I arrived a bit late this afternoon and found Dad frantically waiting for me. “I was almost hysterical around here,” he said. “I thought you were going to come right away but you didn’t.” I had been tempted to go to a protest at the 77th precinct about police violence toward lesbians, but that would have made me get to Dad’s even later, so it’s a good thing I didn’t go.
When Kate S. called and asked Dad how he was, he told her “doddering, diddering, doodling . . . “ He also told her, “I see cats all over the place. I don’t know where they come from. Some of them look more like people than cats, but they still look like cats.”
We listened to Obama’s speech nominating Sotomayor for Supreme Court Justice, and Dad was totally amazed when I told him that she’s only the third woman.
Somehow we got into a conversation about my grandfather and his death, and I wound up telling Dad that I think grandpa used his willpower to die once he heard them say that he couldn’t go back to his house, that he’d have to go from the hospital into a “home”. Dad said, “I wouldn’t want to go into a home either. I think it might be damaging.”
Coming back from the bathroom tonight, I found Dad blundering in a corner. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I don’t know!” he replied, sounding agitated. It turned out he was trying to get to the bathroom, but he was heading the wrong way, lost in his apartment. I got him turned around and led him to the bathroom. This is his version of what’s known in the Alzheimer’s community as “sun-downing” – both the getting lost in his apartment and the hallucinations seem to happen only after dark, for some reason.
At the moment, Dad and Kristen are sitting side by side on the couch, both staring into space looking zoned out. They should be a painting, “Old Man and his Cat.” I’m sure Hemingway would approve.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
are all your chickens fine and fit?
“Are all your chickens fine and fit?” Dad asks me, by way of a greeting. He means my cats. I haven’t had any chickens since we sold our old house, which had a flock of stray chickens that just showed up and roosted in what we thought was a cherry tree.
“You know what bothers me? I can’t speak correctly often. It’s getting worse and worse. I suppose it’s because I’m getting older and older,” Dad says. It makes me sad to hear this. I can only imagine what it’s like to have to struggle to communicate, especially when you’ve once had several languages’ worth of words at your command.
Yesterday Kate S. and Michael were hanging out with Dad while I went to the studio. At one point, Michael got tongue-twisted and said something about turning “wine into water.” Kate S., joking, responded, “I can do that, just give me a bottle of wine and I’ll show you.” She says Dad got the joke and laughed for a long time.
Tonight Dad seems tired and distant. When I arrive, he’s in the bedroom. I let him sleep until the ringing phone wakes him and he shuffles out, surprised to see me. He spends an hour eating his dinner, saying nothing except the time – he’s sitting at the counter opposite the microwave and apparently he can see the red numbers on the clock. Every minute, he mutters the new time between bites, “six-oh-seven, six-oh-eight.” After dinner, he devours his cupcake, but then says he feels too full and wants to lie down. When he comes back out, Kate S. is on the phone. She tells him she’ll be here for dinner tomorrow and that I’m cooking and he says we’ll all get “Fat, fat, fat.” Then I settle in to read.
“What time is it?” Dad asks, after I finish our latest Ruth Reichl reading. “8:30pm,” I tell him. “Do you think I’ll be able to get home?” he asks me, as though he’s stayed out too late somewhere. “Dad, you live here, it shouldn’t be too difficult,” I tell him. He wants to know where his bed is, so I lead him from his chair, and through the living room. As we pass the refrigerator and head into the kitchen, he suddenly comes to, like he’s breaking through the surface of a murky lake, and he’s able to go the rest of the way by himself.
“You know what bothers me? I can’t speak correctly often. It’s getting worse and worse. I suppose it’s because I’m getting older and older,” Dad says. It makes me sad to hear this. I can only imagine what it’s like to have to struggle to communicate, especially when you’ve once had several languages’ worth of words at your command.
Yesterday Kate S. and Michael were hanging out with Dad while I went to the studio. At one point, Michael got tongue-twisted and said something about turning “wine into water.” Kate S., joking, responded, “I can do that, just give me a bottle of wine and I’ll show you.” She says Dad got the joke and laughed for a long time.
Tonight Dad seems tired and distant. When I arrive, he’s in the bedroom. I let him sleep until the ringing phone wakes him and he shuffles out, surprised to see me. He spends an hour eating his dinner, saying nothing except the time – he’s sitting at the counter opposite the microwave and apparently he can see the red numbers on the clock. Every minute, he mutters the new time between bites, “six-oh-seven, six-oh-eight.” After dinner, he devours his cupcake, but then says he feels too full and wants to lie down. When he comes back out, Kate S. is on the phone. She tells him she’ll be here for dinner tomorrow and that I’m cooking and he says we’ll all get “Fat, fat, fat.” Then I settle in to read.
“What time is it?” Dad asks, after I finish our latest Ruth Reichl reading. “8:30pm,” I tell him. “Do you think I’ll be able to get home?” he asks me, as though he’s stayed out too late somewhere. “Dad, you live here, it shouldn’t be too difficult,” I tell him. He wants to know where his bed is, so I lead him from his chair, and through the living room. As we pass the refrigerator and head into the kitchen, he suddenly comes to, like he’s breaking through the surface of a murky lake, and he’s able to go the rest of the way by himself.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
what part of you is me?
As I was leaving last night, Dad walked over to the refrigerator, put his hand on it, and said “do you need to get into the elevator?” His building doesn’t have an elevator.
Dad fed the Kristen-the-cat blueberry pie! Normally, I would be laughing at something like this, but I’m kind of annoyed – I didn’t bake that pie for the cat (and she didn’t eat it anyway).
“Where’s kitty cat?” Dad wants to know. “Asleep on her bed,” I tell him. “Cats rest a lot,” I say. “Yes,” he says, “Cats rest a lot. That’s why they look so good. They hardly work at all.”
“Do you want some applesauce?” I ask Dad. “What’s applesauce?” he asks. “Apples, cooked and mashed up,” I tell him. “Never heard of it. A brand new thing,” he says. When I was a kid, our “cherry” tree suddenly grew green apples (my mother had misunderstood the old Italian neighbor who gave it to us as a stick). Dad and I harvested them and he taught me how to make applesauce. Now I’m teaching him about applesauce.
Reading Ruth Reichl to Dad, chapter by chapter, I am reminded of the last weeks of my mother’s life. I read Ruth Reichl to her, too, as she lay dying in the hospital, surrounded by elderly roommates who were too far gone to even notice me reading, never mind complain. At the time, I felt like the book had magical powers, like she couldn’t possibly die if there was another chapter to be read. I wonder if I’m doing it again, trying to stall Dad’s deterioration, sentence by sentence.
Dad is washing dishes. It’s a task he can still manage, but I suddenly notice that he seems distressed. I go over and he says “Where’s the soap?” Indeed, the bottle of dishsoap I handed him when he was getting started is nowhere to be found – not in the sink, or the dish drainer. I even checked the garbage. I can’t imagine what happened to it, but luckily we have a new bottle, so I get that out and Dad goes on washing.
“What part of you is me?” Dad asks me. “How do you mean that?” I ask him, but he can’t explain. “You’re my Dad,” I offer, but he still wants more. “You’re my Dad, so 50% of me is you,” I tell him. “Is it the good part or the rotten part?” he wants to know. I let myself laugh. “The good part,” I tell him.
Dad fed the Kristen-the-cat blueberry pie! Normally, I would be laughing at something like this, but I’m kind of annoyed – I didn’t bake that pie for the cat (and she didn’t eat it anyway).
“Where’s kitty cat?” Dad wants to know. “Asleep on her bed,” I tell him. “Cats rest a lot,” I say. “Yes,” he says, “Cats rest a lot. That’s why they look so good. They hardly work at all.”
“Do you want some applesauce?” I ask Dad. “What’s applesauce?” he asks. “Apples, cooked and mashed up,” I tell him. “Never heard of it. A brand new thing,” he says. When I was a kid, our “cherry” tree suddenly grew green apples (my mother had misunderstood the old Italian neighbor who gave it to us as a stick). Dad and I harvested them and he taught me how to make applesauce. Now I’m teaching him about applesauce.
Reading Ruth Reichl to Dad, chapter by chapter, I am reminded of the last weeks of my mother’s life. I read Ruth Reichl to her, too, as she lay dying in the hospital, surrounded by elderly roommates who were too far gone to even notice me reading, never mind complain. At the time, I felt like the book had magical powers, like she couldn’t possibly die if there was another chapter to be read. I wonder if I’m doing it again, trying to stall Dad’s deterioration, sentence by sentence.
