Double Trouble

Another stress dream: I’m at a concert. My high school boyfriend (a real-life musician) is performing and I’m in the audience with Dad, trying to calm an Alzheimer’s freakout. Suddenly, I realize that there’s not one Dad, but two identical ones. The other one is across the room and he, too, is in distress and needs me. I try asking the boyfriend and other people, who in the dream I knew, for help, but they all get in a van and drive away, leaving me with the two Dads. I wake up in a panic.

What’s actually going on is that Kate S. is having surgery tomorrow and will be stuck in bed for weeks, leaving us with the same number of Dads but half the available Kates, and Brianna’s primary mission will be helping her.

On top of that, Marie is going on vacation next week. Her friend Mary who’s sweet and reliable but speaks very little English, will be here instead.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” says Dad, “I was hoping you’d turn up since it’s a Wednesday,” thereby ruining my plan to dash in, make macaroons, serve him dinner and then dash off to a seder in Brooklyn. With a greeting like that, how could I give him any less than a full evening?

Charlie calls, “I was talking to Addison,” he quavers “and he doesn’t know anything about the planes that crashed into the Trade Center. He said he’d never heard of it.” He sounds faintly accusatory, as though there’d been a conspiracy to keep Dad unaware of the disaster. “He probably forgot,” I tell Charlie. “It might be convenient to have a memory that can erase,” he says. “How is he?” he wanted to know. “He’s OK,” I assured him, “he’s just finishing dinner.” “Does he have a cigar?” “No, we’re about to have ice cream.” “Ice Cream!!” says Dad, overhearing. I hush him, and finish talking to Charlie, before I fetch Dad an ice cream sandwich, which he eats with such enthusiasm that I offer him another. “Well,” he says, thoughtfully, “we wouldn’t want it to melt,” and eats it with gusto.

I got a new cd of “Sapphires and Garlic,” to replace the one that was skipping, and Dad is enjoying it, with bursts of laughter every now and then.

“I went crazy and bought way more coconut than I need,” I tell Dad. “How many are there?” he asks. “Here’s one package, and another package, and another package, and one more.” “Oh my god!” says Dad, his lap filled with coconut, “What are you going to do with them?” “I’ll have to figure something out."

Dad’s trying to wrap his head around this weekend’s plans – with Kate sidelined, we’re going to have to go to her house on sunday, where I’ll cook a kosher-for-Passover Easter dinner (with four people, we have two of jewish heritage, one practicing jew, one Buddhist and three Unitarians!!!). “I can’t go anywhere by myself,” Dad informs me seriously, as though this is news. “Of course not,” I reassure him. “Are you expecting me to be here on Saturday?” he asks. “Why,” I say, teasing, “do you have plans?” “No,” he says, not getting the joke.