but 50 years ago . . . “
This is not the first time in his post-Alzheimer’s life that Dad has raised the issue of his own sexual identity, and it really confuses me. I always thought he was straight, but then again, people have a way of not noticing things that are under their own noses. Was I in denial? His many gay friends, his total acceptance of me and my queer friends, the money he gave to ACT UP and GMHC, the gay pride parades . . . those could all be seen as clues.
On the other hand, what about the collection of black cheerleader porn? Or his love for Andy Dupee (who herself married a closeted gay man)? Or my mother? I only saw him touch her in a romantic way once, but it was undeniably genuine. On the morning she died, when he came to relieve me after I’d sat with her all night, he climbed onto her hospital bed, gathered her in his arms and began kissing her gently all over. I fled the room, went home and fell into bed, and he was the one who was with her when she took her last breath.
I guess it’s really not an either/or situation – I, of all people, should know that sexual identity is a spectrum and he has said himself that he never knew whether he was straight or gay. At the time, I thought maybe that wasn’t really what he meant, just the dementia mixing up his words, but now I wonder whether what’s actually happening is that the dementia is lifting away his inhibitions, making him free to come out.
Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Sept. 26: a very, very good foot
Dad’s hat – a maroon baseball cap today – tumbles to the floor while we’re sitting on the couch. Having gotten into the habit as a child (encouraged by my ballet teacher), I reach down, pick it up, and hand it to him using my foot. Dad proceeds to shake hands with my foot, and then pats it like a dog, saying “you’re a very, very good foot.”
Knowing that Saturdays, when I’m with Dad from noon-ish until 9pm, can get very long, I’ve come prepared. I pull sheets of bubble wrap from my bag and hand them to him. I love watching him pop them because he goes “oh!” after each one, as though he’s being surprised, over and over again. By the second sheet he has commanded me to join in, and he politely waits between each pop, so we’re taking turns.
Dad’s dessert addiction is taking a toll – for the first time in his life, he can’t get his jeans buttoned. He is completely perplexed. “I think someone boiled my jeans!” he announces, despite the fact that denim doesn’t shrink like wool. It takes a while for it to dawn on him that maybe he’s gotten bigger. “There’s lots of useless stuff in my guts that would be better gone,” he says, poking at flabby flesh. “If you take your clothes off, you see it’s bad because there’s at least ten extra pounds doing nothing,” he tells me.
Dad needs to exercise anyway, to maintain his mobility, so we go out the door – me in sweatpants and bare feet and him in jeans and orange crocs – and carefully navigate down one flight of stairs. Each time his foot lands on the step below, Dad yells “boom!” Thankfully, nobody in his building seems to be home. Then we go back up. Dad is winded, so I tell him that’s enough stairs – we’ll work our way up to the full three flights. When we get back in, I give Dad his 1 lb. weights and he does various exercises with his arms. When he’s done, he says he feels “loosened up.”
“What time is it?” Dad asks, a question he sometimes asks as often as every ten minutes. “5:49pm,” I answer. “Then we should begin singing,” he says, and launches into “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” I join in and we are loud and off-key, but Dad is happy. I have been trying to get Dad to sing “This Land is Your Land,” a song I know he knows – my grade school chorus sang it so much that every parent in that school probably heard it in their dreams – but he just bops along and won’t sing. I’ve also tried singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” a tribute to his recently-deceased old friend, Mary Travers, who he remembers as a gorgeous blond twenty-something playing softball with him in Washington Square Park, but he doesn’t respond to the song.
“I have a whole field,” says Dad, running his hands over a month’s worth of beard and whiskers. It’s been a long time since he could shave himself. Marie has done it for years, but less and less frequently recently, and Dad says she doesn’t want to do it – I have no idea why. This produces a dilemma for me – I certainly don’t want to pressure Marie, but there’s no barber in the neighborhood, just a women’s beauty salon around the corner. The growth is clearly bothering Dad – he keeps commenting on it – so I’m beginning to think about attempting it myself. I’m definitely at a disadvantage here, never even having watched a man shave, but I’ve discovered that sometimes you just have to jump into the breach.
Knowing that Saturdays, when I’m with Dad from noon-ish until 9pm, can get very long, I’ve come prepared. I pull sheets of bubble wrap from my bag and hand them to him. I love watching him pop them because he goes “oh!” after each one, as though he’s being surprised, over and over again. By the second sheet he has commanded me to join in, and he politely waits between each pop, so we’re taking turns.
Dad’s dessert addiction is taking a toll – for the first time in his life, he can’t get his jeans buttoned. He is completely perplexed. “I think someone boiled my jeans!” he announces, despite the fact that denim doesn’t shrink like wool. It takes a while for it to dawn on him that maybe he’s gotten bigger. “There’s lots of useless stuff in my guts that would be better gone,” he says, poking at flabby flesh. “If you take your clothes off, you see it’s bad because there’s at least ten extra pounds doing nothing,” he tells me.
Dad needs to exercise anyway, to maintain his mobility, so we go out the door – me in sweatpants and bare feet and him in jeans and orange crocs – and carefully navigate down one flight of stairs. Each time his foot lands on the step below, Dad yells “boom!” Thankfully, nobody in his building seems to be home. Then we go back up. Dad is winded, so I tell him that’s enough stairs – we’ll work our way up to the full three flights. When we get back in, I give Dad his 1 lb. weights and he does various exercises with his arms. When he’s done, he says he feels “loosened up.”
“What time is it?” Dad asks, a question he sometimes asks as often as every ten minutes. “5:49pm,” I answer. “Then we should begin singing,” he says, and launches into “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” I join in and we are loud and off-key, but Dad is happy. I have been trying to get Dad to sing “This Land is Your Land,” a song I know he knows – my grade school chorus sang it so much that every parent in that school probably heard it in their dreams – but he just bops along and won’t sing. I’ve also tried singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” a tribute to his recently-deceased old friend, Mary Travers, who he remembers as a gorgeous blond twenty-something playing softball with him in Washington Square Park, but he doesn’t respond to the song.
“I have a whole field,” says Dad, running his hands over a month’s worth of beard and whiskers. It’s been a long time since he could shave himself. Marie has done it for years, but less and less frequently recently, and Dad says she doesn’t want to do it – I have no idea why. This produces a dilemma for me – I certainly don’t want to pressure Marie, but there’s no barber in the neighborhood, just a women’s beauty salon around the corner. The growth is clearly bothering Dad – he keeps commenting on it – so I’m beginning to think about attempting it myself. I’m definitely at a disadvantage here, never even having watched a man shave, but I’ve discovered that sometimes you just have to jump into the breach.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sept. 26: I just sit around and eat people
2/26/09
“Do you have any dessert?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into his apartment. It’s only 4pm and I haven’t even started cooking dinner yet. “We’ll have dessert later,” I tell him, “After dinner.” I can tell he’s still focused on dessert, so I tell him what I’m going to be making. “We’re having oranges in a caramel and rum sauce, over vanilla ice cream.” He's thrilled
“Do you know where the witches are?” Dad asks, just as Brianna, a pagan, opens the door. “Everywhere,” she tells him. I have no idea where the question came from, but he seems satisfied with the answer.
While I’m cooking, Kate S. and Brianna watch the BBC. The trouble is,Dad can’t follow most TV, though he tries. He winds up having to ask what’s going on, and it’s way too complicated for them to explain. For the rest of their visit, he stays pretty quiet.
Once they leave, he’s back in his down mood. “Who did me in?” he asks. Later, he gets discouraged with his halting efforts at conversation. “What’s the sense of talking?” he asks. “We like talking to you, Dad,” I say. “Yeah, but I don’t enjoy talking to other people.” I wonder what other people he means. He has been growing more and more silent recently, a jarring contrast from my younger days when he used to expound endlessly about history and archaeology, oblivious to the fact that my mother and I were nearing catatonia. When she got fed up, my mother would amuse herself by making faces at him, knowing that he couldn’t see well enough to notice.
“I’m all through,” he says. “I can’t do anything more, I just sit around and eat people.” The amusement I would usually derive from this sentence fades into the general gloomy mood of the evening.
Finally, I decide to distract him with a cigar. Dad rarely smokes cigars spontaneously anymore, but if you offer him one, he is pleased. I’m the “cigar person” because Marie doesn’t like their smell and Kate S. has asthma. Even though I’ve never smoked one, I now go through the whole ritual of removing the plastic covering and the paper band, and cutting off one end. Dad used to bite off the end, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Once I get the cigar ready, he puts it in his mouth and I fetch the hidden matches and light it while he puffs. It was awkward at first, but we’ve got it all nicely choreographed by now. When he’s done, he announces “finished, finished, finis.” It’s the first French I’ve heard him use in quite a while. Even though they say first and second languages are stored differently in the brain, they both seem to be fading now.
I look up and see Dad’s face strangely contorted. “Dad, what are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. “Making faces,” he replies. I’m relieved. Silly Dad is back.
On my way out he says, “you live a lofty life.”
“Do you have any dessert?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into his apartment. It’s only 4pm and I haven’t even started cooking dinner yet. “We’ll have dessert later,” I tell him, “After dinner.” I can tell he’s still focused on dessert, so I tell him what I’m going to be making. “We’re having oranges in a caramel and rum sauce, over vanilla ice cream.” He's thrilled
“Do you know where the witches are?” Dad asks, just as Brianna, a pagan, opens the door. “Everywhere,” she tells him. I have no idea where the question came from, but he seems satisfied with the answer.
While I’m cooking, Kate S. and Brianna watch the BBC. The trouble is,Dad can’t follow most TV, though he tries. He winds up having to ask what’s going on, and it’s way too complicated for them to explain. For the rest of their visit, he stays pretty quiet.
Once they leave, he’s back in his down mood. “Who did me in?” he asks. Later, he gets discouraged with his halting efforts at conversation. “What’s the sense of talking?” he asks. “We like talking to you, Dad,” I say. “Yeah, but I don’t enjoy talking to other people.” I wonder what other people he means. He has been growing more and more silent recently, a jarring contrast from my younger days when he used to expound endlessly about history and archaeology, oblivious to the fact that my mother and I were nearing catatonia. When she got fed up, my mother would amuse herself by making faces at him, knowing that he couldn’t see well enough to notice.
“I’m all through,” he says. “I can’t do anything more, I just sit around and eat people.” The amusement I would usually derive from this sentence fades into the general gloomy mood of the evening.
Finally, I decide to distract him with a cigar. Dad rarely smokes cigars spontaneously anymore, but if you offer him one, he is pleased. I’m the “cigar person” because Marie doesn’t like their smell and Kate S. has asthma. Even though I’ve never smoked one, I now go through the whole ritual of removing the plastic covering and the paper band, and cutting off one end. Dad used to bite off the end, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Once I get the cigar ready, he puts it in his mouth and I fetch the hidden matches and light it while he puffs. It was awkward at first, but we’ve got it all nicely choreographed by now. When he’s done, he announces “finished, finished, finis.” It’s the first French I’ve heard him use in quite a while. Even though they say first and second languages are stored differently in the brain, they both seem to be fading now.
I look up and see Dad’s face strangely contorted. “Dad, what are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. “Making faces,” he replies. I’m relieved. Silly Dad is back.
On my way out he says, “you live a lofty life.”
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sept 19: Sing-Sing
“Many horses are going by. They’re ready for their daily dessert,” Dad says, projecting his dessert obsession. Last night he kept insisting he wasn’t going to eat dinner – he wanted to have plenty of room for dessert! We got him through the meal by convincing him to have “just a little” soup, “just one piece of bread,” etc.
Tonight Dad is kind of down. “I’m not the guy who used to be here,” he tells me, settling beside me on the couch. It turns out that he’s having an attack of awareness about his condition. “The last two or three days have been a real shock to me,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, the last two days.” “I’m scared,” he says – a statement that always brings tears to my eyes when he says it. I get the cat and she and I snuggle close to him. “I’m going to land in Sing-Sing,” he says. “They don’t put you in Sing-Sing for being confused,” I reassure him. “What do they do with people who are completely dumb? They have to put them someplace,” he wants to know. “They just take care of them,” I say, hoping this will make him feel better, but the issue is still on his mind.