Dad is washing dishes. It’s a task he can still manage, but I suddenly notice that he seems distressed. I go over and he says “Where’s the soap?” Indeed, the bottle of dishsoap I handed him when he was getting started is nowhere to be found – not in the sink, or the dish drainer. I even checked the garbage. I can’t imagine what happened to it, but luckily we have a new bottle, so I get that out and Dad goes on washing.
“What part of you is me?” Dad asks me. “How do you mean that?” I ask him, but he can’t explain. “You’re my Dad,” I offer, but he still wants more. “You’re my Dad, so 50% of me is you,” I tell him. “Is it the good part or the rotten part?” he wants to know. I let myself laugh. “The good part,” I tell him.
Friday, May 22, 2009
mental tsunami
“It’s gotten so I can’t tell whether it’s real or unreal. When I go to bed, I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep. Yesterday I had all these colored circles, small and bigger, going around and around,” Dad says, as soon as I walk in the door.
I sneeze. “Have you done that all of your life?” Dad wants to know. “Yes.” “What is that called, anyway?” “Sneezing,” I tell him.
Dad and I are having the blindness conversation AGAIN and it’s driving me crazy. I’m summoning all the patience I can find, and I know that it must be horrifying to not just go blind once, but to have the experience of going blind over and over again, but I am SO tired of this conversation.
It doesn’t help that it’s hot. It was over 80 degrees today, really too hot to bake, but I had promised Dad a blueberry pie, so I turned the oven on. He has an irrational fear of getting cold – even now, he’s wearing a sweatshirt – so he won’t consider getting an air conditioner. It’s going to be a hot, repetitive summer.
Eeeeeeeek!!!!! Dad just asked me to have sex with him. He said, “do you think we can strip our clothes off and make it?” I’m telling myself “Don’t freak out. He doesn’t know who I am. It’s not his fault, it’s his brain malfunctioning. Just calmly say no and move on.” I hope he doesn’t make this a habit!
And now he’s back to asking questions about my mother. To him, that whole exchange was just a couple of sentences, not the mental tsunami it created for me.
Dad hears a horse from Central Park clopping down the street – his house is on the way to the stable. He begins musing on the lives of the carriage horses. “They don’t work hard,” he says, “they don’t run, but they probably get bored, doing the same thing over and over. That’s what gets them.”
I sneeze. “Have you done that all of your life?” Dad wants to know. “Yes.” “What is that called, anyway?” “Sneezing,” I tell him.
Dad and I are having the blindness conversation AGAIN and it’s driving me crazy. I’m summoning all the patience I can find, and I know that it must be horrifying to not just go blind once, but to have the experience of going blind over and over again, but I am SO tired of this conversation.
It doesn’t help that it’s hot. It was over 80 degrees today, really too hot to bake, but I had promised Dad a blueberry pie, so I turned the oven on. He has an irrational fear of getting cold – even now, he’s wearing a sweatshirt – so he won’t consider getting an air conditioner. It’s going to be a hot, repetitive summer.
Eeeeeeeek!!!!! Dad just asked me to have sex with him. He said, “do you think we can strip our clothes off and make it?” I’m telling myself “Don’t freak out. He doesn’t know who I am. It’s not his fault, it’s his brain malfunctioning. Just calmly say no and move on.” I hope he doesn’t make this a habit!
And now he’s back to asking questions about my mother. To him, that whole exchange was just a couple of sentences, not the mental tsunami it created for me.
Dad hears a horse from Central Park clopping down the street – his house is on the way to the stable. He begins musing on the lives of the carriage horses. “They don’t work hard,” he says, “they don’t run, but they probably get bored, doing the same thing over and over. That’s what gets them.”
Thursday, May 21, 2009
cat-farming
When I finish reading him a chapter in which Ruth Reichl describes her affair in Paris, Dad sits and looks dazed. “Where am I?” he asks. “In your apartment, at the dining room table,“ I tell him. I thought I was in Paris,” he says “Have I ever been to Paris?” “Yes, you’ve been Paris, several times,” I tell him. “You were there about ten years ago, with Andy Dupee. You took a ship across and back.” “Where was Fred Dupee?” he wonders about her husband. “Dead,” I tell him. The story of Dad and Andy goes way back to their college days, when Dad and Andy were students, and Fred was a professor. Dad was madly in love with Andy, but she married Fred, who wound up having a not-so-secret affair with Gore Vidal. After decades of no contact, Dad and Andy ran into each other after Fred’s death, only to discover that they’d both gone blind. Oddly, they went blind in complementary ways – his glaucoma left him with central vision only, and her macular degeneration left her with only peripheral vision. So, what do you do when you re-discover the love of your life and you’re both in your eighties and blind? Get on a trans-Atlantic ship, of course!
Interestingly, Dad doesn’t remember Paris, but he did remember Andy’s name and that she’d been married to Fred. Kate S. says that she was talking to him about Mohonk the other day, and he remembered the massage he had while we were there a year ago and told her “I talked to that lady until her ears fell off.” She says he also remembers the names of classical composers and will name them when they listen to music together.
“Have you ever been married?” Dad asks me. “No,” I tell him. “Are you planning on getting married?” he wants to know. “No, I’m being a cat farmer,” I say jokingly. He takes me seriously, “Can you make much of a profit, cat farming?” he asks. “I don’t do it for profit,” I say, laughing.
He takes me through a series of questions, and then says, “I didn’t know who you were, until you told me.” “How came we together?” he wants to know. “You’re my Dad,” I explain. “When I was born, they called you on the loudspeaker while you were teaching, and you got on your bicycle and came to the hospital.” This stirs something in Dad. “You were teeny-weeny,” he says, remembering my premature state. I repeat what he told me as a kid, “My head fit in your palm and my feet were in the crook of your elbow.”
“How old are you?” asks Dad. “33,” I say. “83?” he asks, as though that makes sense. “33!” I yell. “Oh,” he says.
“You know what I’ve been seeing in the last three days?” “Flowers, different sizes, and then they’re gone. I don’t think I’ve had one tonight. Yeah, they mentioned them.” The last phrase is a little baffling. “Three different sizes, big ones, little ones, littler ones,” he says.
“You know what I see when I close my eyes, round and the same thing everywhere, different sizes, yesterday and today and the day before yesterday, I never noticed them before. Am I cooking up these things?” Now, there’s a question . . .
Interestingly, Dad doesn’t remember Paris, but he did remember Andy’s name and that she’d been married to Fred. Kate S. says that she was talking to him about Mohonk the other day, and he remembered the massage he had while we were there a year ago and told her “I talked to that lady until her ears fell off.” She says he also remembers the names of classical composers and will name them when they listen to music together.
“Have you ever been married?” Dad asks me. “No,” I tell him. “Are you planning on getting married?” he wants to know. “No, I’m being a cat farmer,” I say jokingly. He takes me seriously, “Can you make much of a profit, cat farming?” he asks. “I don’t do it for profit,” I say, laughing.
He takes me through a series of questions, and then says, “I didn’t know who you were, until you told me.” “How came we together?” he wants to know. “You’re my Dad,” I explain. “When I was born, they called you on the loudspeaker while you were teaching, and you got on your bicycle and came to the hospital.” This stirs something in Dad. “You were teeny-weeny,” he says, remembering my premature state. I repeat what he told me as a kid, “My head fit in your palm and my feet were in the crook of your elbow.”
“How old are you?” asks Dad. “33,” I say. “83?” he asks, as though that makes sense. “33!” I yell. “Oh,” he says.
“You know what I’ve been seeing in the last three days?” “Flowers, different sizes, and then they’re gone. I don’t think I’ve had one tonight. Yeah, they mentioned them.” The last phrase is a little baffling. “Three different sizes, big ones, little ones, littler ones,” he says.
“You know what I see when I close my eyes, round and the same thing everywhere, different sizes, yesterday and today and the day before yesterday, I never noticed them before. Am I cooking up these things?” Now, there’s a question . . .
Monday, May 18, 2009
snakes redux
Normally when I get here in the evening, Dad has finished his dinner, but tonight he has only eaten his salad, which was sitting on the counter, and forgotten his main course, which was sitting in the microwave. I reheated it and heated my own meal. “You don’t make a sound while you’re eating,” Dad said. “I’m finished eating Dad,” I replied. “You’re a speed demon,” said the man who takes an hour to eat a meal.
