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.”