Later, he repeats his theory about the “vision utility” turning him off and making him blind, but this time it has a new twist – the motivation for doing this he tells me, is to get new customers for old-age homes, since people keep dying and they have to be replaced, so they make older people blind to get them to go into the homes. “I don’t want to be in an institution. I DON’T WANT IT!” he says.
I don’t know what to say to this – I’m definitely committed to keeping him at home as long as possible, but I don’t want to get trapped by promising him he’ll never be in a facility, because I don’t know what path all this is going to take. All I can do is assure him that he’s not – and won’t be – alone.
Tonight Dad is kind of down. “I’m not the guy who used to be here,” he tells me, settling beside me on the couch. It turns out that he’s having an attack of awareness about his condition. “The last two or three days have been a real shock to me,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, the last two days.” “I’m scared,” he says – a statement that always brings tears to my eyes when he says it. I get the cat and she and I snuggle close to him. “I’m going to land in Sing-Sing,” he says. “They don’t put you in Sing-Sing for being confused,” I reassure him. “What do they do with people who are completely dumb? They have to put them someplace,” he wants to know. “They just take care of them,” I say, hoping this will make him feel better, but the issue is still on his mind.
Later, he repeats his theory about the “vision utility” turning him off and making him blind, but this time it has a new twist – the motivation for doing this he tells me, is to get new customers for old-age homes, since people keep dying and they have to be replaced, so they make older people blind to get them to go into the homes. “I don’t want to be in an institution. I DON’T WANT IT!” he says.
I don’t know what to say to this – I’m definitely committed to keeping him at home as long as possible, but I don’t want to get trapped by promising him he’ll never be in a facility, because I don’t know what path all this is going to take. All I can do is assure him that he’s not – and won’t be – alone.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sept. 13th: a line and a piece of ass
9/13/09
I made Dad French toast with vanilla and cinnamon and he is delighted. “I’ve never had anything like this before,” he says “but it’s delicious.”
Later, trying to compliment me, he says “you’re the number one contact capital wow wow.” More and more lately, his sentences are getting contaminated with extraneous words. Other times, he’ll say, “How do you say it?” as though he’s speaking a foreign language, but it’s hard to guess what “it” is, so a lot of time we can’t help him.
He’s not too mixed up today, so I can actually talk to him about my work a little. I tell him we’re serving inner for 50 homeless youth, and he says “you can’t have too much trouble with 50 kids. If you did, you’d fly out the window.” Going out the window seems to be a theme today. Later, imagining himself trying to do my job, he says “I, I wouldn’t know what to do, I’d run screaming out the window, probably.”
Dad keeps asking for more light, though all the lights in his house are on. Shuffling across the room, he complains, “all I can see is a line and a piece of ass,” making a curving gesture with his hand. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about the light – the darkness is in his eyes.
“I feel much better when you’re here than when you’re not here,” says Dad, causing me major guilt because I have to leave early to get to work. Sundays are our worst day I terms of Dad coverage – Kate S. and Brianna are unavailable and Michael can come but has to leave by 6pm to get to church in Brooklyn.
The last couple of days, Dad has been talking about death, more than I’ve ever heard from him before. “One of these days, I’ll wake up dead,” he says. “Dad, if you’re dead, you won’t wake up,” I tell him. We just keep reassuring him that there’s no reason for him to die anytime soon – his overall health is quite good. It’s actually quite a quandary for me – of course I want him to live as long as possible, but then, on the other hand, I worry about what shape he’s going to be in and the idea of him lingering on in a severely demented state is at least as bad as the idea of his death. Typing that made me cry.
I made Dad French toast with vanilla and cinnamon and he is delighted. “I’ve never had anything like this before,” he says “but it’s delicious.”
Later, trying to compliment me, he says “you’re the number one contact capital wow wow.” More and more lately, his sentences are getting contaminated with extraneous words. Other times, he’ll say, “How do you say it?” as though he’s speaking a foreign language, but it’s hard to guess what “it” is, so a lot of time we can’t help him.
He’s not too mixed up today, so I can actually talk to him about my work a little. I tell him we’re serving inner for 50 homeless youth, and he says “you can’t have too much trouble with 50 kids. If you did, you’d fly out the window.” Going out the window seems to be a theme today. Later, imagining himself trying to do my job, he says “I, I wouldn’t know what to do, I’d run screaming out the window, probably.”
Dad keeps asking for more light, though all the lights in his house are on. Shuffling across the room, he complains, “all I can see is a line and a piece of ass,” making a curving gesture with his hand. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about the light – the darkness is in his eyes.
“I feel much better when you’re here than when you’re not here,” says Dad, causing me major guilt because I have to leave early to get to work. Sundays are our worst day I terms of Dad coverage – Kate S. and Brianna are unavailable and Michael can come but has to leave by 6pm to get to church in Brooklyn.
The last couple of days, Dad has been talking about death, more than I’ve ever heard from him before. “One of these days, I’ll wake up dead,” he says. “Dad, if you’re dead, you won’t wake up,” I tell him. We just keep reassuring him that there’s no reason for him to die anytime soon – his overall health is quite good. It’s actually quite a quandary for me – of course I want him to live as long as possible, but then, on the other hand, I worry about what shape he’s going to be in and the idea of him lingering on in a severely demented state is at least as bad as the idea of his death. Typing that made me cry.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
september 11: jummox
9/11/09
Kate S. returns from the store with a bottle of rum, an “” for the banana compote I will serve over ice cream tonight. Surveying the bottle, Dad says “I don’t feel like drinking rum right now. I’m having enough trouble getting back to what I was.”
Later, while I’m cooking, Dad gets impatient. “Are we having any cereal or anything like that?” he asks. “Dinner’s cooking, Dad,” I tell him. “I thought we were going to do away with all that and just drink, drink, drink,” he says, focusing on the bottle of rum again.
During dinner, Dad keeps saying that he’s going to be “thrown out.” “They’re going to get me to the door and throw me out,” he says. We keep explaining that this is his home and that nobody’s going to throw him out. Eventually, he gets it and relaxes.
Making his way to the bathroom, Dad asks Kate S. “is this my home country?” She assures him that it is.
Later, sitting on the couch, because the seat of his beloved wicker rocker has given way, Dad exclaims “What a jummox!” “Jummox?” we ask him. “What does that mean?” He can’t explain. I leave a note for Marie to get the chair fixed, although it will have to be done by an expert and won’t be cheap.
Brianna puts the TV on. Dad can’t really follow the show, but he notices that people are watching it. “Everyone scanned that right down the middle,” he says.
Once they leave, Dad and I are sitting on the couch, and he says, “that fellow who crushed all the nails . . . “ “Crushed all the nails?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “He crushed all the nails around,” Dad elaborates, unhelpfully. “I was kind of embarrassed by that,” he adds.
“Have you had many experiences with sex?” Dad asks, his language suddenly clearing up. “Dad, that’s private,” I tell him firmly. “We can’t make up our minds whether we’re queer or what,” he says. “We can’t decide. A lot of things like that don’t make the news at all, but they’re there,” he continues.
I yawn. “You’re right,” Dad says, as though I had spoken.
Kate S. returns from the store with a bottle of rum, an “” for the banana compote I will serve over ice cream tonight. Surveying the bottle, Dad says “I don’t feel like drinking rum right now. I’m having enough trouble getting back to what I was.”
Later, while I’m cooking, Dad gets impatient. “Are we having any cereal or anything like that?” he asks. “Dinner’s cooking, Dad,” I tell him. “I thought we were going to do away with all that and just drink, drink, drink,” he says, focusing on the bottle of rum again.
During dinner, Dad keeps saying that he’s going to be “thrown out.” “They’re going to get me to the door and throw me out,” he says. We keep explaining that this is his home and that nobody’s going to throw him out. Eventually, he gets it and relaxes.
Making his way to the bathroom, Dad asks Kate S. “is this my home country?” She assures him that it is.
Later, sitting on the couch, because the seat of his beloved wicker rocker has given way, Dad exclaims “What a jummox!” “Jummox?” we ask him. “What does that mean?” He can’t explain. I leave a note for Marie to get the chair fixed, although it will have to be done by an expert and won’t be cheap.
Brianna puts the TV on. Dad can’t really follow the show, but he notices that people are watching it. “Everyone scanned that right down the middle,” he says.
Once they leave, Dad and I are sitting on the couch, and he says, “that fellow who crushed all the nails . . . “ “Crushed all the nails?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “He crushed all the nails around,” Dad elaborates, unhelpfully. “I was kind of embarrassed by that,” he adds.
“Have you had many experiences with sex?” Dad asks, his language suddenly clearing up. “Dad, that’s private,” I tell him firmly. “We can’t make up our minds whether we’re queer or what,” he says. “We can’t decide. A lot of things like that don’t make the news at all, but they’re there,” he continues.
I yawn. “You’re right,” Dad says, as though I had spoken.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sept. 5: cat food
9/5/09
I arrived today just in time to prevent Dad from eating his lunch – ¾ of a can of cat food, served in a saucer. Judging by the saucer, he started out planning to feed the cat and then lost track of what he was doing and figured it was something to eat himself. When I pointed out to him that it was cat food, he said, in a curious – but not alarmed – tone, “I wonder how much cat food I’ve eaten?” Marie has suspected that he’s been eating cat food for a month or so now, once in a while. We tried hiding the cat food cans, but then he feeds the cat whatever he finds in the refrigerator, stuff that she doesn’t eat.
I think the only solution is to buy organic cat food, the kind that’s made with only human-quality ingredients. That way, it’ll be less of an issue if Dad happens to eat some. Too bad we’re boycotting Whole Foods – I’ll have to go to the holistic pet store in the East Village.
Watching the cat rub against his legs, Dad says, “I think I’ll be very depressed if the cat dies before I do.”
Dad is in a talkative mood, but he’s droning on, repeating things I”ve heard a thousand times. I start getting that familiar, falling-asleep-in-class feeling, where you’re struggling to listen, but you just can’t keep your eyes open. When I wake up, Dad is still talking. He hasn’t noticed that I was asleep.
Dad wants to know why women shave their legs. I’m stumped, I’ve never really thought about it - I was presented with a pretty razor at age 12 or 13, and I’ve just automatically done it all these years. “It’s kind of a tradition, I guess,” I tell him.
“What is that music I hear?” Dad asks. I listen hard, but I don’t hear any music, just the fan, whirring away.
“Is there any juice with this?” Dad asks, finishing his dinner. I don’t think he means a beverage – he calls all things to drink “milk” or occasionally, “water”. “Something to drink?” I ask, just in case. “Or something to shovel,” he says. “Oh, dessert,” I say and get him some. Once we finished, Dad pronounced us – cat and all – “stuffed” in four different voices.
I arrived today just in time to prevent Dad from eating his lunch – ¾ of a can of cat food, served in a saucer. Judging by the saucer, he started out planning to feed the cat and then lost track of what he was doing and figured it was something to eat himself. When I pointed out to him that it was cat food, he said, in a curious – but not alarmed – tone, “I wonder how much cat food I’ve eaten?” Marie has suspected that he’s been eating cat food for a month or so now, once in a while. We tried hiding the cat food cans, but then he feeds the cat whatever he finds in the refrigerator, stuff that she doesn’t eat.
I think the only solution is to buy organic cat food, the kind that’s made with only human-quality ingredients. That way, it’ll be less of an issue if Dad happens to eat some. Too bad we’re boycotting Whole Foods – I’ll have to go to the holistic pet store in the East Village.
Watching the cat rub against his legs, Dad says, “I think I’ll be very depressed if the cat dies before I do.”
Dad is in a talkative mood, but he’s droning on, repeating things I”ve heard a thousand times. I start getting that familiar, falling-asleep-in-class feeling, where you’re struggling to listen, but you just can’t keep your eyes open. When I wake up, Dad is still talking. He hasn’t noticed that I was asleep.