One of the harder parts about Dad’s condition right now is that he’s still together enough to be aware of his deficits. Tonight, he said, “Have you noticed my speech is not very good anymore? I used to go bing bing bing bing bing . . . “
Dad and I are talking about money. “Cats?” says Dad, confused, “I never had a lot of cats.” “Not cats,” I say, “cash, like money, cash.” I can’t tell if these misunderstandings are due to hearing loss or breakdowns in the auditory processing centers of his brain. I guess it doesn’t matter that much. The net effect is the same.
“You are my favorite person, whether you kick me out or not,” Dad says. Nobody’s said anything about kicking him out. “Why would I kick you out?” I ask him. “I don’t know,” he says.
“You know what I’m afraid of?” Dad asks me. “That you’ll vanish, disappear.” “I’m not going to do that,” I reassure him. “Why would I disappear?” I ask him, wondering if he has something in particular in mind. “I don’t know,” he says, “I guess I’m scared.” “There’s something about you that gets me, I don’t know what it is, he tells me. “Maybe because you’ve known me all my life,” I suggest. “Maybe that’s it. I think somehow or other, you’re a very powerful person, you know what’s what ,” he says.
“I think the average should be 3. Everyone should have three kids,” declares Dad. “I don’t need children, because I have cats to take of,” I tell him. I have him to take care of, too, but I don’t say that aloud. “There’s a difference between kids and cats, right?” he asks. “You don’t have to buy clothes for cats,” I tell him, though that’s not the crucial difference, obviously. Dad laughs. “That would be 14 . . .” he says. “Pairs of sneakers,” I fill in. Then I correct myself, “Actually 28 because cats have 4 legs.” Dad laughs some more. He can still enjoy a bit of silliness.
“Do you know what I’m afraid of?” Dad asks again. “That you’ll leave me.” “I’m not going to leave you,” I reassure him again.
“Are you playing checkers?” Dad asks, out of the blue. I guess the sound of my fingers on the keyboard reminds him of checkers clicking against the board. “No, I’m typing,” I tell him. “Typing!” he exclaims. “ I don’t hear any noise!” “Computers type more quietly,” I explain, thinking of his manual typewriter packed away in the closet and how much force you have to use on the keys.
“I see snakes all the time, if I just think about it,” says Dad. “And they always disappear. I think I’m going crazy. Do you have anything like that, something that’s with you all the time, in a sense?” He wants to know. “No,” I tell him. “I wonder what caused this snake thing. Are you scared of snakes?” he asks. “Yes,” I tell him. “I am, too,” he says. I’m surprised. I always thought he liked snakes. “All the time that one snake curves around a corner. This has been going on for years and years and years,” he says. “You must be used to it by now,” I say. “I am, doesn’t bother me at all. It’s always the same, a snake curving around the corner.”
“I do think that my apparatus is kind of crazy,” says Dad. His apparatus? “Your brain?” I ask. “Maybe my brain, no, I don’t think so. I keep seeing certain things about, things, over and over and over and they never stop, they keep repeating themselves and I say, ‘here it comes again’ and it lasts a few minutes and then it goes.”
I get out Ruth Reichl’s “Comfort me with Apples” and read him a couple of chapters. We have it on tape, but the player’s acting crazy. Afterwards, Dad says “Ho, ho, ho,” quietly, and for no apparent reason, “not the way to go.” He says this every now and then lately, not in a meaningful way, but apparently just for the rhyme. He uses “where you at, kitty cat,” in the same way, saying it even if the cat is sitting on his foot or in another equally noticeable location.
Dad’s questioning Kate S. about the sex party thing again. Now, his primary concern is whether conversation is different when you’re clothed vs. nude! You never know where his focus is going to wind up.
One of the harder parts about Dad’s condition right now is that he’s still together enough to be aware of his deficits. Tonight, he said, “Have you noticed my speech is not very good anymore? I used to go bing bing bing bing bing . . . “
Dad and I are talking about money. “Cats?” says Dad, confused, “I never had a lot of cats.” “Not cats,” I say, “cash, like money, cash.” I can’t tell if these misunderstandings are due to hearing loss or breakdowns in the auditory processing centers of his brain. I guess it doesn’t matter that much. The net effect is the same.
“You are my favorite person, whether you kick me out or not,” Dad says. Nobody’s said anything about kicking him out. “Why would I kick you out?” I ask him. “I don’t know,” he says.
“You know what I’m afraid of?” Dad asks me. “That you’ll vanish, disappear.” “I’m not going to do that,” I reassure him. “Why would I disappear?” I ask him, wondering if he has something in particular in mind. “I don’t know,” he says, “I guess I’m scared.” “There’s something about you that gets me, I don’t know what it is, he tells me. “Maybe because you’ve known me all my life,” I suggest. “Maybe that’s it. I think somehow or other, you’re a very powerful person, you know what’s what ,” he says.
“I think the average should be 3. Everyone should have three kids,” declares Dad. “I don’t need children, because I have cats to take of,” I tell him. I have him to take care of, too, but I don’t say that aloud. “There’s a difference between kids and cats, right?” he asks. “You don’t have to buy clothes for cats,” I tell him, though that’s not the crucial difference, obviously. Dad laughs. “That would be 14 . . .” he says. “Pairs of sneakers,” I fill in. Then I correct myself, “Actually 28 because cats have 4 legs.” Dad laughs some more. He can still enjoy a bit of silliness.
“Do you know what I’m afraid of?” Dad asks again. “That you’ll leave me.” “I’m not going to leave you,” I reassure him again.
“Are you playing checkers?” Dad asks, out of the blue. I guess the sound of my fingers on the keyboard reminds him of checkers clicking against the board. “No, I’m typing,” I tell him. “Typing!” he exclaims. “ I don’t hear any noise!” “Computers type more quietly,” I explain, thinking of his manual typewriter packed away in the closet and how much force you have to use on the keys.
“I see snakes all the time, if I just think about it,” says Dad. “And they always disappear. I think I’m going crazy. Do you have anything like that, something that’s with you all the time, in a sense?” He wants to know. “No,” I tell him. “I wonder what caused this snake thing. Are you scared of snakes?” he asks. “Yes,” I tell him. “I am, too,” he says. I’m surprised. I always thought he liked snakes. “All the time that one snake curves around a corner. This has been going on for years and years and years,” he says. “You must be used to it by now,” I say. “I am, doesn’t bother me at all. It’s always the same, a snake curving around the corner.”
“I do think that my apparatus is kind of crazy,” says Dad. His apparatus? “Your brain?” I ask. “Maybe my brain, no, I don’t think so. I keep seeing certain things about, things, over and over and over and they never stop, they keep repeating themselves and I say, ‘here it comes again’ and it lasts a few minutes and then it goes.”
I get out Ruth Reichl’s “Comfort me with Apples” and read him a couple of chapters. We have it on tape, but the player’s acting crazy. Afterwards, Dad says “Ho, ho, ho,” quietly, and for no apparent reason, “not the way to go.” He says this every now and then lately, not in a meaningful way, but apparently just for the rhyme. He uses “where you at, kitty cat,” in the same way, saying it even if the cat is sitting on his foot or in another equally noticeable location.
Dad’s questioning Kate S. about the sex party thing again. Now, his primary concern is whether conversation is different when you’re clothed vs. nude! You never know where his focus is going to wind up.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
is marie still alive?
Eating an English muffin for breakfast, I find myself thinking of Dad and missing the English muffins he used to make for me. He used an ancient toaster, a filigreed metal thing that opened from the sides and had no pop-up mechanism so you really had to pay attention. I don’t know know what it was about that toaster, but it made the best English muffins. We had to put it on high shelf a few years ago because Dad would forget that it was on and let things burn. If I want to make him toast, I just use the broiler now.
“Who’s singing?” Dad asks, listening to the cd I put on. “Sounds familiar.” “Pete Seeger,” I shout from the kitchen. “Pete Seeger,” he exclaimed. “How old is he?” “90!” I yelled back. “He’s older than me! And he’s singing,” said Dad, clapping his hands in approval.
Dad has trouble “catching” round items – like cherry tomatoes and olives – with his fork, despite my effort to get him to stab, so I often wind up helping him by stabbing things and then handing him the fork. Tonight, I am eating a popsicle with one hand and stabbing his salad with the other – being ambidextrous has never been so useful!
“Dad, I’m going crazy,” I wail. He’s looking at me in puzzled surprise. “I just threw my keys in the garbage,” I tell him. “You ARE going crazy,” he says. ”Did you get them out?”
