Feb. 15th 2009 Part 2

After dinner, Dad gets in a silly mood – lots of sugar in dessert? He reaches out to punch me in the shoulder to emphasize a point, but he’s blind, and so he punches me in the boob. When I protest, “Dad, that’s my boob!” he turns his hand around and starts feeling my chest to “see” where my boobs are. “Well, I won’t hurt anything there,” he says.

Today I brought Dad a cd called “Steel Drum Party” and now he’s inspired, banging away at the one we gave him for Christmas (alzheimer’s patients are known to enjoy rhythm). He’s keeping time with his foot while experimenting with different tones, some quite loud. Then he moves on to the table, banging on the antique wood with his drumstick. I take the other stick and we experiment with hitting different things , including Kate S.’s aluminum water bottle, which makes a great sound. “I’m having a great time. This is sort of fun,” he says, laughing.

Dad looks at me and Kate S., sitting around the table with him, and says “what’ll happen to the two of you after 50 years? I’m only going to be around for another five.” “Five!” says Kate S. “You said ten.” “I’m cutting it back.” He starts talking about his health. “They can’t find anything wrong with me, that’s the trouble. The doctor says, ‘there’s not a god-damn thing wrong with you except that you’re a bitch.” This is not really what the doctor said, but it’s so funny that Kate S. and I burst out laughing. “Something’s got to happen,” he says, baffling me. “Like what?” I ask. “Anything. I’ll have this and that,” he says, pointing to various parts of his body, “and then Blecchhhhh,” he makes a noise while clutching his throat.

He starts reminiscing about his teaching career. “I hated grading papers.” “I know, Mom and I used to help you.” “I didn’t realize how much you and your mom did for me.” “You did a lot for us, too, Dad.” “Like what?” “You bought us a house.” “What? I bought you a house?!” “Yes, the house on 9th st. where I grew up.” “I paid for that?” “Yes.” He ponders this in amazement. “A whole lot of activity just dropped, DROPPED, boom!” He’s referring to his memory loss.

“We need to measure,” I say to Kate S., “so we can get a new couch.” “Who needs a mother?” Dad asks. “You need a nice, washable slipcover for the cat hair,” says Kate S. “That cat hair has the most cat hair of any other cat I ever heard of,” says Dad.

“What are you doing,” Dad says, peering at my laptop. “We’ve been over this. I’m writing about you.” I read him the paragraph about the doctor. “This, you just wrote?” says Dad. “This, you just did,” I say. “ I give up,” says Dad. “You’ll leave a message when I’m dead.” “I’ll leave a message where?” “Who is it that’s writing all this stuff, is it you?” he asks. “It’s Kate,” says Kate S. Dad falls silent and starts drumming on the table with his fingers. He comes to the end and goes “Ruff,” bark-like. When we stare at him, he says, sheepishly, “I had to do something.”

Dad ate most of his chocolates overnight, but he has a few left. I put the box within his reach on the table, and he immediately picks a foil-wrapped chocolate and goes to pop it into his mouth “aaaah!” I scream, stupidly, and grab it from him. “What?” he asks. We point out the foil and he removes it, balls it up and then says, “now what?” When neither of us responds, he says, “I’ll put it right here,” and places it neatly on a random spot on the table. Kate S. removes the foil from the other wrapped candies for safety’s sake.