Dad wants to know why women shave their legs. I’m stumped, I’ve never really thought about it - I was presented with a pretty razor at age 12 or 13, and I’ve just automatically done it all these years. “It’s kind of a tradition, I guess,” I tell him.
“What is that music I hear?” Dad asks. I listen hard, but I don’t hear any music, just the fan, whirring away.
“Is there any juice with this?” Dad asks, finishing his dinner. I don’t think he means a beverage – he calls all things to drink “milk” or occasionally, “water”. “Something to drink?” I ask, just in case. “Or something to shovel,” he says. “Oh, dessert,” I say and get him some. Once we finished, Dad pronounced us – cat and all – “stuffed” in four different voices.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
September 2: fancy dishes
Over the weekend, Dad spent most of his time sleeping, while I read on the living room couch. Every now and then I would hear his voice and hurry back to the bedroom to see what he wanted, but he was mostly just mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
September 2: fancy dishes
Over the weekend, Dad spent most of his time sleeping, while I read on the living room couch. Every now and then I would hear his voice and hurry back to the bedroom to see what he wanted, but he was mostly just mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
Friday, August 28, 2009
August 28 drizzling eyes
8/27/09
Dad is still sick – he’s congested and his voice is hoarse. Even worse, the germs have somehow gotten into his eyes, which are red and oozing pus. We’ll have to call the doctor tomorrow.
Being sick has made Dad’s mental abilities deteriorate – he responds pretty appropriately to questions and in conversation, but when he speaks spontaneously, he either leaves the sentences unfinished, or just talks gibberish. For instance, he asked me “when is your normal floor takeover??” And then there was the following exchange; Dad: “I was going to spend time making up, but I didn’t do it, did I?” Me: “Making up?” Dad: “Doing lost causes.”
When I asked how he felt, he said, “My eyes are still drizzling.” He keeps trying to improve the situation by washing his face – in fact, one of his clearest remarks of the evening was “I’m going to wash my face assiduously.”
I tried to engage him in conversation, but it was slow going, as though the words were having to slog through the glop in his head. “The cat is drinking,” I told him. “I wonder if she’s drinking cedar or something stronger?” he asked. “Cats don’t drink cider,” I told him. “They don’t?” he asked. “They only drink water,” I explained, leaving out the unusual instance of Lex, my lemonade-loving grey tabby. “That’s all they drink?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.
“The cats like to knock over the garbage,” I told Dad. “They think it’s fun.” This made him laugh. “So you tip it over before they get a chance?” he asked, apparently thinking this was a logical solution. “No,” I told him, “I pick it up afterwards.”
“Why is he not sitting down?” he asked me suddenly, looking at thin air. “Why is who not sitting down?” I ask. “Did you see somebody?” “Yeah,” he answers, “but now I don’t see anybody.”
Oddly enough, when I put on Pete Seeger’s cd, Dad not only remembered him, but remembered going to see his concert way back in November and remembered that it was crowded! You never know what’s going to stick in that brain of his.
Dad is still sick – he’s congested and his voice is hoarse. Even worse, the germs have somehow gotten into his eyes, which are red and oozing pus. We’ll have to call the doctor tomorrow.
Being sick has made Dad’s mental abilities deteriorate – he responds pretty appropriately to questions and in conversation, but when he speaks spontaneously, he either leaves the sentences unfinished, or just talks gibberish. For instance, he asked me “when is your normal floor takeover??” And then there was the following exchange; Dad: “I was going to spend time making up, but I didn’t do it, did I?” Me: “Making up?” Dad: “Doing lost causes.”
When I asked how he felt, he said, “My eyes are still drizzling.” He keeps trying to improve the situation by washing his face – in fact, one of his clearest remarks of the evening was “I’m going to wash my face assiduously.”
I tried to engage him in conversation, but it was slow going, as though the words were having to slog through the glop in his head. “The cat is drinking,” I told him. “I wonder if she’s drinking cedar or something stronger?” he asked. “Cats don’t drink cider,” I told him. “They don’t?” he asked. “They only drink water,” I explained, leaving out the unusual instance of Lex, my lemonade-loving grey tabby. “That’s all they drink?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.
“The cats like to knock over the garbage,” I told Dad. “They think it’s fun.” This made him laugh. “So you tip it over before they get a chance?” he asked, apparently thinking this was a logical solution. “No,” I told him, “I pick it up afterwards.”
“Why is he not sitting down?” he asked me suddenly, looking at thin air. “Why is who not sitting down?” I ask. “Did you see somebody?” “Yeah,” he answers, “but now I don’t see anybody.”
Oddly enough, when I put on Pete Seeger’s cd, Dad not only remembered him, but remembered going to see his concert way back in November and remembered that it was crowded! You never know what’s going to stick in that brain of his.
Monday, August 24, 2009
8/24/09 Return from Gloucester
8/24/09
Driving home yesterday, Dad tortured us all for hours by asking question after question. “Where are we going?” “What are we going to do next?” “How far is it?” “How much do I owe you?” and on and on. We kept trying to answer them in a way that would make sense to him, but the questions kept reappearing, interspersed with snatches of the Stars and Stripes Forever. It was a huge relief when he fell asleep for a while.
Today he has a cold and is not very happy about it. He doesn’t exactly understand about germs anymore, but when we were both petting the cat and his hand touched mine, he said, “Now I’ve given you the bad things.” I explained that the bad things would have to get to my face to make me sick, and he urged me to wash my hands quickly.
Since was sick, he went to bed early. When I finished cleaning up and went to check on him, he had moved both pillows to the foot of the bed and was sitting up, looking confused. When I asked him what was going on, he said “I’m looking for a tie.” When I responded “a tie?” he mimed putting on a necktie. “You don’t need a tie, Dad, you’re going to bed,” I explained. He sat and thought about that for a while, and then corrected himself, “a hat.” I found his hat and he settled down.
Speaking of finding things, I stumbled across a treasure trove of photos on one of his shelves. Unfortunately, they’re not dated or labeled, and they range from photos from his archaeological expeditions to classroom photos, so I can only figure out details for a few.
For instance, this image is Dad using a microscope on an archaeological expedition – it has writing on the back that says “Arroyo Cuervo” and “Did I ever need that microscope!” (see next post for image)
Driving home yesterday, Dad tortured us all for hours by asking question after question. “Where are we going?” “What are we going to do next?” “How far is it?” “How much do I owe you?” and on and on. We kept trying to answer them in a way that would make sense to him, but the questions kept reappearing, interspersed with snatches of the Stars and Stripes Forever. It was a huge relief when he fell asleep for a while.
Today he has a cold and is not very happy about it. He doesn’t exactly understand about germs anymore, but when we were both petting the cat and his hand touched mine, he said, “Now I’ve given you the bad things.” I explained that the bad things would have to get to my face to make me sick, and he urged me to wash my hands quickly.
Since was sick, he went to bed early. When I finished cleaning up and went to check on him, he had moved both pillows to the foot of the bed and was sitting up, looking confused. When I asked him what was going on, he said “I’m looking for a tie.” When I responded “a tie?” he mimed putting on a necktie. “You don’t need a tie, Dad, you’re going to bed,” I explained. He sat and thought about that for a while, and then corrected himself, “a hat.” I found his hat and he settled down.
Speaking of finding things, I stumbled across a treasure trove of photos on one of his shelves. Unfortunately, they’re not dated or labeled, and they range from photos from his archaeological expeditions to classroom photos, so I can only figure out details for a few.
For instance, this image is Dad using a microscope on an archaeological expedition – it has writing on the back that says “Arroyo Cuervo” and “Did I ever need that microscope!” (see next post for image)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
August 23 Dad's great escape
8/22/09
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a mistake to take Dad out of his familiar surroundings. He’s still really disoriented and spent pretty much the whole day today peppering me with questions about where we are and what we’re doing here. At one point, I had finally gotten through to him that we are in Gloucester and then he said, “why don’t I just walk home?” and then I had to go through the whole explanation about how he lives in NYC and we’re going back there tomorrow. Then he thought he needed to find an apartment and a job in NYC!
Today we went to our house and visited with one of the tenants, and Dad had one of his “crazy” attacks where he seemed to know absolutely nothing. I was sitting at the table with him, answering question after question, and finally he said, “I’m scared,” and it was just too much for me and the tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t speak so Paul and Kate S. and Brianna had to pinch hit some of the questions for me. Eventually he came out of it, and was able to say that he had felt “crazy”.
I was exhausted when we got back to the motel and so was Dad, so we both took a nap. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn’t hear Dad get up, until I heard a stranger saying, loudly, “the bathroom isn’t here, you’re not in your room!” I jolted awake and discovered that Dad had gone through the room door instead of the bathroom door and was outside, by himself. Luckily, that door led to the parking lot and not the road, rocks and ocean on the other side, any one of which could have been a total disaster for Dad. That would have made a hell of a headline for the local small-town newspaper, where at least one front-page story is usually about fish: “Elder falls in ocean while caregiver sleeps!”
Kate S. and Brianna had the brainstorm of getting takeout and bringing it to the motel while Dad and I stayed behind, sparing him another trip and another new environment. After we ate, Dad went back into inquisition mode, and they headed off to bed, leaving me to answer another barrage of questions. One of the things that gets hard about Dad’s disoriented episodes is that even his ability to process language breaks down, so it’s hard to keep answering his questions and make yourself understood. For instance, he wanted to know what he would do when we got back to NYC, and I explained that lots of people would visit him. He wanted to know why people visited him, and I said, “because you’re a fun guy.” “I’m a sun god?” he asked, bewildered. “No,” I said, “you’re a fun guy.” “Spun guide?” he asked, even more confused, and on we went.
We’re leaving here tomorrow, and even though Gloucester is my “special place” and I love it here, it will be a relief to go. I can’t imagine being here without Dad, but I also can’t wrap my head around coming back with him, at least without a paid caregiver.
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a mistake to take Dad out of his familiar surroundings. He’s still really disoriented and spent pretty much the whole day today peppering me with questions about where we are and what we’re doing here. At one point, I had finally gotten through to him that we are in Gloucester and then he said, “why don’t I just walk home?” and then I had to go through the whole explanation about how he lives in NYC and we’re going back there tomorrow. Then he thought he needed to find an apartment and a job in NYC!
Today we went to our house and visited with one of the tenants, and Dad had one of his “crazy” attacks where he seemed to know absolutely nothing. I was sitting at the table with him, answering question after question, and finally he said, “I’m scared,” and it was just too much for me and the tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t speak so Paul and Kate S. and Brianna had to pinch hit some of the questions for me. Eventually he came out of it, and was able to say that he had felt “crazy”.
I was exhausted when we got back to the motel and so was Dad, so we both took a nap. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn’t hear Dad get up, until I heard a stranger saying, loudly, “the bathroom isn’t here, you’re not in your room!” I jolted awake and discovered that Dad had gone through the room door instead of the bathroom door and was outside, by himself. Luckily, that door led to the parking lot and not the road, rocks and ocean on the other side, any one of which could have been a total disaster for Dad. That would have made a hell of a headline for the local small-town newspaper, where at least one front-page story is usually about fish: “Elder falls in ocean while caregiver sleeps!”
Kate S. and Brianna had the brainstorm of getting takeout and bringing it to the motel while Dad and I stayed behind, sparing him another trip and another new environment. After we ate, Dad went back into inquisition mode, and they headed off to bed, leaving me to answer another barrage of questions. One of the things that gets hard about Dad’s disoriented episodes is that even his ability to process language breaks down, so it’s hard to keep answering his questions and make yourself understood. For instance, he wanted to know what he would do when we got back to NYC, and I explained that lots of people would visit him. He wanted to know why people visited him, and I said, “because you’re a fun guy.” “I’m a sun god?” he asked, bewildered. “No,” I said, “you’re a fun guy.” “Spun guide?” he asked, even more confused, and on we went.
