Today is what Dad calls “chickenshit weather,” a term he coined long before Alzheimer’s to describe grey, rainy, dreary days. It reflects his hatred of cleaning out the chicken house as a boy in Gloucester.
Dad is pondering the bowl of cheese-flavored potato chips I have given him for a snack. He says, “somehow I think they’re waterproof, at least to a degree.” Then he moves on to considering their shape: “these cheeses are different than others, they curl around.”
Dad’s preparing to wash the dishes. “I’m pretty slow at it, but I’m good at it, not a speck on any of it.”
“My Mom sends you ‘hello’ from Maine,” says Kate S. “Send her hello, too, from Massachssetts,” says Dad. “You mean New York,” says Kate. “I think I’m cracking up,” says Dad. “I’m forgetting piles of things.”
Dad is offered some cheese straws as an appetizer. He has trouble navigating the long, limp pieces to his mouth, so he cups them in one hand and gobbles at them. When he notices that Kate S. and I are laughing at this, he gobbles in a more exaggerated fashion, like a monster on sesame street, and keeps doing it for a little while after the straws are gone. What a ham.
“No circle is better than none,” says Dad, bafflingly. “No circle is not better than none, I made a mistake. Any circle is better than none. No, that’s not true.” “What kind of circle?” I ask. “Circle? Circle? What kind of a circle?” Dad seems as confused as I am. “You just said ‘no circle is better than none,’” I tell him. “ ‘No circle is better than none?’ How do you accomodate that? I don’t think it’s accomodatable.”
Kate S. gets out the steel drum. “Can you play that? I can’t play it,” says Dad. “Sure, you can,” says Kate, setting it up in front of him. “No, I can’t, I never played it before,” he says, though he has. Kate S. gives him the stick and he starts banging out one of his rhythms. “Can you actually play music on this?” he says, stopping. “Yeah, you can,” says Kate, “but I don’t have any music.” I hand her Twinkle, Twinkle and she plays it for him, and he is duly amazed.
Kate S. installed a grab bar that I bought for Dad on the side of his bathtub. When she’s done, we steer him into the bathroom for a look. She shows him how he can use it help himself get in and out of the tub and says, “it’s really solid.” He gives it a pull and says “how did it get to be so solid?” She shrugs. “I’m really strong.”
Kate S. has given Dad the bubble wrap that was wrapped around the grab bar. Popping the bubbles, he says, “who knows how many thousands there are here?”
Kate S. and I are getting ready to leave when thunder starts to boom. Dad hears it and says, “I think you will be greeted by a thunderstorm.”
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Steel Drums
My stressed brain is playing tricks on me – I left my keys at work last night, and my phone at home today. I got to Dad’s and, having no keys, had to ring the doorbell. I knew Dad wouldn’t buzz me in, but I figured he’d come down to let me in, hopefully wearing clothes. He never appeared, so I settled down with my book to wait for a neighbor to come along. When I finally got upstairs (I had the apartment key on a separate set), I found Dad sitting on a dining room chair he’d pulled into the kitchen, using his pedal device to exercise his knees. “I hope that wasn’t you ringing and ringing,” he said.
Dad and I are discussing the floods in North Dakota. “That’s a very, very leaky place,” he says. I’ve discovered that the Times web site has little video “articles” – the audio is great for the blind, and the short length makes it possible for Dad to concentrate on them and not lose track of what’s going on.
Dad and I are talking about his relationships to cats. “You used to play with the cats at my house,” I tell him. “You even built a little house for stray cats in the backyard.” “I did?” “Yes, it was insulated and everything.” “I built things?” “Yes, you built bookshelves at my house, and you built the ones you’re sitting in front of right now.” “I did? Where are they?” He gets up and goes over to inspect the bookshelves. “I built these? You’re kidding.” When I finally convince him that he really did build them, he says, “I must’ve had a secret life.”
After Kristen ate her cat food tonight, she headed back to her spot on the couch and Dad commented “She’s back on the shelf.”
“I’ve made a number of really messy messes,” says Dad, gingerly reaching for his cup. “First I tip over one thing, and then I tip another, and ooof, what a mess.”
I joined in with Dad’s tapping again tonight – he had started with his hands, and then his feet started, too, so I joined in, and once again, we stopped at the same moment, and Dad laughed. I think it makes him feel connected when I do that. We have always had a strange kind of connection. When I was in high school, he went to parent-teacher night and freaked out my English teacher by sitting in my exact seat, apparently just by chance.
Since he was in a rhythmic mood, I got out his steel drum. “Can you play actual songs on that thing?” he asked, so I hammered out “Twinkle, Twinkle” to show that it’s possible. After we finished with the drum, I put on his “Steel Drum Party” cd, which he didn’t remember, and we danced to it, Dad dancing with his legs and his head from the rocker, and me on the couch with a lapful of elderly cat. The cat was uncertain about the dancing – she dug her claws in for extra security, but then purred anyway.
Dad and I are discussing the floods in North Dakota. “That’s a very, very leaky place,” he says. I’ve discovered that the Times web site has little video “articles” – the audio is great for the blind, and the short length makes it possible for Dad to concentrate on them and not lose track of what’s going on.
Dad and I are talking about his relationships to cats. “You used to play with the cats at my house,” I tell him. “You even built a little house for stray cats in the backyard.” “I did?” “Yes, it was insulated and everything.” “I built things?” “Yes, you built bookshelves at my house, and you built the ones you’re sitting in front of right now.” “I did? Where are they?” He gets up and goes over to inspect the bookshelves. “I built these? You’re kidding.” When I finally convince him that he really did build them, he says, “I must’ve had a secret life.”
After Kristen ate her cat food tonight, she headed back to her spot on the couch and Dad commented “She’s back on the shelf.”
“I’ve made a number of really messy messes,” says Dad, gingerly reaching for his cup. “First I tip over one thing, and then I tip another, and ooof, what a mess.”
I joined in with Dad’s tapping again tonight – he had started with his hands, and then his feet started, too, so I joined in, and once again, we stopped at the same moment, and Dad laughed. I think it makes him feel connected when I do that. We have always had a strange kind of connection. When I was in high school, he went to parent-teacher night and freaked out my English teacher by sitting in my exact seat, apparently just by chance.
