Nightmares about Dad again. Not as intense and vivid as the fever dreams, but enough to wake me up. In one, I found him wandering the streets, naked. In another, he was falling. It doesn’t take a lot of analytical skill to figure out what’s on my mind.
Marie/Obama was out yesterday, and Dad was alone most of the day. When he goes for hours without contact with people, his language gets worse, so by the time I got there, he was pretty deep into Alzheimer-land.
When I arrived, he asked me about the “other two Indians,” an alzheimerish way of referring to Kate and Brianna. Later on, he asked me “how’s the big sister’s foot?” referring to Kate S. again. Later, hearing a siren, after much verbal flailing, he asked “do you know whether the guys who go to get fires going have different noises or not?” Of course, he meant firefighters, and was wondering whether they had different sirens than the police..
His confusion continued when I commented on his cigar, a genuine Cuban cigar, one of a box smuggled from Holland for him by a friend. “It’s illegal to smoke in Cuba?” “No, Dad, Cuban things are illegal in the U.S.”
At the end of the evening, Dad started asking for “a cup, a cup, a cup of . . . “ I offered him a few options, water, juice, milk, but he kept struggling. Finally, he got to “the stuff that loosens.” “Metamucil!” I exclaimed. Dad looked confused. “The stuff that helps with shitting,” I clarified and he nodded. I tore open a packet, poured the powdery contents into a glass of juice, stirred and gave it to Dad. It looked gross to me, but he drank it all.
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