We’re leaving here tomorrow, and even though Gloucester is my “special place” and I love it here, it will be a relief to go. I can’t imagine being here without Dad, but I also can’t wrap my head around coming back with him, at least without a paid caregiver.
Friday, August 21, 2009
august 21 86th birthday
August 21, 2009
Today is Dad’s 86th birthday! He has re-discovered it several times; as in “today is our birthday?” “No, Dad, it’s YOUR birthday!”and mostly been delighted, although shocked by his age. He says, “I don’t feel more than 25.”
We all gathered in one of our motel rooms and presented him with his gifts: a “stop the whaling” sweatshirt, four music cds - including one of Souza marches (uh-oh) – a hat with the logo of his cigar store, and the most exciting – a box of 100 Macanudo Ascots, his current favorite cigar. He was very happy.
The celebration continued tonight at Alchemy, one of the best restaurants in Gloucester, with our friends John and Paul Henry. Dad wasn’t at his best – we’d been dragging him around all day and he was tired and the restaurant was noisy. He was impatient and barely involved in the conversation; his sole focus seemed to be on dessert. He was also doing his voices, the first time I’ve seen him do that in public, and, on the way out, his groping hand landed squarely on a strange man’s ass. Ooops! To the guy’s credit, he ignored it.
Earlier in the day, we went to Rockport, with the primary goal of purchasing salt water taffy, which is made at this ancient candy store called Tuck’s. Since Dad’s walking is limited, we had to take turns sitting on a bench with him while the others went into the store. Rockport is a lovely, picturesque place to wander around – great for window-shopping, a favorite activity of Brianna’s – but none of us could really wander freely without worrying about whoever was stuck baking on the bench with Dad. We didn’t stay long.
We also went on a quest: to find Dad’s safe-deposit box. We know he has one, probably opened about 60 years ago, but we don’t know which bank it’s in or what, if anything, is inside. We started with the Bank of Gloucester, the obvious choice since he has an old savings account there, but no luck. We then tried the Cape Ann savings bank, which seemed familiar to Dad, but had no records of his box. In the Cape Ann bank, there was a line, and Dad quickly got tired, and began – loudly – asking for a chair. Finally, I got out of line and guided him to a green sofa on one side of the lobby, where he sat kicking his feet with the orange clogs. Luckily, the teller was kind and didn’t make a fuss about him not being the one making the request. I think we’re going to have to wait until the annual bill comes and see which bank it’s from.
Today is Dad’s 86th birthday! He has re-discovered it several times; as in “today is our birthday?” “No, Dad, it’s YOUR birthday!”and mostly been delighted, although shocked by his age. He says, “I don’t feel more than 25.”
We all gathered in one of our motel rooms and presented him with his gifts: a “stop the whaling” sweatshirt, four music cds - including one of Souza marches (uh-oh) – a hat with the logo of his cigar store, and the most exciting – a box of 100 Macanudo Ascots, his current favorite cigar. He was very happy.
The celebration continued tonight at Alchemy, one of the best restaurants in Gloucester, with our friends John and Paul Henry. Dad wasn’t at his best – we’d been dragging him around all day and he was tired and the restaurant was noisy. He was impatient and barely involved in the conversation; his sole focus seemed to be on dessert. He was also doing his voices, the first time I’ve seen him do that in public, and, on the way out, his groping hand landed squarely on a strange man’s ass. Ooops! To the guy’s credit, he ignored it.
Earlier in the day, we went to Rockport, with the primary goal of purchasing salt water taffy, which is made at this ancient candy store called Tuck’s. Since Dad’s walking is limited, we had to take turns sitting on a bench with him while the others went into the store. Rockport is a lovely, picturesque place to wander around – great for window-shopping, a favorite activity of Brianna’s – but none of us could really wander freely without worrying about whoever was stuck baking on the bench with Dad. We didn’t stay long.
We also went on a quest: to find Dad’s safe-deposit box. We know he has one, probably opened about 60 years ago, but we don’t know which bank it’s in or what, if anything, is inside. We started with the Bank of Gloucester, the obvious choice since he has an old savings account there, but no luck. We then tried the Cape Ann savings bank, which seemed familiar to Dad, but had no records of his box. In the Cape Ann bank, there was a line, and Dad quickly got tired, and began – loudly – asking for a chair. Finally, I got out of line and guided him to a green sofa on one side of the lobby, where he sat kicking his feet with the orange clogs. Luckily, the teller was kind and didn’t make a fuss about him not being the one making the request. I think we’re going to have to wait until the annual bill comes and see which bank it’s from.
Dad in Gloucester Day 2
8/20/09
Vacationing with Dad is pretty exhausting. Not only is he waking up a lot at night to pee, but he has lost the ability to realize that he’s keeping me awake, so after he gets back from the bathroom, we have these nonsensical, half-awake discussions until he falls asleep. It doesn’t help that Marie packed the pills for his knees, but left out the ones for his prostate. Last night, he asked me three times in a row why we couldn’t go to bed together. He was so discombobulated that neither the word “family” or the word “relatives” registered with him, so I just said, sternly, “because I’m your daughter.” Even if the meaning of the words wasn’t clear to him, the tone must have been, because he backed off and went to sleep, though I heard him mumble the word “limp” as he was falling asleep.
Being in new surroundings is definitely disorienting him. At 1:30am, he decided to rehearse the route to the bathroom, so we traipsed back and forth several times. Then he lay in bed, tracing the route in the air with his hand until he fell asleep. Even so, today we heard a “how do I get out of here?” from the bathroom. Kate S. went to fetch him and found him in the bathtub – despite the sizable step over the side of the tub, he had stumbled in.
Today, we took Dad to the beach. He needed appropriate footwear, so we bought him a pair of orange crocs (the only color available in his size at the end-of-season sale). He looked adorable in them. It was too far for him to walk to the water, but we set him up in his folding chair in the sand. I peeled him down to just a t-shirt and he sat there in the salty breeze and said, “this is good.” Brianna sat with him while Kate S. and I frolicked in the water.
Vacationing with Dad is pretty exhausting. Not only is he waking up a lot at night to pee, but he has lost the ability to realize that he’s keeping me awake, so after he gets back from the bathroom, we have these nonsensical, half-awake discussions until he falls asleep. It doesn’t help that Marie packed the pills for his knees, but left out the ones for his prostate. Last night, he asked me three times in a row why we couldn’t go to bed together. He was so discombobulated that neither the word “family” or the word “relatives” registered with him, so I just said, sternly, “because I’m your daughter.” Even if the meaning of the words wasn’t clear to him, the tone must have been, because he backed off and went to sleep, though I heard him mumble the word “limp” as he was falling asleep.
Being in new surroundings is definitely disorienting him. At 1:30am, he decided to rehearse the route to the bathroom, so we traipsed back and forth several times. Then he lay in bed, tracing the route in the air with his hand until he fell asleep. Even so, today we heard a “how do I get out of here?” from the bathroom. Kate S. went to fetch him and found him in the bathtub – despite the sizable step over the side of the tub, he had stumbled in.
Today, we took Dad to the beach. He needed appropriate footwear, so we bought him a pair of orange crocs (the only color available in his size at the end-of-season sale). He looked adorable in them. It was too far for him to walk to the water, but we set him up in his folding chair in the sand. I peeled him down to just a t-shirt and he sat there in the salty breeze and said, “this is good.” Brianna sat with him while Kate S. and I frolicked in the water.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
August 19: Gloucester 1
8/19/09
We’re in Gloucester! It’s been a long day – tons of traffic caused by an accident on the way up, and, of course, frequent bathroom stops for Dad.
We got off to a wacky start when Brianna arrived at Dad’s apartment and found him still undressed and saying that he didn’t want to go, that we should just go without him. She managed to convince him to get dressed and then got him downstairs and into the car, but as we were driving, he was making comments about being “forced to go on this expedition.” It wasn’t until after lunch that he started to get more enthusiastic, saying that he was glad he came.
One of the most nerve-wracking aspects of traveling with Dad is having to send him into public men’s rooms without us. At a rest stop today, he was gone for long enough that Kate S. and I were getting anxious and hovering by the door. Finally Kate S. asked a man coming out whether he had seen an old man “bumbling around” in there – he often can’t find the exit and just wanders until he comes across it by accident. The guy assured us, in a southern drawl, that another guy was helping him, and indeed, Dad reappeared on the arm of another man. Thank goodness for kind strangers.
We had a funny moment in the car – Dad was doing his usual feeling of things around him, and came to Brianna, sitting next to him in the backseat. He ran his hand over her face in the usual blind-and-curious style, and then announced, “you need a shave!” We all laughed and laughed at that.
One problem was his difficulty remembering where we were going. The whole way he kept asking and we kept reminding him that we were going to Gloucester. Then once we arrived, he didn’t believe us when we told him we were in Gloucester! Finally, Brianna thought of a creative way to convince him – she went into a gas station and came back with a bottle of Moxie, a very local drink, and had Dad drink it so that he would know where he was. Moxie seems to be Dad’s madeleine.
When we got to our house, I told Dad we were at 424 Essex Ave., and he said, “I live here!”apparently forgetting that he left Gloucester at twenty and has never really lived here since. Since the house is rented to our friend John and his brother, we aren’t staying there.
Arriving at the motel, I gave Dad a tour of the room. When came to the bathroom, he pointed at the toilet, and said, “is this the teapot?” a cross between “toilet” and “pisspot” – a word he still sometimes uses even though the days of outhouses in Gloucester and chamber pots are long gone.
More anxiety dreams last night - in one, we were swimming and suddenly I realized Dad was underwater. I hauled him out, all limp and grey. In the second, Dad had turned into this tiny, fragile worm-thing that I was holding very gingerly in the palm of my hand.
We’re in Gloucester! It’s been a long day – tons of traffic caused by an accident on the way up, and, of course, frequent bathroom stops for Dad.
We got off to a wacky start when Brianna arrived at Dad’s apartment and found him still undressed and saying that he didn’t want to go, that we should just go without him. She managed to convince him to get dressed and then got him downstairs and into the car, but as we were driving, he was making comments about being “forced to go on this expedition.” It wasn’t until after lunch that he started to get more enthusiastic, saying that he was glad he came.
One of the most nerve-wracking aspects of traveling with Dad is having to send him into public men’s rooms without us. At a rest stop today, he was gone for long enough that Kate S. and I were getting anxious and hovering by the door. Finally Kate S. asked a man coming out whether he had seen an old man “bumbling around” in there – he often can’t find the exit and just wanders until he comes across it by accident. The guy assured us, in a southern drawl, that another guy was helping him, and indeed, Dad reappeared on the arm of another man. Thank goodness for kind strangers.
We had a funny moment in the car – Dad was doing his usual feeling of things around him, and came to Brianna, sitting next to him in the backseat. He ran his hand over her face in the usual blind-and-curious style, and then announced, “you need a shave!” We all laughed and laughed at that.
One problem was his difficulty remembering where we were going. The whole way he kept asking and we kept reminding him that we were going to Gloucester. Then once we arrived, he didn’t believe us when we told him we were in Gloucester! Finally, Brianna thought of a creative way to convince him – she went into a gas station and came back with a bottle of Moxie, a very local drink, and had Dad drink it so that he would know where he was. Moxie seems to be Dad’s madeleine.
When we got to our house, I told Dad we were at 424 Essex Ave., and he said, “I live here!”apparently forgetting that he left Gloucester at twenty and has never really lived here since. Since the house is rented to our friend John and his brother, we aren’t staying there.
Arriving at the motel, I gave Dad a tour of the room. When came to the bathroom, he pointed at the toilet, and said, “is this the teapot?” a cross between “toilet” and “pisspot” – a word he still sometimes uses even though the days of outhouses in Gloucester and chamber pots are long gone.