Since he was in a rhythmic mood, I got out his steel drum. “Can you play actual songs on that thing?” he asked, so I hammered out “Twinkle, Twinkle” to show that it’s possible. After we finished with the drum, I put on his “Steel Drum Party” cd, which he didn’t remember, and we danced to it, Dad dancing with his legs and his head from the rocker, and me on the couch with a lapful of elderly cat. The cat was uncertain about the dancing – she dug her claws in for extra security, but then purred anyway.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Boggled
Marie took the knobs off the stove several days ago, and today Kate S. arrived to find Dad, in her words, “boggled” by their disappearance. Hours later, he’s still thinking about it: “Do you know what she did? She took all the knobs off the stove. I can’t imagine why.”
Kate. S. and Brianna arrived at Dad’s before me today – I was at a meeting – and when I got here, they had put on a dvd of Henry Rollins, a comedian. Dad was listening and laughing, even though we had heard this one before – he didn’t remember.
I look over and Dad is fumbling around among the knives and scissors. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Something to cut my nails with,” he says, reaching for a large knife. I leap out of my seat. “No, Dad, we have something for that,” I say, getting out the fingernail clipper. I demonstrate on one of his nails and he settles down to clip the rest.
“It’s spring,” I tell Dad “time to decide what to plant in the garden.” “Flowers or vegetables?” he asks. “Some of both,” I tell him, “definitely tomatoes.” “Tomatoes but not potatoes? Not potatoes because they come up” and makes a hand gesture depicting a potato plant coming up through the soil. “I don’t have enough room for potatoes, but I’d like a climbing rose to climb up the side of the house.” “Because your house is brick,” he says, “it disturbs the bricks after a while.” “I’ll put a trellis up,” I tell him. “Mucho mas mejor,” he says, surprising me. This is the polyglot Dad of my childhood, slipping from French to English to Spanish with the occasional anglo saxon phrase thrown in for good measure - we don’t hear much from him but English these days.
“You know what I should do?” asks Dad. “I should make up a book of telephone numbers. I don’t know a single telephone number.” “Dad, this is your phone book,” I say, sliding it across the table to him. He reads the cover “B-I-G P-R-I-N-T. Big Print.” He starts flipping through. “Wow. This really is big print.”
“How long have I been jittering with this?” he asks suddenly. “Having trouble with your memory?” I ask, cautiously. “Yes.” “A few years.” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “But more and more?” “ Yes, it’s getting worse.” “Do a lot of people have this?” “About 4 million.” This seems to satisfy him.
He’s definitely getting more aware of his memory problems. The other day Marie forgot something and said, out loud, “I need a pill for my brain.” “So do I,” chimed in Dad, who had been sitting quietly. “Dad, you took the pills for your brain. They gave you bad dreams, so you stopped, remember? There was the one where the walls were closing in and there was the one where you hurt your shoulder struggling.” I don’t mention that, aside from the dreams, the medications didn’t seem to do much of anything. “Oh yeah,” says Dad, “I remember that.” “The only medicines for the brain that are left are experimental, they’re just trying them out.” “I don’t want them to poison me,” says Dad. “They’re not testing them to see if they’re poisonous,” I tell him, “they’re testing them to see how well they work.” “In that case,” says Dad, “I’m game. Count me in.”
Kate. S. and Brianna arrived at Dad’s before me today – I was at a meeting – and when I got here, they had put on a dvd of Henry Rollins, a comedian. Dad was listening and laughing, even though we had heard this one before – he didn’t remember.
I look over and Dad is fumbling around among the knives and scissors. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Something to cut my nails with,” he says, reaching for a large knife. I leap out of my seat. “No, Dad, we have something for that,” I say, getting out the fingernail clipper. I demonstrate on one of his nails and he settles down to clip the rest.
“It’s spring,” I tell Dad “time to decide what to plant in the garden.” “Flowers or vegetables?” he asks. “Some of both,” I tell him, “definitely tomatoes.” “Tomatoes but not potatoes? Not potatoes because they come up” and makes a hand gesture depicting a potato plant coming up through the soil. “I don’t have enough room for potatoes, but I’d like a climbing rose to climb up the side of the house.” “Because your house is brick,” he says, “it disturbs the bricks after a while.” “I’ll put a trellis up,” I tell him. “Mucho mas mejor,” he says, surprising me. This is the polyglot Dad of my childhood, slipping from French to English to Spanish with the occasional anglo saxon phrase thrown in for good measure - we don’t hear much from him but English these days.
“You know what I should do?” asks Dad. “I should make up a book of telephone numbers. I don’t know a single telephone number.” “Dad, this is your phone book,” I say, sliding it across the table to him. He reads the cover “B-I-G P-R-I-N-T. Big Print.” He starts flipping through. “Wow. This really is big print.”
“How long have I been jittering with this?” he asks suddenly. “Having trouble with your memory?” I ask, cautiously. “Yes.” “A few years.” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “But more and more?” “ Yes, it’s getting worse.” “Do a lot of people have this?” “About 4 million.” This seems to satisfy him.
He’s definitely getting more aware of his memory problems. The other day Marie forgot something and said, out loud, “I need a pill for my brain.” “So do I,” chimed in Dad, who had been sitting quietly. “Dad, you took the pills for your brain. They gave you bad dreams, so you stopped, remember? There was the one where the walls were closing in and there was the one where you hurt your shoulder struggling.” I don’t mention that, aside from the dreams, the medications didn’t seem to do much of anything. “Oh yeah,” says Dad, “I remember that.” “The only medicines for the brain that are left are experimental, they’re just trying them out.” “I don’t want them to poison me,” says Dad. “They’re not testing them to see if they’re poisonous,” I tell him, “they’re testing them to see how well they work.” “In that case,” says Dad, “I’m game. Count me in.”
Taco Salad
I’m still shaken by Dad’s not remembering my name, even though logically there’s no reason why that particular piece of information should be protected from the deterioration going on inside his brain. On a deep, maybe primal level, though you just expect your parent, the person who was part of your naming (though my mother rejected Dad’s suggestions, including his mother’s name, Grace, as too old-fashioned and New Englandy), to remember your name.
Lately, Dad’s been leaning way to one side, making himself burp. This time he did it and nothing happened. “It didn’t come,” he said, trying the other side. Still nothing. “No one wants to throw up,” he said. I had a momentary, hilarious image of a crowd of tiny people inside him, then got myself under control and said, “You mean burp, Dad.” “Durp?” he asks. “No, B-U-R-P.” I spell it out. “Burp. Burp, Burp,” he says, over and over, like someone learning a new word in a foreign language. “Is it a real word?” he asks. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it before,” he answers himself.