Dad is on his I-didn’t-do-anything-with-my-life schpiel again. “You raised me.” I tell him. “I don’t know if you’d be any different, but I certainly poured a lot of things into you,” he says. I have an image of the top of my head open, like Data on Star Trek, with Dad pouring various substances in. “I had a good time with you.”
Dad wants to knock the ashes off his cigar, so I put the ashtray in front of him. He gropes around and finds the butt of yesterday’s cigar. “That’s yesterday’s cigar,” I tell him. “Where’s today’s cigar?” he asks. “In your hand,” I tell him. “What a brilliant person you are,” He says.
“Is Marie still alive?” He asks. I’m surprised, but I answer, “Of course, she’ll be here tomorrow.” “What does she do for a living?” he wants to know. “She works for you, Dad.” I remind him. “I’m getting pretty stupid,” he says.
Question of the week: "Does anyone know when they stop being a kid and start being people?"
“Who’s singing?” Dad asks, listening to the cd I put on. “Sounds familiar.” “Pete Seeger,” I shout from the kitchen. “Pete Seeger,” he exclaimed. “How old is he?” “90!” I yelled back. “He’s older than me! And he’s singing,” said Dad, clapping his hands in approval.
Dad has trouble “catching” round items – like cherry tomatoes and olives – with his fork, despite my effort to get him to stab, so I often wind up helping him by stabbing things and then handing him the fork. Tonight, I am eating a popsicle with one hand and stabbing his salad with the other – being ambidextrous has never been so useful!
“Dad, I’m going crazy,” I wail. He’s looking at me in puzzled surprise. “I just threw my keys in the garbage,” I tell him. “You ARE going crazy,” he says. ”Did you get them out?”
Dad is on his I-didn’t-do-anything-with-my-life schpiel again. “You raised me.” I tell him. “I don’t know if you’d be any different, but I certainly poured a lot of things into you,” he says. I have an image of the top of my head open, like Data on Star Trek, with Dad pouring various substances in. “I had a good time with you.”
Dad wants to knock the ashes off his cigar, so I put the ashtray in front of him. He gropes around and finds the butt of yesterday’s cigar. “That’s yesterday’s cigar,” I tell him. “Where’s today’s cigar?” he asks. “In your hand,” I tell him. “What a brilliant person you are,” He says.
“Is Marie still alive?” He asks. I’m surprised, but I answer, “Of course, she’ll be here tomorrow.” “What does she do for a living?” he wants to know. “She works for you, Dad.” I remind him. “I’m getting pretty stupid,” he says.
Question of the week: "Does anyone know when they stop being a kid and start being people?"
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Dizzy water
I pass a street fair on 9th ave. on my way to Dad’s and stop and buy a funnel cake. I bring it back to Dad’s and split it with him. After eating my share, I feel a little queasy from the grease and sugar, but Dad, with his iron stomach, pronounces it “delicious” and is ready for his dinner right on schedule.
Dad has heard about sex parties and he’s full of questions, which he asks Kate S. on the phone and then asks me for another hour after she gets off. His primary concern was how people keep track of their clothes! The more we told him, the more fascinated he got. “For heaven’s sake, I am amazed, I’m speechless. Things have been going on that I’ve never heard of!” he exclaimed, repeatedly. Finally, he concluded, “I’m a little too old to go, I think,” much to my relief. The idea of having to escort my elderly Dad to a sex party is more than I can handle.
Dad peers into his cup. “What is this?” he wants to know. “Selzer and apple juice,” I tell him. “Selzer? Have I ever had selzer?” he wants to know. “Sure, Dad, you know, it’s fizzy water,” I say, resorting to the words my mother used when I was too young to pronounce selzer. “Dizzy water?” Dad asks, looking worried. “Fizzy!!!” I shout, probably puzzling a few neighbors. They should be getting used to bizarre outbursts from this apartment by now.
“What did I do the first 40 years? I can’t remember any of it.” He was 52 when I was born, so I have to rely on stories I’ve heard. “You went to several colleges,” I tell him. “But I left out most of the . . . what do you call it . . . I don’t know.” This, I can’t help with. It’s too vague for me to have any idea what he might be getting at.
“Rats!” I say, dangling a broken hair band from my hand. “What happened?” asks Dad. “My hair band broke,” I tell him. “I don’t imagine I have any,” he says, patting his own bald head.
This is the first Saturday that I haven’t had to dash out early to get to the shelter. It feels very long, especially when Dad starts repeating himself about his blindness. I’m worried about tomorrow. The plan was to have our “family dinner” on Friday night instead of Sunday so that I can go to the New Alternatives group tomorrow. Logically, it makes sense, but I’m worried about confusing Dad. I’ll come stay with him for a while tomorrow afternoon, and make sure he eats, but then I have to leave at 6pm. There’s just never enough time.
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” asks Dad. I can scarcely imagine. “How these two things hanging out from the top don’t get squashed. You lie on them, but they don’t get squashed.” He’s pulling on his ears. “Ears,” I tell him, “are made of cartilage, the same stuff as your nose, and it’s pretty tough.
Dad has heard about sex parties and he’s full of questions, which he asks Kate S. on the phone and then asks me for another hour after she gets off. His primary concern was how people keep track of their clothes! The more we told him, the more fascinated he got. “For heaven’s sake, I am amazed, I’m speechless. Things have been going on that I’ve never heard of!” he exclaimed, repeatedly. Finally, he concluded, “I’m a little too old to go, I think,” much to my relief. The idea of having to escort my elderly Dad to a sex party is more than I can handle.
Dad peers into his cup. “What is this?” he wants to know. “Selzer and apple juice,” I tell him. “Selzer? Have I ever had selzer?” he wants to know. “Sure, Dad, you know, it’s fizzy water,” I say, resorting to the words my mother used when I was too young to pronounce selzer. “Dizzy water?” Dad asks, looking worried. “Fizzy!!!” I shout, probably puzzling a few neighbors. They should be getting used to bizarre outbursts from this apartment by now.
“What did I do the first 40 years? I can’t remember any of it.” He was 52 when I was born, so I have to rely on stories I’ve heard. “You went to several colleges,” I tell him. “But I left out most of the . . . what do you call it . . . I don’t know.” This, I can’t help with. It’s too vague for me to have any idea what he might be getting at.
“Rats!” I say, dangling a broken hair band from my hand. “What happened?” asks Dad. “My hair band broke,” I tell him. “I don’t imagine I have any,” he says, patting his own bald head.
This is the first Saturday that I haven’t had to dash out early to get to the shelter. It feels very long, especially when Dad starts repeating himself about his blindness. I’m worried about tomorrow. The plan was to have our “family dinner” on Friday night instead of Sunday so that I can go to the New Alternatives group tomorrow. Logically, it makes sense, but I’m worried about confusing Dad. I’ll come stay with him for a while tomorrow afternoon, and make sure he eats, but then I have to leave at 6pm. There’s just never enough time.
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” asks Dad. I can scarcely imagine. “How these two things hanging out from the top don’t get squashed. You lie on them, but they don’t get squashed.” He’s pulling on his ears. “Ears,” I tell him, “are made of cartilage, the same stuff as your nose, and it’s pretty tough.
Friday, May 15, 2009
where's Obama?
Dad’s still stuck on the idea that Brianna is a cat. Kate S. says that on Wednesday he asked her how old Brianna was and when she told him 29, he protested, “but cats don’t live that long!”
Kate S and Brianna and I went to see the Star Trek movie today and then came to Dad’s house for our first Friday night dinner. We’ve finished and dessert – an orange marmalade tart – is cooling. Dad is impatient, but when he hears it’s just out of the oven, he says, “I wouldn’t want to burn my ass off!”
“What are you doing, Dad?” I ask. “Growling,” he says, and resumes growling. “Oh.” I say. That’s a conversation stopper.
I’m washing dishes and Kate S. is drying when Dad, who has been quiet, asks “Where’s Obama?” He’s looking around. Brianna is playing with the computer and answers him absently, “in Washington.”
I stayed after they left – lately I’ve been waiting until he’s asleep, since leaving him awake and alone makes me feel guilty. Dad sat down next to me on the couch – a big change since he never sat on the old one – and talked for a whole hour. “When I die, I won’t remember a damn thing,” he says.