More anxiety dreams last night - in one, we were swimming and suddenly I realized Dad was underwater. I hauled him out, all limp and grey. In the second, Dad had turned into this tiny, fragile worm-thing that I was holding very gingerly in the palm of my hand.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
August 16: Weird dream
8/16/09
Weird dream last night:
I was in Dad’s apartment, and I looked up and saw a hole in the wall, clear through to the sky, and cracks all around. I didn’t know where Dad was, so I ran through the apartment looking for him and saw that all the rooms had cracks and holes – the building was collapsing. Finally I found Dad, in his rocking chair, on a narrow outdoor balcony that doesn’t exist in reality. I wanted to grab him and rush out of the building, but I was afraid he would fall off the balcony, so I had to gingerly edge out and guide him in, while the building was collapsing all around us.
Weird dream last night:
I was in Dad’s apartment, and I looked up and saw a hole in the wall, clear through to the sky, and cracks all around. I didn’t know where Dad was, so I ran through the apartment looking for him and saw that all the rooms had cracks and holes – the building was collapsing. Finally I found Dad, in his rocking chair, on a narrow outdoor balcony that doesn’t exist in reality. I wanted to grab him and rush out of the building, but I was afraid he would fall off the balcony, so I had to gingerly edge out and guide him in, while the building was collapsing all around us.
August 15th: discombobulated
8/15/09
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
August 13: Smut nut
8/13/09
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
August 10th: moo-ing
8/10/09
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
august 6th: chocolate mouse cake
I arrive at Dad’s house, and he asks me, “you’re all dressed, right?” Odd question. “Yes, Dad.” I answer. “I didn’t want anyone to get shocked,” he explains. We’re the only ones there.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
8/3: rocketing around
8/3/09
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
july 30th: wedding ring
“What do you look like?” asks Dad, a strange question to be asked by your own Dad. I described myself as best I could – I’m short, with long red hair (which I let him feel), glasses, green clothes and a big bag. “After all, “ said Dad, “you’re older than I am.” “No, I’m not,” I told him. “How old are you?” he wanted to know. “33,” I answered. “Jesus!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Are your mother and father still alive?” he wants to know. “No, my mother’s dead, but you’re my Dad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize that I was getting so old,” he says, “I’m getting to be very old.”
Dad’s hands are wandering across the table again, feeling every object he comes to. He discovers a ring that someone has left on the table. “What’s this?” he wants to know. “It looks like a wedding ring,” I tell him. He tries it on each finger, and then, finding a finger that fits, leaves it there – ironically, the fourth finger of his left hand.
Searching for conversation topics, I tell him about the sculpture I have just been working on, a small person being crushed by a giant brain. “Is all your stuff like that?” he wants to know. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, but I describe the sculptures in his apartment, one by one, and hand him one to feel.
Dad comes across my notebook in his exploring. “If you leave it here, it’ll be damaged, banished,” he tells me. “Lost?” I suggest. “Yes,” he says, satisfied.
“Are your mother and father still alive?” he wants to know. “No, my mother’s dead, but you’re my Dad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize that I was getting so old,” he says, “I’m getting to be very old.”
Dad’s hands are wandering across the table again, feeling every object he comes to. He discovers a ring that someone has left on the table. “What’s this?” he wants to know. “It looks like a wedding ring,” I tell him. He tries it on each finger, and then, finding a finger that fits, leaves it there – ironically, the fourth finger of his left hand.
Searching for conversation topics, I tell him about the sculpture I have just been working on, a small person being crushed by a giant brain. “Is all your stuff like that?” he wants to know. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, but I describe the sculptures in his apartment, one by one, and hand him one to feel.
Dad comes across my notebook in his exploring. “If you leave it here, it’ll be damaged, banished,” he tells me. “Lost?” I suggest. “Yes,” he says, satisfied.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Dad at the BBQ (photo)
Kristen Lovell took this photo with her camera phone. I have no idea why I'm glowing.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
july 20: green cats
Dad opens the cookie tin that sits within arm’s reach of his chair and feels around inside. “Someone ate ALL the cookies,” he announces, indignantly. “Dad,” I say, trying not to laugh, “I think that was you.” “No,” he says, “I ate some, but not all. Someone sneaky ate them.”
“How do you change your clothes?” he asks, out of the blue. While I’m pondering how to respond, it occurs to me that earlier I told him I had just come from swimming. “You mean, at the swimming pool?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “There’s a locker room,” I tell him.
I am showing Dad the new nightgown I got to replace my old, holey one. “Green’s my favorite color,” I tell him. “All your cats are green?” he asks. “My clothes are green, but not my cats,” I explain. “Why not?” he wants to know. “Cats don’t come in green,” I tell him. He examines the nightgown and then tells me to “break it in.”
Dad’s looking for the cat, feeling around by his chair to see if she is close. “Kitty cat, where you at?” he repeats, over and over in a range of voices from bass to falsetto.
Dad is having a philosophical moment. “Bad things happen,” he says. “Good things happen. And a lot of in between things happen.”
Dad is slowly making his way to the bathroom. In the hall, he passes the coathooks and pauses to examine the long, slender form of his folding chair in it’s bag. Apparently deciding that it is a person, he speaks to it briefly, and then continues down the hall.
When he returns, he settles back into his rocker, and picks up a green plastic tumbler from the table. Examining it closely, he asks, “do you think there’s lead in some of these? Some of them are pretty heavy.”
As it gets later, I notice him staring into empty space, a sign that he’s hallucinating. “Every once in a while,” he says, “a whole piece of material turns up, and then it goes and then it comes back again. I’ve never seen it, I’ve only seen illustrations, drawings, actual pieces.”
“Waggling,” says Dad. “Is that a real term or is that one of mine?” I’m impressed that he has enough awareness to realize that there are words that are his alone.
“What should I do to make up for all these guesses and gaps?” says Dad, apparently referring to his mental state. I wish I had an answer for him.
We spend a long time reviewing the plan for the coming three days, going over who will come see him which day. Thinking that no one is coming on Thursday, Dad concludes, “no one will see me except myself.” I remind him that I come on Thursdays and he seems relieved. He knows that it’s not good for him to be alone anymore.
He wants to know why I’m not coming on Wednesday, and I explain that I will be making sculptures. Dad remembers my sculptures, and is as supportive of them as ever. “Some of them are very complete,” he says. “Some of them are very weird. Some of them I never heard of, before or since.”
“How do you change your clothes?” he asks, out of the blue. While I’m pondering how to respond, it occurs to me that earlier I told him I had just come from swimming. “You mean, at the swimming pool?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “There’s a locker room,” I tell him.
I am showing Dad the new nightgown I got to replace my old, holey one. “Green’s my favorite color,” I tell him. “All your cats are green?” he asks. “My clothes are green, but not my cats,” I explain. “Why not?” he wants to know. “Cats don’t come in green,” I tell him. He examines the nightgown and then tells me to “break it in.”
Dad’s looking for the cat, feeling around by his chair to see if she is close. “Kitty cat, where you at?” he repeats, over and over in a range of voices from bass to falsetto.
Dad is having a philosophical moment. “Bad things happen,” he says. “Good things happen. And a lot of in between things happen.”
Dad is slowly making his way to the bathroom. In the hall, he passes the coathooks and pauses to examine the long, slender form of his folding chair in it’s bag. Apparently deciding that it is a person, he speaks to it briefly, and then continues down the hall.
When he returns, he settles back into his rocker, and picks up a green plastic tumbler from the table. Examining it closely, he asks, “do you think there’s lead in some of these? Some of them are pretty heavy.”
As it gets later, I notice him staring into empty space, a sign that he’s hallucinating. “Every once in a while,” he says, “a whole piece of material turns up, and then it goes and then it comes back again. I’ve never seen it, I’ve only seen illustrations, drawings, actual pieces.”
“Waggling,” says Dad. “Is that a real term or is that one of mine?” I’m impressed that he has enough awareness to realize that there are words that are his alone.
“What should I do to make up for all these guesses and gaps?” says Dad, apparently referring to his mental state. I wish I had an answer for him.
We spend a long time reviewing the plan for the coming three days, going over who will come see him which day. Thinking that no one is coming on Thursday, Dad concludes, “no one will see me except myself.” I remind him that I come on Thursdays and he seems relieved. He knows that it’s not good for him to be alone anymore.
He wants to know why I’m not coming on Wednesday, and I explain that I will be making sculptures. Dad remembers my sculptures, and is as supportive of them as ever. “Some of them are very complete,” he says. “Some of them are very weird. Some of them I never heard of, before or since.”
July 18: BBQ
I took Dad to the New Alternatives BBQ in Prospect Park today. He had been looking forward to it every time it was mentioned during the week and setting out, he was enthusiastic,“it’s good to get out.” In the cab on our way to Brooklyn, Dad asked his usual million questions, and did some singing. When we arrived, Kate S. already had the folding camp chair we bought in Gloucester set up for him, and one of my clients, Robin, was doting on him, bringing him soda and cookies. He ate a hotdog, and cheerfully greeted all the youth who came up to him, though he had no idea who they were.
After a couple of hours, though, came the moment I’d been dreading: the trip to the bathroom. Although JD had assured me that the bathroom wasn’t far, it was a huge trek by Dad standards. At first I tried to send him with Russell, his friend from Pride, but when Russell honestly told him how far away it was, he insisted on coming back. After a while, he decided to try again, so one of the youth, Bradley, and I each took a hand, towing him across the lawn. Trying to distract him from the walk, I was narrating the scenery – children feeding ducks, people boating. Dad said, “You’re going to throw me in that lake!” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Bradley went into the men’s room with him, and says that, after peeing, Dad washed his hands in the water from the urinal! Then came the return trip. “Are we in World War 1?” Dad asked, apparently thinking we were on some kind of forced march. By the time our group came into view, Dad was out of steam. He kept saying he had to stop, but would then push on for a while longer. Finally, Bradley ran ahead and moved Dad’s chair closer, and we settled right where we were, even though it was an area with no shade.
Once Dad was rested up, he was ready to go home. There was some difficulty getting a car back, and Dad asked me when we were going so many times that I was getting frazzled. On the way back, the driver helped Dad into the front seat, where he began his usual litany of questions. The driver, an Indian man with a thick accent, apparently didn’t realize that Dad was kind of kooky and kept dutifully answering the questions, even though his accent was so thick that I’m sure Dad didn’t understand him at all. It was kind of like watching a comedy skit from my vantage point in the backseat.
When we got home, Dad was confused. “It was the same day, right?” he asked. “We went on a BBQ with 50 people? When we got home, finally, it was daylight?” “Yeah, it was daylight when we left and daylight when we came back,” I explained. “How long were we gone altogether?” he wanted to know. “We left at 1pm and came back at 7:30pm, so six and a half hours,” I answered. “Finally we got an airport – airline?” he asked. “No, we took a car.” I clarified. “Where did we leave it off?” “In front of your building.” “Now what are you going to do?” “Hang out with you until you go to bed.” I answered. The questions continued on and on. Finally, Dad was concluded the inquiry, “Muy complicado,” he said, switching into Spanish.
I know that getting out in the fresh air and getting some exercise is good for Dad, but bringing him places is such an exhausting and stressful undertaking, and it leaves him so confused that it’s hard to get up the motivation to do it.
After a couple of hours, though, came the moment I’d been dreading: the trip to the bathroom. Although JD had assured me that the bathroom wasn’t far, it was a huge trek by Dad standards. At first I tried to send him with Russell, his friend from Pride, but when Russell honestly told him how far away it was, he insisted on coming back. After a while, he decided to try again, so one of the youth, Bradley, and I each took a hand, towing him across the lawn. Trying to distract him from the walk, I was narrating the scenery – children feeding ducks, people boating. Dad said, “You’re going to throw me in that lake!” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Bradley went into the men’s room with him, and says that, after peeing, Dad washed his hands in the water from the urinal! Then came the return trip. “Are we in World War 1?” Dad asked, apparently thinking we were on some kind of forced march. By the time our group came into view, Dad was out of steam. He kept saying he had to stop, but would then push on for a while longer. Finally, Bradley ran ahead and moved Dad’s chair closer, and we settled right where we were, even though it was an area with no shade.