I order Dad a taco salad, the kind that comes in a bowl made of a hardened tortilla, because I know he will be fascinated and he is, though it takes me three tries before I manage to convince him that the bowl is, in fact, edible. “What will they come up with next?” he asks, breaking off a piece and chewing on it.
Dad is tapping his feet, the same rhythm over and over, so I join in, rapping my pen on the table. We both instinctively stop at the same moment. “Very good,” says Dad, looking pleased.
Lately, Dad’s been leaning way to one side, making himself burp. This time he did it and nothing happened. “It didn’t come,” he said, trying the other side. Still nothing. “No one wants to throw up,” he said. I had a momentary, hilarious image of a crowd of tiny people inside him, then got myself under control and said, “You mean burp, Dad.” “Durp?” he asks. “No, B-U-R-P.” I spell it out. “Burp. Burp, Burp,” he says, over and over, like someone learning a new word in a foreign language. “Is it a real word?” he asks. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it before,” he answers himself.
I order Dad a taco salad, the kind that comes in a bowl made of a hardened tortilla, because I know he will be fascinated and he is, though it takes me three tries before I manage to convince him that the bowl is, in fact, edible. “What will they come up with next?” he asks, breaking off a piece and chewing on it.
Dad is tapping his feet, the same rhythm over and over, so I join in, rapping my pen on the table. We both instinctively stop at the same moment. “Very good,” says Dad, looking pleased.
Friday, March 20, 2009
doodley-doodley-do
Dad forgot my name today. He called me “what’s-her-name.” I suppose it was inevitable, but it still hurts. Later he asked “Is there any difference between your Kate and the other Kate?” “No, they’re the same person.” “The same person!” I decide to clarify. “There’s me, Kate, and then there’s the other Kate. That’s it.” “Oh!”
Today we made an excursion to the bank, where we saw Mr. Shetty, Dad’s financial advisor from the last 12 years. He told me to get a durable power of attorney so that I can make decisions about Dad’s finances. Right now, there’s nothing much to decide – we’re just waiting for the market to improve – but I have to get this done while Dad can still sign his name. He didn’t seem to recognize Mr. Shetty at all, just sat there periodically agreeing with me in a somewhat automatic manner. When we got home, he commented on how nice Mr. Shetty had been – he said he wasn’t expecting it. “I had a vague suspicion that this wasn’t going to be so good.”
“I suppose if I was suddenly WHANG! (claps his hands) given the stuff I can see, I would be suicidal,” says Dad, out of the blue. “What do you mean, whang?” “Well, whang, bang, any kind of noise. I’ve been getting used to it all my life, I’ve only ever had one eye, you know.” Apparently he meant that if he had normal vision and suddenly went blind, he would be suicidal.
I read Dad an article about Michelle Obama’s organic garden, but he was suspicious, “She’s not doing all the digging. She’ll do 20 minutes or so and then there will be ten men working like hell to finish it.” “Is the White House still white?” he inquired. “Yes.” “I bet every year they touch it up.” This from the man who used to paint our – white – house in Gloucester from top to bottom.
“What year do most of the cats prefer?” This question has me stumped. Are we talking wine vintages? I don’t let my cats drink. None of them are old enough. “What year?” I ask. “One, two, three, four?” he elaborates. Still no idea. “Are you asking how old they are?” “No,” he says, “how much do they play around?” “Well, some play a lot and others hardly at all.”
Dad’s singing again. The song he’s made up consists of the words: “I’m forgetful, I’m forgetful, doodley-doodley-do.”
Today we made an excursion to the bank, where we saw Mr. Shetty, Dad’s financial advisor from the last 12 years. He told me to get a durable power of attorney so that I can make decisions about Dad’s finances. Right now, there’s nothing much to decide – we’re just waiting for the market to improve – but I have to get this done while Dad can still sign his name. He didn’t seem to recognize Mr. Shetty at all, just sat there periodically agreeing with me in a somewhat automatic manner. When we got home, he commented on how nice Mr. Shetty had been – he said he wasn’t expecting it. “I had a vague suspicion that this wasn’t going to be so good.”
“I suppose if I was suddenly WHANG! (claps his hands) given the stuff I can see, I would be suicidal,” says Dad, out of the blue. “What do you mean, whang?” “Well, whang, bang, any kind of noise. I’ve been getting used to it all my life, I’ve only ever had one eye, you know.” Apparently he meant that if he had normal vision and suddenly went blind, he would be suicidal.
I read Dad an article about Michelle Obama’s organic garden, but he was suspicious, “She’s not doing all the digging. She’ll do 20 minutes or so and then there will be ten men working like hell to finish it.” “Is the White House still white?” he inquired. “Yes.” “I bet every year they touch it up.” This from the man who used to paint our – white – house in Gloucester from top to bottom.
“What year do most of the cats prefer?” This question has me stumped. Are we talking wine vintages? I don’t let my cats drink. None of them are old enough. “What year?” I ask. “One, two, three, four?” he elaborates. Still no idea. “Are you asking how old they are?” “No,” he says, “how much do they play around?” “Well, some play a lot and others hardly at all.”
Dad’s singing again. The song he’s made up consists of the words: “I’m forgetful, I’m forgetful, doodley-doodley-do.”
Thursday, March 19, 2009
3/19/09
When I went to see Dad yesterday, he seemed worried about something. “They’re trying to make me do things I can’t do,” he said. “Who?” I asked, but he couldn’t say. Later, he brought it up again, “They’re trying to make me see, but I can’t see so I don’t know what’s going to be the result.” The cat, sensing distress, came over and wrapped herself around his legs. He reached down and petted her, telling her “Yes, you need a couple of pats or something and you’ll be all right.”
Later, he said to me, “Do you have your metals . . . metallics?” We both knew this wasn’t what he was trying to say. “Things you have to hand in,” he tried again. “Work?” I asked, but I knew it was wrong even as I said it. I thought hard. “Taxes!” I was right, Dad was worrying about his taxes. His accountant, Fleischmann, is now in his 70s, pretty much retired, and was acting rather erratic the last time we saw him, plus he charges an exorbitant amount. So this year, we’re taking his taxes elsewhere, and I guess it’s making him nervous. I tried to reassure him that Marie and I will take care of it.
Trying to distract him, I told him about the wild possum that’s hanging out on my block. I wound up having to explain what a possum is. “A cat that hangs upside down by its tail and sleeps?” “No, not a cat, a rodent, with a long nose and a bald tail.” “I’ve learned something new tonight,” he said, pleased.