“I’ve become very fond of you, somehow, I don’t know why,” Dad tells me. “That’s because I’m your kid.” I say. I tell him the story of my birth, how I was premature and unexpected, and he was teaching and had to be paged over the loudspeaker and got to the hospital too late to witness my actual birth. “When Mom brought me home, she brought me to this apartment,” I conclude. “Here?” he asks. “This apartment.” “But I didn’t live here?” I feel like I’m reading to a little kid who asks a lot of questions. “Yes, you lived here,” I tell him. “So I lived here, she lived here, you lived here and a baby lived here,” he concludes. “I WAS the baby,” I tell him.
“I’m a completely complicated character, I guess” says Dad. Then he asks me: “did you ever have kids?” “No, I’m only 33,” I tell him. “You could have had 15 kids by then if you wanted them,” he says. “I thought you were a busy chaser but keeping it all quiet.” I’m totally startled by this idea. “Who would I be chasing?” I ask him. “I don’t know, but some people just run around, they don’t care who they run around with,” he says.
“What would happen if we started going together, started fucking?” Dad asks me. I keep my voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “That would be a problem, because I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “You know,” he says, “sex isn’t anywhere near what we think it is, it’s make believe, phony.” He gazes into an empty space, “Hello, kitty cat,” he says. “I’m imagining kitty cat” he says to me.
At the end of the evening, as he grows tired, he begins to hallucinate more. First it was just some lights, but then he said, “do you know what I’m looking at? I’m looking at an imaginary four year old kid.” “A boy or a girl?” I asked, intrigued. “A girl,” he said, “and now it’s vanished. Do you have things like that?” “No,” I told him, “you have an active imagination.” Later, as he made his way across the room, he said it again, “You know what I see?” “What?” I asked, having no idea. “A whole lot of green fold up chairs.” Interestingly, he knows these things are not real, but he is not distressed about it. If I was seeing things I knew weren’t real, I’d be on Dr. Brunswick’s doorstep freaking out, but Dad just seems to think this is how it’s supposed to be.
On his way to bed, Dad hugs me goodnight. “You’re sweating,” he says. “It’s warm in here,” I tell him, not mentioning that the oven’s been on. “That’s why you’re wearing shorts.” Marie switched him to shorts after his bath this afternoon. “Where did these come from?” he wants to know. I’ve never seen them before, either. “I think Marie got them for you.” I tell him. “She wanted to see me in shorts,” he says, knowingly. It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
Kate S and Brianna and I went to see the Star Trek movie today and then came to Dad’s house for our first Friday night dinner. We’ve finished and dessert – an orange marmalade tart – is cooling. Dad is impatient, but when he hears it’s just out of the oven, he says, “I wouldn’t want to burn my ass off!”
“What are you doing, Dad?” I ask. “Growling,” he says, and resumes growling. “Oh.” I say. That’s a conversation stopper.
I’m washing dishes and Kate S. is drying when Dad, who has been quiet, asks “Where’s Obama?” He’s looking around. Brianna is playing with the computer and answers him absently, “in Washington.”
I stayed after they left – lately I’ve been waiting until he’s asleep, since leaving him awake and alone makes me feel guilty. Dad sat down next to me on the couch – a big change since he never sat on the old one – and talked for a whole hour. “When I die, I won’t remember a damn thing,” he says.
“I’ve become very fond of you, somehow, I don’t know why,” Dad tells me. “That’s because I’m your kid.” I say. I tell him the story of my birth, how I was premature and unexpected, and he was teaching and had to be paged over the loudspeaker and got to the hospital too late to witness my actual birth. “When Mom brought me home, she brought me to this apartment,” I conclude. “Here?” he asks. “This apartment.” “But I didn’t live here?” I feel like I’m reading to a little kid who asks a lot of questions. “Yes, you lived here,” I tell him. “So I lived here, she lived here, you lived here and a baby lived here,” he concludes. “I WAS the baby,” I tell him.
“I’m a completely complicated character, I guess” says Dad. Then he asks me: “did you ever have kids?” “No, I’m only 33,” I tell him. “You could have had 15 kids by then if you wanted them,” he says. “I thought you were a busy chaser but keeping it all quiet.” I’m totally startled by this idea. “Who would I be chasing?” I ask him. “I don’t know, but some people just run around, they don’t care who they run around with,” he says.
“What would happen if we started going together, started fucking?” Dad asks me. I keep my voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “That would be a problem, because I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “You know,” he says, “sex isn’t anywhere near what we think it is, it’s make believe, phony.” He gazes into an empty space, “Hello, kitty cat,” he says. “I’m imagining kitty cat” he says to me.
At the end of the evening, as he grows tired, he begins to hallucinate more. First it was just some lights, but then he said, “do you know what I’m looking at? I’m looking at an imaginary four year old kid.” “A boy or a girl?” I asked, intrigued. “A girl,” he said, “and now it’s vanished. Do you have things like that?” “No,” I told him, “you have an active imagination.” Later, as he made his way across the room, he said it again, “You know what I see?” “What?” I asked, having no idea. “A whole lot of green fold up chairs.” Interestingly, he knows these things are not real, but he is not distressed about it. If I was seeing things I knew weren’t real, I’d be on Dr. Brunswick’s doorstep freaking out, but Dad just seems to think this is how it’s supposed to be.
On his way to bed, Dad hugs me goodnight. “You’re sweating,” he says. “It’s warm in here,” I tell him, not mentioning that the oven’s been on. “That’s why you’re wearing shorts.” Marie switched him to shorts after his bath this afternoon. “Where did these come from?” he wants to know. I’ve never seen them before, either. “I think Marie got them for you.” I tell him. “She wanted to see me in shorts,” he says, knowingly. It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
across the ocean
Kate S. visited Dad last night while I went to work on my sculptures, and she said he was doing really well. Apparently he asked her when the air-cast was coming off her leg, and when she said four weeks, he said “that’s before we go to Mohonk,” a pretty good piece of remembering (both that we were going and when) and making connections. Then he asked her if he was invited to Mohonk! When told him that of course he was, he said “I thought it might be a cozy, cozy, cozy girly thing.” When she told him that we wouldn’t go without him like that, he pointed out that he had been on many cruises without us! She told him Mohonk was “a family trip” and he said, “and you’re my family.” A very hallmark moment.
The long-awaited couch arrived today – at 7:30am!!! I went to great lengths and managed to get here about 10 minutes ahead of the couch, while Dad was still asleep. The doorbell woke him up and he stumbled out of his room, half-asleep and sans pants, thinking that the doorbell was a fire alarm. I guess he went through too many fire drills during his teaching years. Then, upon seeing me, at a totally unexpected hour (I wouldn’t even expect to see me someplace that early!), he thought that he was dead and that we were in heaven! I managed to explain that it was just the couch being delivered but he still kept asking, over and over, “how did YOU come to be here?” The idea that the couch people had called me and that I had come just for this purpose totally eluded him. Eventually, he went back to bed, after calling the whole thing, “the surprise of my life.”
He slept for about three more hours, then woke up when Marie arrived at 10:30am, but was totally confused to find us both here and kept asking us who was who. He said that one person was fine, but two people were too much to figure out!
When I got back here this evening, Dad was still a little discombobulated and tired. I demonstrated the sofabed for him, pulling the mattress out and then lying down. He joined me and for a while we just lay there like two beached seals. Once I put the couch back together, he sprawled on it with his legs stretched out in front of him. He said, “Tell me, do you miss five stories?” I was pretty baffled, but I just went with the “miss” part, and thought, what would I be missing right now? The answer, of course, was the old job, so I asked him “are you asking me if I miss my old job?” “Yes!” he answered. “No, not really,” I told him. “Maybe it’s too soon.”
We listened to a few pieces from the NY Times video selection, including a piece about Bronx housing court that was so depressing it left us both totally dejected. The next one, a piece about multi-drug resistant TB in Pakistan, wasn’t much better. Wanting to leave Dad with pleasant thoughts before he went to bed, I went to the travel section, and played a piece about traveling to Europe with a baby. The sound of the baby crying made Dad smile and I guess thoughts of Europe made their way into his sleepy, drifting brain, because after I shut off the computer, and started getting things ready for him to go to bed, he asked me, “What do we take across the ocean?”
I hope he has a good trip.
The long-awaited couch arrived today – at 7:30am!!! I went to great lengths and managed to get here about 10 minutes ahead of the couch, while Dad was still asleep. The doorbell woke him up and he stumbled out of his room, half-asleep and sans pants, thinking that the doorbell was a fire alarm. I guess he went through too many fire drills during his teaching years. Then, upon seeing me, at a totally unexpected hour (I wouldn’t even expect to see me someplace that early!), he thought that he was dead and that we were in heaven! I managed to explain that it was just the couch being delivered but he still kept asking, over and over, “how did YOU come to be here?” The idea that the couch people had called me and that I had come just for this purpose totally eluded him. Eventually, he went back to bed, after calling the whole thing, “the surprise of my life.”