Once Dad was rested up, he was ready to go home. There was some difficulty getting a car back, and Dad asked me when we were going so many times that I was getting frazzled. On the way back, the driver helped Dad into the front seat, where he began his usual litany of questions. The driver, an Indian man with a thick accent, apparently didn’t realize that Dad was kind of kooky and kept dutifully answering the questions, even though his accent was so thick that I’m sure Dad didn’t understand him at all. It was kind of like watching a comedy skit from my vantage point in the backseat.
When we got home, Dad was confused. “It was the same day, right?” he asked. “We went on a BBQ with 50 people? When we got home, finally, it was daylight?” “Yeah, it was daylight when we left and daylight when we came back,” I explained. “How long were we gone altogether?” he wanted to know. “We left at 1pm and came back at 7:30pm, so six and a half hours,” I answered. “Finally we got an airport – airline?” he asked. “No, we took a car.” I clarified. “Where did we leave it off?” “In front of your building.” “Now what are you going to do?” “Hang out with you until you go to bed.” I answered. The questions continued on and on. Finally, Dad was concluded the inquiry, “Muy complicado,” he said, switching into Spanish.
I know that getting out in the fresh air and getting some exercise is good for Dad, but bringing him places is such an exhausting and stressful undertaking, and it leaves him so confused that it’s hard to get up the motivation to do it.
july 17: funny noises
Dad’s freaking out about being blind again. He keeps saying that he went blind “suddenly, bang! Like that, bang!” and he has a new theory to explain it. This time he thinks it was something he ate, possibly something from India. He’s also convinced that someone stole his missing teeth, even though he knows that they’re made individually and that nobody else can use them. He says, “they don’t really do anything, except for the person who uses them. Probably some kid saw them and said, ‘gee, those look good,’ and tucked them away.”
Trying to distract him from all this, I tell him about how Mr. Wednesday, one of my black cats, has taken to hanging upside down with his head down the toilet and his feet on the seat. Dad laughs at this image and says, “he’s waiting for something else to happen.”
Dad is sitting next to me on the couch, feeling around to get his bearings. He stumbles across the notebook in my lap. “What’s all this, feathers?” he asks. “It’s my notebook,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I haven’t fucked for 40 or 50 years. Time has flown, flown, flown.” We’re on dangerous territory here, so I’m relieved when he asks, “how old am I?” “85 years old,” I tell him. “If I was 70, I’d be 15,” he says in a display of Alzheimer’s logic. “Wouldn’t it be great to be 15 again?” he says. “I’m really coming to pieces,” he says, and then says “I don’t know” over and over in a variety of silly voices. “I like to make funny noises,” he says, “it’s one of the few things I can do without much trouble.”
We chat for a while and then he says, “I’m liable to lose my . . . I might jump on you.” :uckily, the moment is interrupted by a loud honk from outside. “What’s that?” Dad asks. “A truck out in the street,” I explain. “A truck!” he exclaims, “What’s next?”
I remind him that we are going to a BBQ tomorrow. “I’ll dive into that all right,” he says, “that’s good.”
Suddenly, he says, “We could go at it on a warmer day. A warm day, otherwise I’d catch cold and die. I’m old. If you’d put up with me. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.” I’m trying not to be overly creeped out by these moments – I know he’s expressing his feeling of closeness with me and doesn’t realize he’s being inappropriate. I’m very grateful when the next thing out of his mouth is, “how strong are your glasses?”
It’s getting close to bedtime, and he’s getting more mixed up. “We’ll be back home in the morning?”he asks, as though we’re on the overnight train we used to ride from New York to Montreal. “You’re already home, Dad,” I tell him. “We haven’t gotten anywhere, then?” he asks. “No, we stayed right here.” I explain. “My memory is pretty shot,” he concludes.
I’m getting ready to go and suddenly we’re off the deep end again, “I think we might have a good time if we calculate it somehow a little better. I wouldn’t want to do it now. I want a nice bed, plenty of space,” he says. “No, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s not what fathers and daughters do.” “You’re sure I’m daughters and fathers?” he asks. “Yes,” I say firmly. “By god,” he says, “we’re going to stick together, then. I don’t want to be alone.” “You’re not going to be alone,” I assure him, and then settle him down for the night.
Trying to distract him from all this, I tell him about how Mr. Wednesday, one of my black cats, has taken to hanging upside down with his head down the toilet and his feet on the seat. Dad laughs at this image and says, “he’s waiting for something else to happen.”
Dad is sitting next to me on the couch, feeling around to get his bearings. He stumbles across the notebook in my lap. “What’s all this, feathers?” he asks. “It’s my notebook,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I haven’t fucked for 40 or 50 years. Time has flown, flown, flown.” We’re on dangerous territory here, so I’m relieved when he asks, “how old am I?” “85 years old,” I tell him. “If I was 70, I’d be 15,” he says in a display of Alzheimer’s logic. “Wouldn’t it be great to be 15 again?” he says. “I’m really coming to pieces,” he says, and then says “I don’t know” over and over in a variety of silly voices. “I like to make funny noises,” he says, “it’s one of the few things I can do without much trouble.”
We chat for a while and then he says, “I’m liable to lose my . . . I might jump on you.” :uckily, the moment is interrupted by a loud honk from outside. “What’s that?” Dad asks. “A truck out in the street,” I explain. “A truck!” he exclaims, “What’s next?”
I remind him that we are going to a BBQ tomorrow. “I’ll dive into that all right,” he says, “that’s good.”
Suddenly, he says, “We could go at it on a warmer day. A warm day, otherwise I’d catch cold and die. I’m old. If you’d put up with me. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.” I’m trying not to be overly creeped out by these moments – I know he’s expressing his feeling of closeness with me and doesn’t realize he’s being inappropriate. I’m very grateful when the next thing out of his mouth is, “how strong are your glasses?”
It’s getting close to bedtime, and he’s getting more mixed up. “We’ll be back home in the morning?”he asks, as though we’re on the overnight train we used to ride from New York to Montreal. “You’re already home, Dad,” I tell him. “We haven’t gotten anywhere, then?” he asks. “No, we stayed right here.” I explain. “My memory is pretty shot,” he concludes.
I’m getting ready to go and suddenly we’re off the deep end again, “I think we might have a good time if we calculate it somehow a little better. I wouldn’t want to do it now. I want a nice bed, plenty of space,” he says. “No, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s not what fathers and daughters do.” “You’re sure I’m daughters and fathers?” he asks. “Yes,” I say firmly. “By god,” he says, “we’re going to stick together, then. I don’t want to be alone.” “You’re not going to be alone,” I assure him, and then settle him down for the night.
july 13: one grandiose meatball
“Today I feel like I’m falling apart,” Dad greets me at the door. “I’m doing crazy things.” “Like what?” I ask. “They rang up and I rushed around trying to find the telephone but it was right there, and I thought I had to do something to work it and it wasn’t true,” he explained.
“You know,” says Dad, “I’m kind of scared at times and one of the times is now.” “Why?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve been very, very skittish the last couple of days. Skittish. Is that a word?” “Yes,” I answer. “Skittish, skittish, skittish,” he repeats.
Dad’s describing a mystery: the water he spilled has disappeared! “It evaporated,” I tell him. “Evaporated,” he says, “that’s a good word. It isn’t used very much, is it?” I start to answer, “well, only . . . “ and then get stuck for a minute, so Dad completes the sentence for me: “Only by really fancy people who have a lot of courage, a lot of stuff, then they use that word, evaporated.”
“Are you reading something?” Dad asks me, and then answers himself, “No, just commoding. That’s what I do most of my time, commode.” He sees me writing. “Are you working out the system?” he asks. I answer noncommittally.
Dad is pondering his dinner. He spears a meatball, pronouncing it a “big, grandiose meatball.” Later, he announces that his dinner is “a good chew.” Apparently he gets hooked on the sound of the words, because he goes on to rhyme, “one good chew,” with “one good horseshoe.”
Later, as we’re sitting on the couch with his cat wedged between us, he makes up a chant, like the kind of song the kids vogue to at my job, that goes: “putty cat. Putty cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Putty. Putty. Cat. Cat. Put. Cat. Put. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Etc.” He ends the song by blowing several raspberries and asking me, “how’s that?” “Quite impressive,” I reply, somewhat stunned by this performance.
Dad’s feeling around the couch and comes to his own thigh. “What that?” he asks. “Your leg.” I tell him. Having discovered his leg, he proceeds to slap himself repeatedly on the thigh, saying, “naughty, naughty, naughty.”
“You know,” says Dad, “I’m kind of scared at times and one of the times is now.” “Why?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve been very, very skittish the last couple of days. Skittish. Is that a word?” “Yes,” I answer. “Skittish, skittish, skittish,” he repeats.
Dad’s describing a mystery: the water he spilled has disappeared! “It evaporated,” I tell him. “Evaporated,” he says, “that’s a good word. It isn’t used very much, is it?” I start to answer, “well, only . . . “ and then get stuck for a minute, so Dad completes the sentence for me: “Only by really fancy people who have a lot of courage, a lot of stuff, then they use that word, evaporated.”
“Are you reading something?” Dad asks me, and then answers himself, “No, just commoding. That’s what I do most of my time, commode.” He sees me writing. “Are you working out the system?” he asks. I answer noncommittally.
Dad is pondering his dinner. He spears a meatball, pronouncing it a “big, grandiose meatball.” Later, he announces that his dinner is “a good chew.” Apparently he gets hooked on the sound of the words, because he goes on to rhyme, “one good chew,” with “one good horseshoe.”
Later, as we’re sitting on the couch with his cat wedged between us, he makes up a chant, like the kind of song the kids vogue to at my job, that goes: “putty cat. Putty cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Putty. Putty. Cat. Cat. Put. Cat. Put. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Etc.” He ends the song by blowing several raspberries and asking me, “how’s that?” “Quite impressive,” I reply, somewhat stunned by this performance.
Dad’s feeling around the couch and comes to his own thigh. “What that?” he asks. “Your leg.” I tell him. Having discovered his leg, he proceeds to slap himself repeatedly on the thigh, saying, “naughty, naughty, naughty.”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
hair and sheet metal
Dad is feeling the objects on his dining room table. He comes to an item in a crinkly plastic wrapper and can’t figure out what it is. “That’s a fortune cookie,” I tell him. “You mean I open it and hope for the best?” he says.
Later, Kate S. and I are sitting on the couch while Dad is in his customary rocker, and he says, “If you have any trouble, tell me and I’ll make it worse.” This is a glimpse of the old Dad, who was known for joking with his friends.
His friend Charlie calls. I don’t know what they’re discussing, but Dad says, “bullshit is male, right? And cowshit can be anything.” Kate S. and I crack up laughing.
Dad’s singing the Stars and Stripes Forever again. Why this snippet of music keeps re-occurring is a mystery to me, but it’s gotten so common that Kate S. and I sing along. Dad seems pleased by this.
Dad is trying to give me money again. Because of his tendency to give his cash away – he always had a very generous personality – he gets a small “allowance” on a weekly basis. I tell him, “Dad, we don’t need money. Sitting on your ass is an absolutely free activity.” “I believe you,” he says “and I’m going to do it right now.”
Brianna goes to get Dad a cigar from the other room. When she returns she reports, “if anyone needs a band-aid, there’s a box of them in the humidor.”
Dad surveys his plate – salad with black beans and avocado and cilantro-lime dressing and homemade tortilla chips –and announces, “there’s nothing on my plate but hair and sheet metal.” Unfazed, Kate S. urges him to try a chip, “this sheet metal is edible – take a bite.”
“I’m starting a bottle-cap collection,” says Kate S., collecting several from the dining room table. “A heart attack collection?” asks Dad. I offer her my biological father’s heart attack in Heathrow airport to start with – it was fatal, so it should be worth more.
We’re listening to John Mellencamp, but Dad has a complaint; “There’s too much sand in there,” he says, referring to the music.
I’m reminding Dad that he has to let his lady help him bathe, at least once a week. “I don’t see a point in taking a shower every day,” he says, “unless you’re working in mud puddles.”