As I was getting ready to leave, he said, sadly, “I’ve forgotten what I learned two hours ago. I learned this that and the other but I’ve forgotten all of it.” “You learned about a possum, a rodent with a long tail.” “Oh, that’s right. You’ve got a terrific brain, you know that?”
Today, I got a call at work from Dad’s friend Peter, who had just gotten off the phone with him. “He sounds disoriented,” Peter told me “he says a man is in his apartment stealing things.” Immediately, I thought of the pile of boxes that was tied up by the door when I left yesterday. Marie must have taken them with her when she left, and Dad translated that into the image of a thief. His sense of gender is worse than ever –I was “Monsieur” yesterday. I wanted badly to rush over and reassure him, but I had kids all over the place and no back up, so the most I could do was call.
Later, he said to me, “Do you have your metals . . . metallics?” We both knew this wasn’t what he was trying to say. “Things you have to hand in,” he tried again. “Work?” I asked, but I knew it was wrong even as I said it. I thought hard. “Taxes!” I was right, Dad was worrying about his taxes. His accountant, Fleischmann, is now in his 70s, pretty much retired, and was acting rather erratic the last time we saw him, plus he charges an exorbitant amount. So this year, we’re taking his taxes elsewhere, and I guess it’s making him nervous. I tried to reassure him that Marie and I will take care of it.
Trying to distract him, I told him about the wild possum that’s hanging out on my block. I wound up having to explain what a possum is. “A cat that hangs upside down by its tail and sleeps?” “No, not a cat, a rodent, with a long nose and a bald tail.” “I’ve learned something new tonight,” he said, pleased.
As I was getting ready to leave, he said, sadly, “I’ve forgotten what I learned two hours ago. I learned this that and the other but I’ve forgotten all of it.” “You learned about a possum, a rodent with a long tail.” “Oh, that’s right. You’ve got a terrific brain, you know that?”
Today, I got a call at work from Dad’s friend Peter, who had just gotten off the phone with him. “He sounds disoriented,” Peter told me “he says a man is in his apartment stealing things.” Immediately, I thought of the pile of boxes that was tied up by the door when I left yesterday. Marie must have taken them with her when she left, and Dad translated that into the image of a thief. His sense of gender is worse than ever –I was “Monsieur” yesterday. I wanted badly to rush over and reassure him, but I had kids all over the place and no back up, so the most I could do was call.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Gamma Secretase
I’m still really upset from yesterday. I wonder if Dad’s forgetting the cruise means that his brain can no longer make new memories?
I’m thinking about enrolling him in a clinical trial of a gamma secretase inhibitor. Gamma secretase is involved in the formation of the plaques that take over the brains of people with Alzheimer’s (that was the simple version), and they are testing a new drug. It’s a placebo trial, so he might not get the drug at first, but all patients in the trial will eventually be switched to the drug, so even if he’s in the placebo group at first, he’ll get the drug sooner than if we wait for it to go through the whole testing and approval process. It may not work, but none of the currently approved drugs for Alzheimer’s do any good.
I’m going to start by calling to get the information and take it from there.
I’m thinking about enrolling him in a clinical trial of a gamma secretase inhibitor. Gamma secretase is involved in the formation of the plaques that take over the brains of people with Alzheimer’s (that was the simple version), and they are testing a new drug. It’s a placebo trial, so he might not get the drug at first, but all patients in the trial will eventually be switched to the drug, so even if he’s in the placebo group at first, he’ll get the drug sooner than if we wait for it to go through the whole testing and approval process. It may not work, but none of the currently approved drugs for Alzheimer’s do any good.
I’m going to start by calling to get the information and take it from there.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Dad Returns
I arrived at Dad’s house today to be greeted by “thank goodness you’re here, the whole world is going crazy.” I looked around the house for signs of disaster, but aside from cat puke on the floor and a pair of orange Calvin Klein undies on the dining room table, nothing seemed out of place. Dad was on the phone with Charlie, who must have demanded to talk to me, because Dad handed me the receiver. Charlie told me that Dad had told him he missed the boat and didn’t go on the cruise!!! I know they went because I stopped by on Thursday to check on the cat and nobody was here but the cat sitter, Marie’s friend Mary. About the cruise Dad says, "I don't remember a single thing that happened. Nothing. Nothing."
I called Marie, to see if anything unusual happened, but she says it was just a regular trip, that everybody was impressed with Dad’s appetite! She did say that he usually gets confused at this time of day (1pm-2pm), but gets better as the afternoon goes on and in the morning. She wants me to bring him to Dr. Honig and I don’t have the heart to tell her this is not something that can be cured. She’s also heard from her cousin that Pomegranate juice is good for the memory, so she’s been buying it for him at $10 a bottle.
She says he told her that this was his last trip, that he’s not going anymore, which is so sad that just typing those words made me start tearing up. Damn, I just grabbed the nearest napkin to dry the tears and it turned out to be full of crumbs, which are now all over me and worse, in my keyboard.
Dad claims he ate today, but I don’t see any signs of it, so I made him some coffee and scrambled eggs with cheese. When I asked him if he wanted coffee, he said “ whatever went crazy, maybe it’ll bring it back to life.” Indeed, after eating he seems a lot more oriented.
I’m baking a cake for Kate S’ birthday, and each step of the way, I tell Dad what I’m doing. “Now I’m breaking up the chocolate so it will melt easier. Now I’m putting the eggs in the batter. See this bowl? I’m baking the cake in it so it will have a dome shape.” “Stone?” he asks. “Dome,” I say, “like the shape of the bowl,” and I invert it to demonstrate. I feel like a cooking show, but if it helps keep Dad attached to reality, then it’s worth it.
Kate S. walks in, out of breath, and says to Dad “guess whose birthday it is?” “I don’t know,” he says, despite the fact that I’ve told him several times. “Mine!” she says. “OOOooo!!!” Dad howls, loudly. She tells him about the trip she and Brianna took to visit her aunt and uncle in CT. “Remember my uncle?” she says. “The very nice man who walked with you at my wedding?” Amazingly he does. “He’s the nicest man I ever met,” says Dad. “He never let go of me at all. It was very bumpy-wumpy.”
Quotable Dad: “Ice cream stops the whole world.”
I just glanced down at Dad’s feet and behold! He’s wearing two different shoes, one brown w/ a tassel, clearly much newer and one old black one w/ no decoration. When I pointed it out to him, he took them off to examine, and then proceeded to try to put the brown one back onto the wrong foot. We got him sorted out.