He slept for about three more hours, then woke up when Marie arrived at 10:30am, but was totally confused to find us both here and kept asking us who was who. He said that one person was fine, but two people were too much to figure out!
When I got back here this evening, Dad was still a little discombobulated and tired. I demonstrated the sofabed for him, pulling the mattress out and then lying down. He joined me and for a while we just lay there like two beached seals. Once I put the couch back together, he sprawled on it with his legs stretched out in front of him. He said, “Tell me, do you miss five stories?” I was pretty baffled, but I just went with the “miss” part, and thought, what would I be missing right now? The answer, of course, was the old job, so I asked him “are you asking me if I miss my old job?” “Yes!” he answered. “No, not really,” I told him. “Maybe it’s too soon.”
We listened to a few pieces from the NY Times video selection, including a piece about Bronx housing court that was so depressing it left us both totally dejected. The next one, a piece about multi-drug resistant TB in Pakistan, wasn’t much better. Wanting to leave Dad with pleasant thoughts before he went to bed, I went to the travel section, and played a piece about traveling to Europe with a baby. The sound of the baby crying made Dad smile and I guess thoughts of Europe made their way into his sleepy, drifting brain, because after I shut off the computer, and started getting things ready for him to go to bed, he asked me, “What do we take across the ocean?”
I hope he has a good trip.
Monday, May 11, 2009
meltdown
I was just starting to catch up on all the stuff that got postponed while I was working – housework, errands, etc when Marie called. “Talk to your father,” she said, and put him on the phone. I could tell from his voice that he was very upset. “She’s trying to poison me,” he said. “She put something in my tea and now I can’t see anything.” I tried to talk him out of it, but he was too distressed to hear anything I had to say. Finally, I told him, “I’ll be there in two hours.” “Five minutes?” he asked. “No, two hours,” I told him. “Five hours?” he asked. “No, TWO hours.” “Two hours,” he repeated. Then Marie got on the phone. “He’s yelling at me,” she said, “and he won’t let me touch the cup. He’s holding it as evidence.” “Hang in there,” I said, “I’ll be there in two hours.” I wanted to come sooner, but I had to go to the pharmacy to get my meds – if I don’t take my medication, neither Dad nor I will be functioning.
Marie was still here when I arrived. Dad was sitting at the counter still clutching the suspect tea, but there was no shouting, and things seemed calmer. I went and stood close to him, and said “what’s going on?” and he offered me the mug. “It smells like tea,” I said. “It is just tea,” he said, ruefully, having come to his senses. As Marie left, he held out his hand for her to shake. “Let’s just drop it,” he said.
Later, he said, “Maybe I’m falling apart.” “I think your brain isn’t working as well as usual,” I said, gently. He agreed; “Me, too I’m cutting off pieces of it, I’m eliminating some of it.” “My brain is really blaugh blaugh,” he continued, “I don’t know where it is. I think that’s the trouble. My brain doesn’t function anymore. It’s the first time anything like this ever happened to me. I hope it doesn’t happen again. I didn’t think anything like this would happen to me, I just didn’t think anything like this would happen to me.”
Once he was settled in his rocking chair with some fresh tea, he started musing, on, of all things, his gender identity; “One of my main problems is I never really decided whether I was female or male. I never really had much of a male or female life. Do you know what I’m talking about?” My brain is boggled, as Dad would say. If he’s talking about what it sounds like he’s talking about, I certainly know what he means – but, but, this isn’t a client talking about their gender issues, it’s my DAD.
Unaware of my silent processing, Dad continued; “My whole life, my whole experience is kind of shaky because I was never certain that I was a real, real male, but I wouldn’t give in, ever. I never would – I was not really male and I was not really female. Very few people have that condition, but with me it was just a little edgy edgy. I wanted to be male, but there was a lot of female in me, I think, so I was male all my life, but not strongly male. So, there I was, 40% female and 60% male, maybe. There are a lot of people who pretend they’re male, but they’re really not. They really act it. In some ways, I think I was very unfortunate because I teetered back and forth. I really wasn’t super strong, super male.”
Marie was still here when I arrived. Dad was sitting at the counter still clutching the suspect tea, but there was no shouting, and things seemed calmer. I went and stood close to him, and said “what’s going on?” and he offered me the mug. “It smells like tea,” I said. “It is just tea,” he said, ruefully, having come to his senses. As Marie left, he held out his hand for her to shake. “Let’s just drop it,” he said.
Later, he said, “Maybe I’m falling apart.” “I think your brain isn’t working as well as usual,” I said, gently. He agreed; “Me, too I’m cutting off pieces of it, I’m eliminating some of it.” “My brain is really blaugh blaugh,” he continued, “I don’t know where it is. I think that’s the trouble. My brain doesn’t function anymore. It’s the first time anything like this ever happened to me. I hope it doesn’t happen again. I didn’t think anything like this would happen to me, I just didn’t think anything like this would happen to me.”
Once he was settled in his rocking chair with some fresh tea, he started musing, on, of all things, his gender identity; “One of my main problems is I never really decided whether I was female or male. I never really had much of a male or female life. Do you know what I’m talking about?” My brain is boggled, as Dad would say. If he’s talking about what it sounds like he’s talking about, I certainly know what he means – but, but, this isn’t a client talking about their gender issues, it’s my DAD.
Unaware of my silent processing, Dad continued; “My whole life, my whole experience is kind of shaky because I was never certain that I was a real, real male, but I wouldn’t give in, ever. I never would – I was not really male and I was not really female. Very few people have that condition, but with me it was just a little edgy edgy. I wanted to be male, but there was a lot of female in me, I think, so I was male all my life, but not strongly male. So, there I was, 40% female and 60% male, maybe. There are a lot of people who pretend they’re male, but they’re really not. They really act it. In some ways, I think I was very unfortunate because I teetered back and forth. I really wasn’t super strong, super male.”
Sunday, May 10, 2009
all but the nose hairs
Despite his memory problems – whoa, I almost wrote my memory problems! – Dad remembers that I’m leaving my job. He told Marie-the-housekeeper I was quitting and, last night, as I was heading out the door for my last shift, he said “Off to the final round-up.” I had an image of myself as a cowgirl, wrangling LGBT youth. Not far off, actually. They don’t like hay, though.
To my surprise, Dad can eat corn on the cob. I made him put his seldom-worn teeth in first. He really liked it and devoured two, plus vegetarian chili with cheddar cheese and saltines and a bowl of salad. The real eating didn’t happen until later, when we got to dessert. I made a tart with chocolate on the bottom and caramel custard on top, thinking of Kate S., our big caramel fan. But Dad went crazy over it, gobbling it from a giant spoon and getting chocolate on beard, mustache, all but the nose hairs. He wound up having three slices, making ecstatic noises the whole time.
While we’re still sitting at the table, Dad asks “Have either of you eaten anything alive?” “You mean, while it’s still alive?” I ask him. And then answer, “No, that would be gross, Dad.” “I think it would be interesting,” he says. He proceeds to imitate himself eating something alive, pantomiming shoving something in his mouth and making distressed-animal sounds “eek, yikes, yow, ‘lemme out of here!!’” Kate S and I laugh hysterically. “You’re silly, Dad,” I tell him.
Dad says: “I can’t stand for more than 5 minutes. Well, maybe 15 minutes. Then it’s AAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH!”
“I’m gonna shut up,” Dad says. “But Dad, you’re funnier when you talk,” I tell him. “I’ll say unwanted things pretty soon.”
Madame says Dad drinks all the time (not booze but tea, lemonade, juice, you name it). It’s not clear whether he’s actually thirsty or just forgets that he’s already had plenty to drink. Kate S. says he might be bored. I can’t help thinking that excessive thirst is a symptom of diabetes – that’s how you tell when a cat develops diabetes.
“Kate has 15 cats,” Dad says. “14,” we correct him. “Well, my goodness,” he says, “14 instead of 15, well, well, well.”
To my surprise, Dad can eat corn on the cob. I made him put his seldom-worn teeth in first. He really liked it and devoured two, plus vegetarian chili with cheddar cheese and saltines and a bowl of salad. The real eating didn’t happen until later, when we got to dessert. I made a tart with chocolate on the bottom and caramel custard on top, thinking of Kate S., our big caramel fan. But Dad went crazy over it, gobbling it from a giant spoon and getting chocolate on beard, mustache, all but the nose hairs. He wound up having three slices, making ecstatic noises the whole time.
