Sometimes I feel like Alzheimer’s must be contagious. After spending a while with Dad, I start to feel - and act – spacey. Tonight I got dinner on the table, but then I threw together a batch of cookies and stuck them in the oven and it wasn’t until the smoke detector started screaming that I realized I had left out the flour! What a mess – pools of melted, smoky sugar, butter and chocolate adhered to both cookie sheets and an apartment full of smoke.
I had to move Dad from his rocker to the couch so he wouldn’t get snowed on when I opened the window. He never sits on the couch and between the alarm and his new position, he got pretty discombobulated. Even once he was back in his chair, he kept asking “Where am I?” “At the dining room table, Dad.” “Is this the end of the apartment?” “Yes, the street is right out the window.” “Is this the end of the apartment?” “Yes, that’s the street out there.” Over and over. I gave him some green tea and turned on the country music channel so that he can nod his head and tap his feet to the music, and he seems to be settling down.
Today he asked me “Is it possible that you’re my father?” I don’t know where that came from, but I just said, “No, you’re my Dad, Dad.”
Other than that, he’s worrying a lot about Obama – the real one, not his housekeeper. He says “I hope nobody shoots that kid.” “The FBI and the Secret Service are protecting him, Dad.” “But he’s our first non-white president.” It’s a good point.
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