"I think I'm getting old," Dad says. "Things are sort of disappearing. You don't know where they went. That's the story. It's really weird." I'm crying again. I just discovered that I can touch type because my eyes are too blurry to see the keys.
I called Marie, to see if anything unusual happened, but she says it was just a regular trip, that everybody was impressed with Dad’s appetite! She did say that he usually gets confused at this time of day (1pm-2pm), but gets better as the afternoon goes on and in the morning. She wants me to bring him to Dr. Honig and I don’t have the heart to tell her this is not something that can be cured. She’s also heard from her cousin that Pomegranate juice is good for the memory, so she’s been buying it for him at $10 a bottle.
She says he told her that this was his last trip, that he’s not going anymore, which is so sad that just typing those words made me start tearing up. Damn, I just grabbed the nearest napkin to dry the tears and it turned out to be full of crumbs, which are now all over me and worse, in my keyboard.
Dad claims he ate today, but I don’t see any signs of it, so I made him some coffee and scrambled eggs with cheese. When I asked him if he wanted coffee, he said “ whatever went crazy, maybe it’ll bring it back to life.” Indeed, after eating he seems a lot more oriented.
I’m baking a cake for Kate S’ birthday, and each step of the way, I tell Dad what I’m doing. “Now I’m breaking up the chocolate so it will melt easier. Now I’m putting the eggs in the batter. See this bowl? I’m baking the cake in it so it will have a dome shape.” “Stone?” he asks. “Dome,” I say, “like the shape of the bowl,” and I invert it to demonstrate. I feel like a cooking show, but if it helps keep Dad attached to reality, then it’s worth it.
Kate S. walks in, out of breath, and says to Dad “guess whose birthday it is?” “I don’t know,” he says, despite the fact that I’ve told him several times. “Mine!” she says. “OOOooo!!!” Dad howls, loudly. She tells him about the trip she and Brianna took to visit her aunt and uncle in CT. “Remember my uncle?” she says. “The very nice man who walked with you at my wedding?” Amazingly he does. “He’s the nicest man I ever met,” says Dad. “He never let go of me at all. It was very bumpy-wumpy.”
Quotable Dad: “Ice cream stops the whole world.”
I just glanced down at Dad’s feet and behold! He’s wearing two different shoes, one brown w/ a tassel, clearly much newer and one old black one w/ no decoration. When I pointed it out to him, he took them off to examine, and then proceeded to try to put the brown one back onto the wrong foot. We got him sorted out.
"I think I'm getting old," Dad says. "Things are sort of disappearing. You don't know where they went. That's the story. It's really weird." I'm crying again. I just discovered that I can touch type because my eyes are too blurry to see the keys.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Traveling Dad
I am looking for a slice of pizza I left at Dad’s house yesterday. “Did Marie throw it out?” I ask Dad – maybe she cleaned the fridge in preparation for their trip. “I am not in the inner sanctum of her brain,” he says.
“It’s warm today,” I tell Dad. He agrees, “it’s very elegant weather.” Despite the weather, and despite Dad’s overheated apartment, with 80 degrees reading on the kitchen thermometer, I can’t get warm. This shivery feeling started in the hospital and just won’t go away.
He watches me stretch, trying to get my achy, post-hospital body moving. “More stretchy,” he says, “the more stretchy, the better, the better, the better.”
“I don’t like the tank,” Dad says, out of the blue. “The tank?” I ask, hoping for a clue. “There’s a lot of water in it and a lot of people, “ he elaborates. “The hot tub?” I ask. “Yes.” His mind is on the cruise tonight. Marie has bathed and shaved him. I don’t really like how he looks without a beard – something about it reminds me of a chicken – but she has left him with just a mustache. The green duffel is packed and the cat is eyeing it with trepidation, knowing she’s going to be left with a sitter.
“Where have I lived before midtown?” Dad asked yesterday. I ran through a list of the places I know about, “Astoria, the village, Brooklyn Heights.” “Brooklyn Heights?” “You lived there with some merchant marines. You took care of the place while they were at sea.” “You mean I was merchant marine addicted?” he asks. Kate and I burst out laughing.
Dad has gone to bed early, leaving me on the couch with the cat. He wants to be well-rested for the big adventure. I call Charlie, to make sure Dad has told him about the cruise, so he doesn’t call and panic at the lack of response. “When your mother found out you were expected, he was on the west coast of Mexico,” Charlie tells me, apropos of nothing, except maybe a general theme of traveling-Dad. “He swore me to secrecy, so I had to keep your mother calm, on the one hand, and keep updating him, on the other.”
This is a familiar story – I remember, as a child, one winter when the furnace broke and Dad was traveling in Latin America, and my mother needed his money to get it repaired. Charlie either really didn’t know his itinerary or was sworn to secrecy. Knowing his habit of staying in the colonial-era “grand hotels” wherever he went, my determined mother got on the phone, calling the grand hotels in cities across Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico, seeking “Senor Bray,” often getting a frustrating “he checked out yesterday.” She finally did find him and I guess the furnace got repaired – the part that sticks in my mind is the search.
“It’s warm today,” I tell Dad. He agrees, “it’s very elegant weather.” Despite the weather, and despite Dad’s overheated apartment, with 80 degrees reading on the kitchen thermometer, I can’t get warm. This shivery feeling started in the hospital and just won’t go away.
He watches me stretch, trying to get my achy, post-hospital body moving. “More stretchy,” he says, “the more stretchy, the better, the better, the better.”
“I don’t like the tank,” Dad says, out of the blue. “The tank?” I ask, hoping for a clue. “There’s a lot of water in it and a lot of people, “ he elaborates. “The hot tub?” I ask. “Yes.” His mind is on the cruise tonight. Marie has bathed and shaved him. I don’t really like how he looks without a beard – something about it reminds me of a chicken – but she has left him with just a mustache. The green duffel is packed and the cat is eyeing it with trepidation, knowing she’s going to be left with a sitter.
“Where have I lived before midtown?” Dad asked yesterday. I ran through a list of the places I know about, “Astoria, the village, Brooklyn Heights.” “Brooklyn Heights?” “You lived there with some merchant marines. You took care of the place while they were at sea.” “You mean I was merchant marine addicted?” he asks. Kate and I burst out laughing.