While we’re still sitting at the table, Dad asks “Have either of you eaten anything alive?” “You mean, while it’s still alive?” I ask him. And then answer, “No, that would be gross, Dad.” “I think it would be interesting,” he says. He proceeds to imitate himself eating something alive, pantomiming shoving something in his mouth and making distressed-animal sounds “eek, yikes, yow, ‘lemme out of here!!’” Kate S and I laugh hysterically. “You’re silly, Dad,” I tell him.
Dad says: “I can’t stand for more than 5 minutes. Well, maybe 15 minutes. Then it’s AAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH!”
“I’m gonna shut up,” Dad says. “But Dad, you’re funnier when you talk,” I tell him. “I’ll say unwanted things pretty soon.”
Madame says Dad drinks all the time (not booze but tea, lemonade, juice, you name it). It’s not clear whether he’s actually thirsty or just forgets that he’s already had plenty to drink. Kate S. says he might be bored. I can’t help thinking that excessive thirst is a symptom of diabetes – that’s how you tell when a cat develops diabetes.
“Kate has 15 cats,” Dad says. “14,” we correct him. “Well, my goodness,” he says, “14 instead of 15, well, well, well.”
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Heading out of the house today, I ran into my neighbor, Mrs. Hickey, who is in her 70s. When I tell her I’m going to see Dad, she asks how he is. I don’t want to get into a long story, so I just tell her he’s having difficulty because of his blindness. This strikes a chord with her because her husband has become blind during the past few years. She starts talking to me, caregiver to caregiver, about how she feels tied down because she has to be back at a certain time to fix her husband’s lunch. I certainly know how she’s feeling, and then I feel weird because I seem to have more in common with this elderly Irish lady than some of my own peers.
“Last night I had a weird, weird, weird dream,” Dad tells me. “It woke me up. I didn’t have any money at all and they were banging on the door, ‘get out of here!’ and then the banging stopped and I woke up and sat up straight. The bedclothes were all tangled up, it was a mess.” It’s strange, I think, that he can’t remember things in his waking life, but he can remember dreams.
I make Dad breakfast, because he doesn’t know whether he’s eaten or not, but he says he’s hungry. Dad pauses mid-omelette and waves his left arm through the air from top to bottom and back again, several times. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “I was just finding out where I was,” he answers.
Brianna has acquired a new Dad-name – this time he called her “a lively cat.”
I put Dad on the phone with Kate S. “I just came from the shithouse,” he tells her.
Dad’s burping again, and today I know he hasn’t had any soda. I wonder if I should take him to the doctor.
“Last night I had a weird, weird, weird dream,” Dad tells me. “It woke me up. I didn’t have any money at all and they were banging on the door, ‘get out of here!’ and then the banging stopped and I woke up and sat up straight. The bedclothes were all tangled up, it was a mess.” It’s strange, I think, that he can’t remember things in his waking life, but he can remember dreams.
I make Dad breakfast, because he doesn’t know whether he’s eaten or not, but he says he’s hungry. Dad pauses mid-omelette and waves his left arm through the air from top to bottom and back again, several times. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “I was just finding out where I was,” he answers.
Brianna has acquired a new Dad-name – this time he called her “a lively cat.”
I put Dad on the phone with Kate S. “I just came from the shithouse,” he tells her.
Dad’s burping again, and today I know he hasn’t had any soda. I wonder if I should take him to the doctor.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Places in between I went
Somehow, this week Dad seems older, all of a sudden. He’s having more trouble moving around, bending down to get the cat bowl from the floor, etc. He’s noticed it, too – out of the blue tonight he said, “I haven’t fallen down yet but I’m going to sooner or later.”
He’s also having more trouble expressing himself verbally. I used to be able to figure out what he meant, but now I can’t always tell. Dad says, “You know what’s the matter with me now? I can’t think of the right word. I can think of all kinds of words but I can’t get the right one. “ He seems to be better at understanding, but it’s a little hard to tell sometimes. I’m starting to get that feeling that we all had during the “bad years” of the AIDS epidemic – that desperate, try-anything, please-let-something-work feeling.
Jackson showed me a BBC article about a promising Alzheimer’s treatment, but it’s still very early in the development process. Even though this stuff is unproven in terms of effectiveness, if I could get my hands on some, I would give it to Dad myself.
A friend helped me move the sculptures that were left at MCC after the art show to Dad’s house. After he left, I unpacked the boxes, putting the sculptures, one by one, in front of Dad for him to “see” with his hands. I guided his fingers over each piece, explaining what he was feeling. He has always been my best audience.
Dad is watching the cat eat. He says, “I think she leaves a little bit for some arcane reason. She thinks that if it’s all gone then, heavens, wow! But if you leave a little bit it’s OK.”
“That’s interesting,” says Dad, as though someone has just said something to him, though nobody did “what holds all the flesh in the right place?” he asks, patting his cheek. “Well, your skin helps,” I say, “and you have muscles and things called ligaments that help hold it all together.”
“Do you still have plans about going south?” Dad asks. “I never had plans to go south,” I tell him. “I thought you did”, he says. “I’m not going to go away and leave you,” I tell him. “I would very very very be upset if you went away for two months, oh, my god,” he says. Dad is talking to me, but I have no idea what he means. “Piles of islands, he says “how many different people own part of it?” Then suddenly he makes sense. “ I’m glad you’re staying around, I thought maybe you were going away for six months.” “You’re the one who liked to travel,” I tell him. He agrees; “I did do a lot of traveling. Places in between I went. I always liked to travel.”
He’s also having more trouble expressing himself verbally. I used to be able to figure out what he meant, but now I can’t always tell. Dad says, “You know what’s the matter with me now? I can’t think of the right word. I can think of all kinds of words but I can’t get the right one. “ He seems to be better at understanding, but it’s a little hard to tell sometimes. I’m starting to get that feeling that we all had during the “bad years” of the AIDS epidemic – that desperate, try-anything, please-let-something-work feeling.
Jackson showed me a BBC article about a promising Alzheimer’s treatment, but it’s still very early in the development process. Even though this stuff is unproven in terms of effectiveness, if I could get my hands on some, I would give it to Dad myself.
A friend helped me move the sculptures that were left at MCC after the art show to Dad’s house. After he left, I unpacked the boxes, putting the sculptures, one by one, in front of Dad for him to “see” with his hands. I guided his fingers over each piece, explaining what he was feeling. He has always been my best audience.
Dad is watching the cat eat. He says, “I think she leaves a little bit for some arcane reason. She thinks that if it’s all gone then, heavens, wow! But if you leave a little bit it’s OK.”
“That’s interesting,” says Dad, as though someone has just said something to him, though nobody did “what holds all the flesh in the right place?” he asks, patting his cheek. “Well, your skin helps,” I say, “and you have muscles and things called ligaments that help hold it all together.”
“Do you still have plans about going south?” Dad asks. “I never had plans to go south,” I tell him. “I thought you did”, he says. “I’m not going to go away and leave you,” I tell him. “I would very very very be upset if you went away for two months, oh, my god,” he says. Dad is talking to me, but I have no idea what he means. “Piles of islands, he says “how many different people own part of it?” Then suddenly he makes sense. “ I’m glad you’re staying around, I thought maybe you were going away for six months.” “You’re the one who liked to travel,” I tell him. He agrees; “I did do a lot of traveling. Places in between I went. I always liked to travel.”
Sunday, May 3, 2009
what is a gerbil anyway?
Dad’s in interview mode again. “Did you have any other boys or girls in your outfit?” he asks. “Do you mean did I have any brothers or sisters?” I ask. “Yes.” “No.”
Next question’s a familiar one: “Is your mom still alive?” “No.” “What happened to her?” “She died when she was 56, she had breast cancer.” “There seems to be quite a lot of breast cancer, mostly in women it seems.” “That’s because women are the ones with breasts, Dad.”
“Were you born and brought up in New York?” “In Brooklyn.” “Oh, boy, you’re a real New Yorker. I was born in . . . “ “Essex,” I fill in the blank. “But I don’t remember it. Do you remember much of it?” “Some of it.” “Did anything really exciting happen?” “I got bit by a gerbil.” “Was it poisonous?” “No, but I had to go to the hospital and get a shot.” “What is a gerbil, anyway?” “Kind of like a mouse. It was a pet.” “I think people who are born in New York are a lot smarter and ready to go than other people, way out West.”