Later, as we’re watching his cat eat, he says to me, “you live in a cat world, you can’t deny it.”
As it gets later, Dad slips out of reality. “How old am I now? About 18? 17? 15?” he asks. “Dad, you’re 85,” I tell him. He laughs like I have made the world’s funniest joke. “85!” he gasps, “oh, come on, you’ve killed that one.”
Later, Kate S. and I are sitting on the couch while Dad is in his customary rocker, and he says, “If you have any trouble, tell me and I’ll make it worse.” This is a glimpse of the old Dad, who was known for joking with his friends.
His friend Charlie calls. I don’t know what they’re discussing, but Dad says, “bullshit is male, right? And cowshit can be anything.” Kate S. and I crack up laughing.
Dad’s singing the Stars and Stripes Forever again. Why this snippet of music keeps re-occurring is a mystery to me, but it’s gotten so common that Kate S. and I sing along. Dad seems pleased by this.
Dad is trying to give me money again. Because of his tendency to give his cash away – he always had a very generous personality – he gets a small “allowance” on a weekly basis. I tell him, “Dad, we don’t need money. Sitting on your ass is an absolutely free activity.” “I believe you,” he says “and I’m going to do it right now.”
Brianna goes to get Dad a cigar from the other room. When she returns she reports, “if anyone needs a band-aid, there’s a box of them in the humidor.”
Dad surveys his plate – salad with black beans and avocado and cilantro-lime dressing and homemade tortilla chips –and announces, “there’s nothing on my plate but hair and sheet metal.” Unfazed, Kate S. urges him to try a chip, “this sheet metal is edible – take a bite.”
“I’m starting a bottle-cap collection,” says Kate S., collecting several from the dining room table. “A heart attack collection?” asks Dad. I offer her my biological father’s heart attack in Heathrow airport to start with – it was fatal, so it should be worth more.
We’re listening to John Mellencamp, but Dad has a complaint; “There’s too much sand in there,” he says, referring to the music.
I’m reminding Dad that he has to let his lady help him bathe, at least once a week. “I don’t see a point in taking a shower every day,” he says, “unless you’re working in mud puddles.”
Later, as we’re watching his cat eat, he says to me, “you live in a cat world, you can’t deny it.”
As it gets later, Dad slips out of reality. “How old am I now? About 18? 17? 15?” he asks. “Dad, you’re 85,” I tell him. He laughs like I have made the world’s funniest joke. “85!” he gasps, “oh, come on, you’ve killed that one.”
Thursday, July 9, 2009
absolutely totally foreign
Today started out off-kilter – I totally forgot Dad’s neurologist appointment. I got here and found him all dressed (by Marie) and waiting to go, but it was too late. It’s hard to get an appt. with this doctor, so it really sucks that I forgot this particular one. Now who is the one who is losing their mind?
Dad was trying to pay me for something, as usual, and I said to him, “Yo tengo dinero (I have money).” “I have plenty,” he translated, which is pretty close, considering his condition. Later, as we were discussing dinner, he said, in a bass voice, “I will eat anything.” “Omniverous,” I said. “That’s a good word,” said Dad. “Omni means ‘everything’. ‘Eat-all-things.’” Definitely an English teacher moment.
But then after dinner, things got weird. “Where can I stay tonight?” asked Dad. “This is your apartment,” Kate S. told him. “Is there someplace to lie down?” he wanted to know. “Yes, your bed,” she told him. “I’ll need somebody to take me home,” he said. “Have I been in this place before?” “You’ve been here since the 1960s,” I told him. “So, I don’t go anywhere?” he asked. “I’m getting pretty confused,” he continued, “since I’m on the way to 90.”
“Does my room door have a number on it?” Dad asked, apparently thinking he was at a hotel. “Nope, it’s the only bedroom here,” we told him. “It’s the only bedroom here? How many people live here?” he wanted to know. “Just one, Dad, you,” I explained. “Is there running water in the room?” he asked. “There’s running water in the kitchen and bathroom,” I told him. “I don’t know where they are,” he said, totally confused. “Just down the hall,” I said, gesturing. “If the door’s closed, someone’s in there?” he asked. “Yes, if it’s the bathroom,” I replied.
“You sound really familiar,” Dad said to me. “I’m little Kate, your daughter.” “Oh,” said Dad and reached out to shake my hand as though we’d just met.
“Does my room have a toilet?” Dad wanted to know. “You have a whole apartment, Dad.” “Then I have a kitchen, bathroom, a regular room and a living room. What do I have to pay for a night?” “You pay $330 a month,” I told him. “How about for a couple of nights?” he asked, confirming my suspicion that he thought he was in a hotel. “They don’t rent by the night,” I said.
Dad started exploring the hall and the bedroom. “I think I’ve been here before,” he said. “You’ve been here for 40 years,” I reminded him. He wandered into the bathroom. “You mean I’ve been pissing in this john for 20 years?” “40 years,” I corrected. “40 years,” he said in amazement.
I led him to a seat on the couch. “I thought I was being taken into a foreign place but it was all mine, all mine. I can’t believe it,” he said, in astonishment. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist, this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.” “That room is my room and it’s been my room for 40 years?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist. In other words, I just rent this apartment, right?” “You own this apartment,” I tell him. “Do I own these buildings?” “You own this apartment. Each person owns their own apartment.”
“Is it illegal to stay here?” Dad asks. “No, it’s totally legal,” I tell him, wondering where that question came from. “Then you can stay the night,” he concludes.
“How far up am I?” Dad asks. “This is the 4th floor,” I tell him. “I go up and down in an elevator?” “There is no elevator.” “It’s old-fashioned then,” says Dad, “but it looks totally modern.” “It got renovated,” I tell him. “How long ago did it get renovated?” “About 15 years ago,” I tell him though I’m not totally sure myself. “I’ve been right here for 40 years,” he says to himself.
“You know what?” says Dad. “It’s all new to me, all brand new, never saw it before yesterday.” “I had no idea,” he continues, “that you could rent places like this really cheaply, a thing as big as this costs one or two thousand dollars a month.” “Where did I live before this?” he wants to know. “You moved around a lot . . . “ I start the explanation. “And I found this place and liked it,” he finishes for me.
“What is the floor made of?” Dad asks. “Wood.” “This is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Nothing even came close,” he says, in a contemplative tone. “Did you expect I’d go crazy?” he asks me. “No,” I say. “You thought it was ordinary,” he says.
“Maybe tomorrow, when it’s lighter, I’ll be able to recognize it, but not right now. It’s utterly strange,” he says, looking around. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight, it’s so weird. It’s amazing how things can change, suddenly. Everything looks absolutely totally foreign to me. I should stay here all night, appreciating the new apartment.”
“The cat is here?” Dad is looking around for her. “Yes,” I tell him, “in the corner, asleep.”
Slowly, Dad seems to come out of the trance and starts finding familiar objects. He sits next to me at the dining room table, and starts feeling items on the table. “That’s a cookbook, Dad,” I tell him. “Are you using it?” he asks. “I will when I cook tomorrow.” “I don’t think I’ve ever used a cookbook. I’m still alive,” he says. “I think you used to when you had dinner parties,” I remind him. “I think so,” he says, “You know, I’m getting to be an old geezer. I don’t realize it until I start thinking about it and say, ‘my god, I’m over 80 years old,’ and I try to forget it and I do forget it and then whang, something happens and I remember again.”
Dad was trying to pay me for something, as usual, and I said to him, “Yo tengo dinero (I have money).” “I have plenty,” he translated, which is pretty close, considering his condition. Later, as we were discussing dinner, he said, in a bass voice, “I will eat anything.” “Omniverous,” I said. “That’s a good word,” said Dad. “Omni means ‘everything’. ‘Eat-all-things.’” Definitely an English teacher moment.
But then after dinner, things got weird. “Where can I stay tonight?” asked Dad. “This is your apartment,” Kate S. told him. “Is there someplace to lie down?” he wanted to know. “Yes, your bed,” she told him. “I’ll need somebody to take me home,” he said. “Have I been in this place before?” “You’ve been here since the 1960s,” I told him. “So, I don’t go anywhere?” he asked. “I’m getting pretty confused,” he continued, “since I’m on the way to 90.”
“Does my room door have a number on it?” Dad asked, apparently thinking he was at a hotel. “Nope, it’s the only bedroom here,” we told him. “It’s the only bedroom here? How many people live here?” he wanted to know. “Just one, Dad, you,” I explained. “Is there running water in the room?” he asked. “There’s running water in the kitchen and bathroom,” I told him. “I don’t know where they are,” he said, totally confused. “Just down the hall,” I said, gesturing. “If the door’s closed, someone’s in there?” he asked. “Yes, if it’s the bathroom,” I replied.
“You sound really familiar,” Dad said to me. “I’m little Kate, your daughter.” “Oh,” said Dad and reached out to shake my hand as though we’d just met.
“Does my room have a toilet?” Dad wanted to know. “You have a whole apartment, Dad.” “Then I have a kitchen, bathroom, a regular room and a living room. What do I have to pay for a night?” “You pay $330 a month,” I told him. “How about for a couple of nights?” he asked, confirming my suspicion that he thought he was in a hotel. “They don’t rent by the night,” I said.
Dad started exploring the hall and the bedroom. “I think I’ve been here before,” he said. “You’ve been here for 40 years,” I reminded him. He wandered into the bathroom. “You mean I’ve been pissing in this john for 20 years?” “40 years,” I corrected. “40 years,” he said in amazement.
I led him to a seat on the couch. “I thought I was being taken into a foreign place but it was all mine, all mine. I can’t believe it,” he said, in astonishment. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist, this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.” “That room is my room and it’s been my room for 40 years?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist. In other words, I just rent this apartment, right?” “You own this apartment,” I tell him. “Do I own these buildings?” “You own this apartment. Each person owns their own apartment.”
“Is it illegal to stay here?” Dad asks. “No, it’s totally legal,” I tell him, wondering where that question came from. “Then you can stay the night,” he concludes.
“How far up am I?” Dad asks. “This is the 4th floor,” I tell him. “I go up and down in an elevator?” “There is no elevator.” “It’s old-fashioned then,” says Dad, “but it looks totally modern.” “It got renovated,” I tell him. “How long ago did it get renovated?” “About 15 years ago,” I tell him though I’m not totally sure myself. “I’ve been right here for 40 years,” he says to himself.
“You know what?” says Dad. “It’s all new to me, all brand new, never saw it before yesterday.” “I had no idea,” he continues, “that you could rent places like this really cheaply, a thing as big as this costs one or two thousand dollars a month.” “Where did I live before this?” he wants to know. “You moved around a lot . . . “ I start the explanation. “And I found this place and liked it,” he finishes for me.
“What is the floor made of?” Dad asks. “Wood.” “This is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Nothing even came close,” he says, in a contemplative tone. “Did you expect I’d go crazy?” he asks me. “No,” I say. “You thought it was ordinary,” he says.
“Maybe tomorrow, when it’s lighter, I’ll be able to recognize it, but not right now. It’s utterly strange,” he says, looking around. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight, it’s so weird. It’s amazing how things can change, suddenly. Everything looks absolutely totally foreign to me. I should stay here all night, appreciating the new apartment.”
“The cat is here?” Dad is looking around for her. “Yes,” I tell him, “in the corner, asleep.”
Slowly, Dad seems to come out of the trance and starts finding familiar objects. He sits next to me at the dining room table, and starts feeling items on the table. “That’s a cookbook, Dad,” I tell him. “Are you using it?” he asks. “I will when I cook tomorrow.” “I don’t think I’ve ever used a cookbook. I’m still alive,” he says. “I think you used to when you had dinner parties,” I remind him. “I think so,” he says, “You know, I’m getting to be an old geezer. I don’t realize it until I start thinking about it and say, ‘my god, I’m over 80 years old,’ and I try to forget it and I do forget it and then whang, something happens and I remember again.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
weird theories
Yesterday Dad was totally focused on his blindness, a subject that’s gotten less frequent recently, to the great relief of everyone around him. In particular, he was completely focused on his theory about how he lost his vision, in which vision is a utility, like electricity, and can be turned off for non-payment or other, more nefarious reasons, like a plot by the company to save money by cheating those 85 and over, which is what he thinks happened to him.