Dad has gone to bed early, leaving me on the couch with the cat. He wants to be well-rested for the big adventure. I call Charlie, to make sure Dad has told him about the cruise, so he doesn’t call and panic at the lack of response. “When your mother found out you were expected, he was on the west coast of Mexico,” Charlie tells me, apropos of nothing, except maybe a general theme of traveling-Dad. “He swore me to secrecy, so I had to keep your mother calm, on the one hand, and keep updating him, on the other.”
This is a familiar story – I remember, as a child, one winter when the furnace broke and Dad was traveling in Latin America, and my mother needed his money to get it repaired. Charlie either really didn’t know his itinerary or was sworn to secrecy. Knowing his habit of staying in the colonial-era “grand hotels” wherever he went, my determined mother got on the phone, calling the grand hotels in cities across Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico, seeking “Senor Bray,” often getting a frustrating “he checked out yesterday.” She finally did find him and I guess the furnace got repaired – the part that sticks in my mind is the search.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Flexible memory
I’m wobbly as hell and everything hurts and I’m not exactly infection-free but the infectious disease dr. wrote me a prescription for two weeks of oral antibiotics and I’m out, Thursday night. Kate S. and I walked the four blocks from the hospital to Dad’s house and got here just in time for dinner. He finished first, since he had a head start, and while we were still eating, he asked “is it time for dessert yet?” Having just come from the hospital, I hadn’t gotten anything for dessert and have no energy to make one – even typing this is an effort – but I surreptitiously looked in the freezer and thankfully, the ice cream I stashed there is still there, so Dad gets his dessert.
Dad is looking at the mirror that hangs above his dining room table. “ This one looks at that one and they see each other, if the doors are open, they do.” He means that the mirror faces one on his bedroom wall at the opposite end of the apartment. He’s said before that the mirror reminds him of an eye.
Dad says, out of nowhere, “Something that I had that was very, very good was ruined. I forget what did it.” I have no idea what he means.
Dad has eaten his ice cream and is now performing a musical number of his own creation, which involves wordless singing and using his feet for percussion. “Did you enjoy your ice cream? Kate S asks. “Yes,” says Dad “I have never, ever rejected a piece of ice cream, I think.”
I keep looking at his tiny kitchen, trying to see if there’s anywhere I can squeeze in my ice cream machine. Dad bought it for me years ago, but it was really more of a gift for him, the ice cream fan. Making ice cream at my house in Brooklyn and taking it on an hour and a half subway ride, doesn’t really work. The machine is super heavy – getting it up Dad’s stairs won’t be easy.
“You’re not going to the place where you get a lot of goop anymore. Various types of goop and gup and gap.” Goop? “ The studio?” I hazard a guess – clay can be goopy. But, no. It turns out he’s been listening to me cough and he means the shelter. Goop and gup and gap are the kids’ assorted illnesses.
Dad’s lifting his bowl with one hand and his water glass in the other. Is this a part of this or what? He asks. Kate names the items in front of him. “I’m terrified because I can’t see and I’m liable to knock anything over.”
“We’re a very silent crowd tonight,” says Dad “anything bad happen?” “No, we’re just really tired.” We tell him. “Going to bed early?” “Yes.” “At eight o’clock?” “It would be nice.” “Seven-thirty?” It’s 6:30pm and we’re at his house. “Only if we all three go to sleep in your bed, Dad.” He considers this. “I think we could make it, but we’d have to have signals, ‘OK, all roll over once.’”
“You can step into all kinds of situations and make them go bing, bing, bing, no trouble. You’ve got a marvelous personality,” he says to me. “I don’t know what you are,” he says to Kate S. “I’m a good driver,” she says. “I can’t drive at all,” he says. “Driving when you’re blind is a bad idea,” I say.
We don’t stay long. I feel bad, but I just can’t push my body anymore. I am unbelievably tired.
Quotable Dad: “I have the god-damnedest flexible memory.”
Dad is looking at the mirror that hangs above his dining room table. “ This one looks at that one and they see each other, if the doors are open, they do.” He means that the mirror faces one on his bedroom wall at the opposite end of the apartment. He’s said before that the mirror reminds him of an eye.
Dad says, out of nowhere, “Something that I had that was very, very good was ruined. I forget what did it.” I have no idea what he means.
Dad has eaten his ice cream and is now performing a musical number of his own creation, which involves wordless singing and using his feet for percussion. “Did you enjoy your ice cream? Kate S asks. “Yes,” says Dad “I have never, ever rejected a piece of ice cream, I think.”
I keep looking at his tiny kitchen, trying to see if there’s anywhere I can squeeze in my ice cream machine. Dad bought it for me years ago, but it was really more of a gift for him, the ice cream fan. Making ice cream at my house in Brooklyn and taking it on an hour and a half subway ride, doesn’t really work. The machine is super heavy – getting it up Dad’s stairs won’t be easy.
“You’re not going to the place where you get a lot of goop anymore. Various types of goop and gup and gap.” Goop? “ The studio?” I hazard a guess – clay can be goopy. But, no. It turns out he’s been listening to me cough and he means the shelter. Goop and gup and gap are the kids’ assorted illnesses.
Dad’s lifting his bowl with one hand and his water glass in the other. Is this a part of this or what? He asks. Kate names the items in front of him. “I’m terrified because I can’t see and I’m liable to knock anything over.”
“We’re a very silent crowd tonight,” says Dad “anything bad happen?” “No, we’re just really tired.” We tell him. “Going to bed early?” “Yes.” “At eight o’clock?” “It would be nice.” “Seven-thirty?” It’s 6:30pm and we’re at his house. “Only if we all three go to sleep in your bed, Dad.” He considers this. “I think we could make it, but we’d have to have signals, ‘OK, all roll over once.’”
“You can step into all kinds of situations and make them go bing, bing, bing, no trouble. You’ve got a marvelous personality,” he says to me. “I don’t know what you are,” he says to Kate S. “I’m a good driver,” she says. “I can’t drive at all,” he says. “Driving when you’re blind is a bad idea,” I say.
We don’t stay long. I feel bad, but I just can’t push my body anymore. I am unbelievably tired.
Quotable Dad: “I have the god-damnedest flexible memory.”
Sick Days
3/3/09
Major dilemma. I am in the hospital with an infection, been here since last night, no idea when I’ll get out of here. It’s definitely better than it was – I was so sick yesterday that I couldn’t have written anything if I tried. The shelter kids had to pitch in and cook their own dinner because I was way too sick to do it (some pretty funny questions: “Miss Kate, what’s this?” A trans girl is holding up a can full of a whitish powder labeled “pepper”. Q: “But how can it be pepper if it’s not black?” A: “It’s fancy-ass pepper. It tastes about the same.” ) But it’s still pretty bad, so I know I won’t get out tomorrow.
To tell Dad or not to tell Dad? My first and strongest instinct is not to tell him – I don’t want him to be worried or scared. But then how to arrange Dad coverage so that he is distracted by other people visiting, buying me extra days? Normally, Kate S. and Brianna would have gone tomorrow while I went to the studio, but they’re both supposed to be at a meeting. I was going to skip sculpting and go to Dad, but now I can’t go to either. Jenna, bless her heart , (what a Kansas saying!!!) offered to go, which might be a little weird since they’ve never met. Dad is far enough removed from social norms that he probably wouldn’t question it (he might even assume she was someone he’s supposed to know!!!), and if anyone can walk into a baffled stranger’s house and make it work, it would be Jenna, with all her experience of doing housing work with mentally ill adults, but I don’t know. Maybe Kate S. and Brianna can do Thursday and please, please let me out by Friday . . .
Why couldn’t this have happened next week, with Dad safely, obliviously on his cruise. Too easy I guess. Dad’s “they” don’t let me get away with easy.
And speaking of easy, how easy would it be for them to have wi-fi for hospital patients? I won’t be able to post this until I get out, though writing it makes me feel better. That’s the point, I guess.
Major dilemma. I am in the hospital with an infection, been here since last night, no idea when I’ll get out of here. It’s definitely better than it was – I was so sick yesterday that I couldn’t have written anything if I tried. The shelter kids had to pitch in and cook their own dinner because I was way too sick to do it (some pretty funny questions: “Miss Kate, what’s this?” A trans girl is holding up a can full of a whitish powder labeled “pepper”. Q: “But how can it be pepper if it’s not black?” A: “It’s fancy-ass pepper. It tastes about the same.” ) But it’s still pretty bad, so I know I won’t get out tomorrow.
To tell Dad or not to tell Dad? My first and strongest instinct is not to tell him – I don’t want him to be worried or scared. But then how to arrange Dad coverage so that he is distracted by other people visiting, buying me extra days? Normally, Kate S. and Brianna would have gone tomorrow while I went to the studio, but they’re both supposed to be at a meeting. I was going to skip sculpting and go to Dad, but now I can’t go to either. Jenna, bless her heart , (what a Kansas saying!!!) offered to go, which might be a little weird since they’ve never met. Dad is far enough removed from social norms that he probably wouldn’t question it (he might even assume she was someone he’s supposed to know!!!), and if anyone can walk into a baffled stranger’s house and make it work, it would be Jenna, with all her experience of doing housing work with mentally ill adults, but I don’t know. Maybe Kate S. and Brianna can do Thursday and please, please let me out by Friday . . .
Why couldn’t this have happened next week, with Dad safely, obliviously on his cruise. Too easy I guess. Dad’s “they” don’t let me get away with easy.
And speaking of easy, how easy would it be for them to have wi-fi for hospital patients? I won’t be able to post this until I get out, though writing it makes me feel better. That’s the point, I guess.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Slime
“So many of these things have one slime and that’s that, but this has a wacko wacko wacko and then smooth. There’s the hard hard part and the salad. This is real contrast,” Dad says happily, eating his dessert. He’s talking about the dessert I made, a chocolate blueberry bread pudding, and how he enjoys the difference between the hard outer edges and the spongy middle. This is a recurring theme for him – earlier in the meal, he was enjoying the contrast between the phyllo (“thin, thin, sharp”) and the “slime,” the filling of a spinach pie.
Dad’s being extra careful at the table these days – a couple of days ago he managed to knock over his drink twice in an hour and got so frustrated (“I was pissed pissed PISSED”) that he yelled cursewords so loudly that one of his neighbors asked me if he was all right in the hallway the next day so now he’s determined not to knock anything over.
Dad was in super-repeat mode today, and Brianna and I were about to lose it if he told us about being blind one more time, so, in desperation, I shoved a mixing bowl in front of him and commanded him to stir. Holding on to the bowl with one hand and stirring with the other kept him occupied enough that we got a whole ten minutes without hearing about blindness. Keeping him busy is good for us – and him. After dinner, he washed the dishes, handing them off to Kate S. “Here’s a well-washed dish” to dry and put away. “I’m glad I participated in a teeny-weeny bit,” he said, once they were done.
Dad was alone today when the groceries arrived and made it all the way down to let the guy in and back up. Luckily, he happened to be wearing clothes this time. “I thought I was going to be thrown out. I thought I was going to be kicked out. I thought he was going to fly off the handle. He had three boxes and I didn’t have any money – I had money, but I forgot.” Luckily, I came along and found them standing in the doorway in a state of confusion, tipped the guy, who was having a guilt attack over having an obviously ancient person come down all those stairs, reassured him, and sent him on his way. “Are 20 or 30 people coming for dinner?” inquired Dad. “Three boxes!” I tried to explain to him that the boxes don’t have that much inside, but he was still astonished.
Dad’s still struggling with gender. Aside from his never-ending attempts to get Brianna’s gender right, he called me a “strong little fellow” as I was packing up my bag to go. It was heavy, but his remark made me feel like a midget. And tonight he said, about Marie/Obama, “she does off and on things, but overall she’s a very good guy.”
I’m kind of angry at Mia, an old friend of the family who lives in the apartment upstairs from him when she’s in the US (she splits her time between here and Holland). They’ve been friends for at least 40 years, but she’s a decade or so younger. Her daughter is a year younger than I am and Franka and I often played together in Dad’s apartment. We never played upstairs in their apartment so looking back on it, Mia got a lot of free child care from Dad. Maybe a little offbeat childcare, though – I’ll never forget my mother’s shock when she arrived one day and we proudly showed off our newest creations – collages made out of cut up magazines Dad subscribed to – Smithsonian, Archaeology, and Penthouse!!! There were lots of animals – and all kinds of body parts. Dad kept those on his refrigerator for decades. I think he enjoyed the scandalous aspect.
Anyway, I ran into Mia, recently arrived from Holland, in the vestibule. “How’s Addison?” she asked. “Not too bad.” “And the Alzheimer’s?” “Holding steady.” “Are you sure? I heard him screaming the other day.” “Screaming?!” I search my mind for what she could mean, and then realize she means the tantrum. “You mean yelling curses? He was just upset because he can’t see and he kept spilling his drink.” “Can he still live here?” What is that supposed to mean? “Yes, he has his lady, and me on the weekends.” “He usually calls when I get into town. I don’t think he knows I’m here.” It’s impossible not to know she’s here – her footsteps on the ceiling are unmistakable. “He knows, he just doesn’t use the phone much. He can’t see the numbers too well, but people can call him.” “I’ll go visit him tomorrow,” she says, “in the morning, since you come later on.”