Here’s his explication (explication used to be one of his favorite words):
“I was very suspicious when I saw the guy, I don’t know what they were doing, but they were doing something to my thing and they wrecked it. I think they do that to all people who presumably don’t have any money. They had me tied down somehow, I couldn’t move. There were two people doing this thing, and by the end of it, I couldn’t see. I think they’ve been saving money for a hundred years like this. You see, by this time, a person has just about given up. By that time, you’re so worn out, busted out, that you’re only going to live a couple years. If you start to sign up and try to compete, then you have to put money into it. I’m not sure, but I’m quite sure it happened. You see, if they do try to compete or cause trouble, they drag it out and drag it out until you’re dead. Maybe they do win a case or two, I don’t know. What’s the big company that does that? See, they didn’t bother me until I was 85 and then they said ‘he’s only going to live a couple more years.” You see, people who don’t have any vision use much more electricity than people who do. I don’t think they do anything until people are 85, if a couple people make money out of it, big deal, but mostly they save money. People who are 85 or more, they probably chuck a lot of it out. If they’re going to fight, they’ll drag it out ten years and they’ll be dead. But you never see anybody who isn’t 85 or more doing it but when it comes to 85 they turn the tables, but consider the money that has been saved, it’s one of the oldest and they’re accepted by now. Does all the money go into one place or not? If you reduce – see a lot of these people use more money than usual because they sit around and it’s getting darker and they see less and less. Once they get to be 85, bang!, then it’s usually too old. They lose a few cases, you know, because people live another 10-15 years and battle them out and after five years they say, ‘shit, give them the money,’ but it’s very rare.”
I was pretty flabbergasted by the length and detail of this theory – clearly he’s been thinking a lot about it.
On the subject of weird theories, Mia told me that Dad’ next door neighbor, Charlie McKenna told her that he doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with Dad, that he thinks it’s all an elaborate joke!!! Dad is known as something of a joker among his friends, but this idea blows my mind. I pointed out to Mia that Dad probably couldn’t have faked the brain scans. They’ve all known each other for decades, and fought together to save their buildings from being condemned and demolished, and I guess maybe this is Charlie’s form of denial, of not seeing that something is happening to his friend.
Here’s his explication (explication used to be one of his favorite words):
“I was very suspicious when I saw the guy, I don’t know what they were doing, but they were doing something to my thing and they wrecked it. I think they do that to all people who presumably don’t have any money. They had me tied down somehow, I couldn’t move. There were two people doing this thing, and by the end of it, I couldn’t see. I think they’ve been saving money for a hundred years like this. You see, by this time, a person has just about given up. By that time, you’re so worn out, busted out, that you’re only going to live a couple years. If you start to sign up and try to compete, then you have to put money into it. I’m not sure, but I’m quite sure it happened. You see, if they do try to compete or cause trouble, they drag it out and drag it out until you’re dead. Maybe they do win a case or two, I don’t know. What’s the big company that does that? See, they didn’t bother me until I was 85 and then they said ‘he’s only going to live a couple more years.” You see, people who don’t have any vision use much more electricity than people who do. I don’t think they do anything until people are 85, if a couple people make money out of it, big deal, but mostly they save money. People who are 85 or more, they probably chuck a lot of it out. If they’re going to fight, they’ll drag it out ten years and they’ll be dead. But you never see anybody who isn’t 85 or more doing it but when it comes to 85 they turn the tables, but consider the money that has been saved, it’s one of the oldest and they’re accepted by now. Does all the money go into one place or not? If you reduce – see a lot of these people use more money than usual because they sit around and it’s getting darker and they see less and less. Once they get to be 85, bang!, then it’s usually too old. They lose a few cases, you know, because people live another 10-15 years and battle them out and after five years they say, ‘shit, give them the money,’ but it’s very rare.”
I was pretty flabbergasted by the length and detail of this theory – clearly he’s been thinking a lot about it.
On the subject of weird theories, Mia told me that Dad’ next door neighbor, Charlie McKenna told her that he doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with Dad, that he thinks it’s all an elaborate joke!!! Dad is known as something of a joker among his friends, but this idea blows my mind. I pointed out to Mia that Dad probably couldn’t have faked the brain scans. They’ve all known each other for decades, and fought together to save their buildings from being condemned and demolished, and I guess maybe this is Charlie’s form of denial, of not seeing that something is happening to his friend.
Cheap Cheese
Saturday Dad was in a talkative mood. On the phone with Kate S., he told her “I’m alive and kicking and swearing sometimes.” Telling her about the years between college and graduate school, he said “I bummed around. I looked for the cheap cheese.” Then, apparently realizing that the sentence about cheap cheese wasn’t what he’d meant to say, he added “I’m losing my mind.”
Later, after complaining about an itchy arm, he said, “That’s right. I was going to take a tank. Did I take a tank?” More and more often, he’s saying things that we can’t figure out. Sometimes I can get enough information by asking more questions to solve the puzzle, but other times, like this one, I just say, “I’m not sure, Dad.”
One of the hardest parts is his own awareness that something’s wrong – after the question about the tank, he said, “I’m getting rather dipsy and dumpsy.” And when I ran into Mia on the street yesterday, she told me that he’d told her that something was wrong with his brain, which hopefully is a sign that my constant explanations about his brain “not working so well” have been getting through on some level, at least.
Watching his cat walk by, he commented “she’s an older cat and she’s in good condition, but she never used her language until a week ago?”
As the sun set, he got more confused. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t know where the hell I am.” “At the dinner table,” I replied. “Are we having dinner?” he asked, even though there were no plates or food on the table. “No,” I told him. “We already had dinner.”
When his best friend Charlie called, he told him, “I’m feeling rather peevish.” Listening to him on the phone with Charlie, I was able to tell how he had hidden his impairment from Peter Heinemann for so long – he mostly lets the other person talk, and asks questions about whatever detail he is able to latch on to.
As I was getting ready to go, he asked, “Is this my land or your land?” I wanted to burst into a chorus of Woody Guthrie, but instead I told him, “It’s your apartment, Dad.”
Later, after complaining about an itchy arm, he said, “That’s right. I was going to take a tank. Did I take a tank?” More and more often, he’s saying things that we can’t figure out. Sometimes I can get enough information by asking more questions to solve the puzzle, but other times, like this one, I just say, “I’m not sure, Dad.”
One of the hardest parts is his own awareness that something’s wrong – after the question about the tank, he said, “I’m getting rather dipsy and dumpsy.” And when I ran into Mia on the street yesterday, she told me that he’d told her that something was wrong with his brain, which hopefully is a sign that my constant explanations about his brain “not working so well” have been getting through on some level, at least.
Watching his cat walk by, he commented “she’s an older cat and she’s in good condition, but she never used her language until a week ago?”
As the sun set, he got more confused. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t know where the hell I am.” “At the dinner table,” I replied. “Are we having dinner?” he asked, even though there were no plates or food on the table. “No,” I told him. “We already had dinner.”
When his best friend Charlie called, he told him, “I’m feeling rather peevish.” Listening to him on the phone with Charlie, I was able to tell how he had hidden his impairment from Peter Heinemann for so long – he mostly lets the other person talk, and asks questions about whatever detail he is able to latch on to.
As I was getting ready to go, he asked, “Is this my land or your land?” I wanted to burst into a chorus of Woody Guthrie, but instead I told him, “It’s your apartment, Dad.”
Friday, July 3, 2009
imported from Mars
Gus-the-kitten is standing on my notes, screaming for attention, and occasionally swatting me as I write this.
Wednesday evening I took Gus to visit Dad. Kate S. and Michael were there, too. Dad held Gus and gingerly stroked his tiny, fuzzy body.
Dad was in a silly mood, and Kate S. said to him, “you’re a lot of fun, Addison.” To which he replied, “sometimes . . . sometimes I’m kind of gruesome.”
As part of his overall silliness, Dad stuck his nose into his tall plastic cup and used his nose to rock it back and forth. At first he did it with an empty cup, but then he did it with the cup filled with juice. Kate S. tried to warn him, “Addison, you might spill it.” “I very well might,” he agreed, seeming not at all disturbed by the possibility and continuing to do it. When he was done with this activity, he said “I did something nobody else has ever done, hooray!” and threw up his arms in a cheer.
The day before, he and Kate S. were listening to the “light classical” station, and there were several composers neither of them had heard of. Dad theorized that “they must have imported them from Mars.”
Gay Pride 2009
My writing has gotten severely derailed by the presence of Gus, a 5-week old motherless grey tabby kitten. Even as I type this with one hand, Gus is grabbing the other hand in a fit of kitten playfulness. He’s going to his new home tomorrow, leaving me sad, but hopefully a lot more productive.
Dad didn’t make it to the Pride dance last Friday because both Brianna and Kate were too sick to take him, but he did join New Alternatives for the Pride Parade on Sunday. One of our volunteers, Russell went to pick him up. When he got there, Dad said “I though nobody was going to come get me.” They took a cab to the area where we were lining up, and we put Dad in the cab of the truck. Everyone was so excited to have him there, they kept giving him treats – every time I went to check on him, he was eating something different – a hot dog, a sandwich, a tootsie pop.
The Parade was excruciatingly late leaving – we had been told to line up at 11am and we didn’t step off until 2pm, but Dad hung in there until 25th st or so, when he started trying to get out of the truck and it turned out that he needed to pee. Russell and another volunteer, got him out of the truck and took him to a coffee shop bathroom. I was worried about them catching up, but they got a lift from the police – it scared the hell out of us when a police car pulled up next to our contingent, but it was just Dad and Russell! Dad tried to pay the cop, mistaking him for a cab driver.
Dad started to get confused – somehow he had gotten it through his head that we were trying to catch a train, and he was worried that we were going to be late and miss it because the truck was moving so slowly. When I told him that we were in the Gay Pride Parade, he said “is that what the trouble is?”
He wasn’t able to finish the whole 5-mile route because we had to take the truck out of service at 15th street – it was a rental and the parade was so behind schedule that we had to return the truck before the parade ended. Everyone else walked, but Russell took Dad home. The adventure must’ve worn him out, because when I got there about 7pm, he was sleeping crossways across his bed.
Dad didn’t make it to the Pride dance last Friday because both Brianna and Kate were too sick to take him, but he did join New Alternatives for the Pride Parade on Sunday. One of our volunteers, Russell went to pick him up. When he got there, Dad said “I though nobody was going to come get me.” They took a cab to the area where we were lining up, and we put Dad in the cab of the truck. Everyone was so excited to have him there, they kept giving him treats – every time I went to check on him, he was eating something different – a hot dog, a sandwich, a tootsie pop.
The Parade was excruciatingly late leaving – we had been told to line up at 11am and we didn’t step off until 2pm, but Dad hung in there until 25th st or so, when he started trying to get out of the truck and it turned out that he needed to pee. Russell and another volunteer, got him out of the truck and took him to a coffee shop bathroom. I was worried about them catching up, but they got a lift from the police – it scared the hell out of us when a police car pulled up next to our contingent, but it was just Dad and Russell! Dad tried to pay the cop, mistaking him for a cab driver.
Dad started to get confused – somehow he had gotten it through his head that we were trying to catch a train, and he was worried that we were going to be late and miss it because the truck was moving so slowly. When I told him that we were in the Gay Pride Parade, he said “is that what the trouble is?”
He wasn’t able to finish the whole 5-mile route because we had to take the truck out of service at 15th street – it was a rental and the parade was so behind schedule that we had to return the truck before the parade ended. Everyone else walked, but Russell took Dad home. The adventure must’ve worn him out, because when I got there about 7pm, he was sleeping crossways across his bed.
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