“He doesn’t get up until 11am these days,” I tell her. “But he always used to get up so early, 7am . . . “ Things change, I want to tell her. “Yes, he eats sugar now, too.” “Sugar!” she says. She’s always been health conscious, running around central park, and trying to convince people that a cold boiled sweet potato is a dessert. “He was always so careful about what he ate.” Dad wasn’t so much careful as just used to what happened to be a healthy diet. “Visiting him used to be such a pleasure, because he knew so much about history and things . . . “ she trails off, perhaps because of the flames that are shooting out of my ears. “Now he repeats so much,” She complains. “Distract him,” I tell her. “He likes to hear stories about stuff he did that he doesn’t remember.” And then I make a run for it “Ice cream’s melting, gotta go!” before I tell her she’s a selfish bitch who should visit Dad not because of the pleasure she gets from it (a pleasure that can still be found for those who know where to look, I would add), but because of the length of their relationship and the fact that you don’t abandon a friend just because he gets “dotty,” and because it would be a welcome distraction from his daily, boring routine . . . As far as the repeating, it’s not like we’re asking her to deal with it day in and day out, just a fucking hour or whatever. Where is her compassion?
I know she has always fought hard against her own ageing, dyes her hair, takes pleasure in looking younger than she is – and in picking up much younger men, who have no idea – but does this make it impossible for her to be present for a friend whose aging is obvious?
By the way, she didn't show up to visit.
Dad’s being extra careful at the table these days – a couple of days ago he managed to knock over his drink twice in an hour and got so frustrated (“I was pissed pissed PISSED”) that he yelled cursewords so loudly that one of his neighbors asked me if he was all right in the hallway the next day so now he’s determined not to knock anything over.
Dad was in super-repeat mode today, and Brianna and I were about to lose it if he told us about being blind one more time, so, in desperation, I shoved a mixing bowl in front of him and commanded him to stir. Holding on to the bowl with one hand and stirring with the other kept him occupied enough that we got a whole ten minutes without hearing about blindness. Keeping him busy is good for us – and him. After dinner, he washed the dishes, handing them off to Kate S. “Here’s a well-washed dish” to dry and put away. “I’m glad I participated in a teeny-weeny bit,” he said, once they were done.
Dad was alone today when the groceries arrived and made it all the way down to let the guy in and back up. Luckily, he happened to be wearing clothes this time. “I thought I was going to be thrown out. I thought I was going to be kicked out. I thought he was going to fly off the handle. He had three boxes and I didn’t have any money – I had money, but I forgot.” Luckily, I came along and found them standing in the doorway in a state of confusion, tipped the guy, who was having a guilt attack over having an obviously ancient person come down all those stairs, reassured him, and sent him on his way. “Are 20 or 30 people coming for dinner?” inquired Dad. “Three boxes!” I tried to explain to him that the boxes don’t have that much inside, but he was still astonished.
Dad’s still struggling with gender. Aside from his never-ending attempts to get Brianna’s gender right, he called me a “strong little fellow” as I was packing up my bag to go. It was heavy, but his remark made me feel like a midget. And tonight he said, about Marie/Obama, “she does off and on things, but overall she’s a very good guy.”
I’m kind of angry at Mia, an old friend of the family who lives in the apartment upstairs from him when she’s in the US (she splits her time between here and Holland). They’ve been friends for at least 40 years, but she’s a decade or so younger. Her daughter is a year younger than I am and Franka and I often played together in Dad’s apartment. We never played upstairs in their apartment so looking back on it, Mia got a lot of free child care from Dad. Maybe a little offbeat childcare, though – I’ll never forget my mother’s shock when she arrived one day and we proudly showed off our newest creations – collages made out of cut up magazines Dad subscribed to – Smithsonian, Archaeology, and Penthouse!!! There were lots of animals – and all kinds of body parts. Dad kept those on his refrigerator for decades. I think he enjoyed the scandalous aspect.
Anyway, I ran into Mia, recently arrived from Holland, in the vestibule. “How’s Addison?” she asked. “Not too bad.” “And the Alzheimer’s?” “Holding steady.” “Are you sure? I heard him screaming the other day.” “Screaming?!” I search my mind for what she could mean, and then realize she means the tantrum. “You mean yelling curses? He was just upset because he can’t see and he kept spilling his drink.” “Can he still live here?” What is that supposed to mean? “Yes, he has his lady, and me on the weekends.” “He usually calls when I get into town. I don’t think he knows I’m here.” It’s impossible not to know she’s here – her footsteps on the ceiling are unmistakable. “He knows, he just doesn’t use the phone much. He can’t see the numbers too well, but people can call him.” “I’ll go visit him tomorrow,” she says, “in the morning, since you come later on.”
“He doesn’t get up until 11am these days,” I tell her. “But he always used to get up so early, 7am . . . “ Things change, I want to tell her. “Yes, he eats sugar now, too.” “Sugar!” she says. She’s always been health conscious, running around central park, and trying to convince people that a cold boiled sweet potato is a dessert. “He was always so careful about what he ate.” Dad wasn’t so much careful as just used to what happened to be a healthy diet. “Visiting him used to be such a pleasure, because he knew so much about history and things . . . “ she trails off, perhaps because of the flames that are shooting out of my ears. “Now he repeats so much,” She complains. “Distract him,” I tell her. “He likes to hear stories about stuff he did that he doesn’t remember.” And then I make a run for it “Ice cream’s melting, gotta go!” before I tell her she’s a selfish bitch who should visit Dad not because of the pleasure she gets from it (a pleasure that can still be found for those who know where to look, I would add), but because of the length of their relationship and the fact that you don’t abandon a friend just because he gets “dotty,” and because it would be a welcome distraction from his daily, boring routine . . . As far as the repeating, it’s not like we’re asking her to deal with it day in and day out, just a fucking hour or whatever. Where is her compassion?
I know she has always fought hard against her own ageing, dyes her hair, takes pleasure in looking younger than she is – and in picking up much younger men, who have no idea – but does this make it impossible for her to be present for a friend whose aging is obvious?
By the way, she didn't show up to visit.
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