“What did your Mom do?” “She typed. She typed and transcribed. “ “And you stayed with her until she died.” “You used to help Mom with her work.” “Were you around then, too?” “Yeah, I helped, too.” “So that’s how we got to know each other.” Uh-oh. “We knew each other before that because you’re my Dad and you were there when I was born.” “She had a hard life or a good life or what?” “I think she had a pretty hard life.”
“I don’t remember anything as a matter of fact. I don’t remember anything anything anything. I might as well be a lone person in the wilderness.”
I start filling in memories for him. “You used to take me around the city in my stroller, and you built me a giant playhouse out of cardboard and painted it green, and you used to buy me shoes in the Macy’s shoe department.” “And I paid for them,” says Dad. “You paid for braces for my teeth and private school tuition, too. You came to my college graduation and then when I moved to Providence and was broke from working at a gay youth center, you came on the Amtrak train and brought a giant cheese in red wax.”
“15 minutes and I found a whole life,” says Dad. “Jesus motherfucking Christ, we belong to each other.” Back to the questions; “Where were you the last ten years?” “Living in Brooklyn. You used to come every week for dinner.” “Who made the dinner?” he wants to know. “Me! I like to cook,” I say. “Hey! I know that! You love to cook! You never hesitated one bit.”
“How did we happen to get together again?” “Again?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “I don’t remember you before the last year.” “I was here the whole time,” I tell him.
“Oh, oh, oh, you have made a life for me, I love it. Jesus Christ, how can I forget all these things? My whole life is forgotten.”
Dad starts with the questions again: “And you went through college in three years and then what did you do?” “I moved to Providence, Rhode Island and took classes.”
“How did I get into this?” “Well, I think you were friends with my mother.” “Yes?” “And then she got pregnant and the man she got pregnant with left, and you were helping out.” “I have a useless brain.”
“Then I was pretty old when I was doing things with you.” “You were 52 when I was born.” “You used to play with dolls with me.” “Well, we’re practically brother and sister then.”
“How did we get together?” he asks again. “My mother was pregnant and you were her friend and she needed someone to be a father for her baby, so you did it.” “Did I do a good job?” “Yes.”
“How long have I been with you?” “My whole life, 33 years,” I tell him. “I mean, close up.” “The whole thing.”
“Do you know who your father was?” “Albert Goldman, he’s dead now.” “When did he die?” “I was still in college, so 1994.”
“I didn’t know a thing about any of this. Do you remember it?” “Yeah, I remember it, that’s why I can tell you about it.” “Is it good or bad to remember things?” “Well, it can be convenient.”
“Thing is, I guess we’ll have to get married, that’s all.” “Why?” I ask, shocked. “Just to be married.” “But I’m your kid,” I say, still shocked. “But I’m not really your kid am I? he says. I ignore the fact that he has it backwards. “Well, not biologically, but emotionally.” “I’m flummoxed,” he says.
“And all the time you thought I knew all about you. I didn’t know a thing about you.” By now I’m trying to hide my tears.” “How is it I’m alive?” What a question! “Usually people who have no brains are dead,” he says. “Parts of your brain are working OK.” “Like what?” “You know how to eat with a fork and wash dishes and listen to music . . .”
“Well, well. we’re certainly going to be pals for the rest of our lives, the rest of my life, not yours,” says Dad. “So I’ve been with you all my life. I only remember a couple of months ago. I suppose I’ve been this way with everybody. But you’re the favorite.”
I guess the emotion building in the room was really powerful at that point because, suddenly, the recycling pile toppled over, spilling cardboard across the floor. “What the fuck is that!” Dad is startled. “The recycling fell over,” I tell him. “Recycling. What is recycling?” he wants to know. I try to explain. “It’s when they take something from the garbage and use it to make something new.”
More questions. “Did I ever do any work at all?” “You were a teacher.” “Other than that?” “ You cut fish on the docks in Gloucester. “ “That was a long time ago and I made a lot of money.” “ I know you worked at Macy’s wrapping up packages.” “I do remember that, I do, I do.” “And then you worked at a place called Radio TV Reports.” “I worked there for ages. I still do, don’t I?” “No, you’re retired and I don’t think Radio TV Reports is around anymore. That’s where you met my mother.” “ I don’t remember your mother.”
“We certainly tied together ourselves,” he says, “I had no idea of any of this.”
“What was I doing while you were eating?” he asks, oddly. “You were eating, too.” “Did I talk?” “No,” “Why not?” “Because your mouth was full.” Dad laughs. “That’s a good line,” he says.
Later, I came out of the bathroom. Dad was sitting at the dining room table with two empty cups in front of him. “How do you turn on the water?” he asked me. “Turn on the water where?” I asked him. “I want to rinse these dishes,” he said, gesturing at the cups. “Then I think you’d better come into the kitchen and rinse them at the sink,” I said, trying to project a calm matter-of-factness that was far from what I felt.
Next question’s a familiar one: “Is your mom still alive?” “No.” “What happened to her?” “She died when she was 56, she had breast cancer.” “There seems to be quite a lot of breast cancer, mostly in women it seems.” “That’s because women are the ones with breasts, Dad.”
“Were you born and brought up in New York?” “In Brooklyn.” “Oh, boy, you’re a real New Yorker. I was born in . . . “ “Essex,” I fill in the blank. “But I don’t remember it. Do you remember much of it?” “Some of it.” “Did anything really exciting happen?” “I got bit by a gerbil.” “Was it poisonous?” “No, but I had to go to the hospital and get a shot.” “What is a gerbil, anyway?” “Kind of like a mouse. It was a pet.” “I think people who are born in New York are a lot smarter and ready to go than other people, way out West.”
“What did your Mom do?” “She typed. She typed and transcribed. “ “And you stayed with her until she died.” “You used to help Mom with her work.” “Were you around then, too?” “Yeah, I helped, too.” “So that’s how we got to know each other.” Uh-oh. “We knew each other before that because you’re my Dad and you were there when I was born.” “She had a hard life or a good life or what?” “I think she had a pretty hard life.”
“I don’t remember anything as a matter of fact. I don’t remember anything anything anything. I might as well be a lone person in the wilderness.”
I start filling in memories for him. “You used to take me around the city in my stroller, and you built me a giant playhouse out of cardboard and painted it green, and you used to buy me shoes in the Macy’s shoe department.” “And I paid for them,” says Dad. “You paid for braces for my teeth and private school tuition, too. You came to my college graduation and then when I moved to Providence and was broke from working at a gay youth center, you came on the Amtrak train and brought a giant cheese in red wax.”
“15 minutes and I found a whole life,” says Dad. “Jesus motherfucking Christ, we belong to each other.” Back to the questions; “Where were you the last ten years?” “Living in Brooklyn. You used to come every week for dinner.” “Who made the dinner?” he wants to know. “Me! I like to cook,” I say. “Hey! I know that! You love to cook! You never hesitated one bit.”
“How did we happen to get together again?” “Again?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “I don’t remember you before the last year.” “I was here the whole time,” I tell him.
“Oh, oh, oh, you have made a life for me, I love it. Jesus Christ, how can I forget all these things? My whole life is forgotten.”
Dad starts with the questions again: “And you went through college in three years and then what did you do?” “I moved to Providence, Rhode Island and took classes.”
“How did I get into this?” “Well, I think you were friends with my mother.” “Yes?” “And then she got pregnant and the man she got pregnant with left, and you were helping out.” “I have a useless brain.”
“Then I was pretty old when I was doing things with you.” “You were 52 when I was born.” “You used to play with dolls with me.” “Well, we’re practically brother and sister then.”
“How did we get together?” he asks again. “My mother was pregnant and you were her friend and she needed someone to be a father for her baby, so you did it.” “Did I do a good job?” “Yes.”
“How long have I been with you?” “My whole life, 33 years,” I tell him. “I mean, close up.” “The whole thing.”
“Do you know who your father was?” “Albert Goldman, he’s dead now.” “When did he die?” “I was still in college, so 1994.”
“I didn’t know a thing about any of this. Do you remember it?” “Yeah, I remember it, that’s why I can tell you about it.” “Is it good or bad to remember things?” “Well, it can be convenient.”
“Thing is, I guess we’ll have to get married, that’s all.” “Why?” I ask, shocked. “Just to be married.” “But I’m your kid,” I say, still shocked. “But I’m not really your kid am I? he says. I ignore the fact that he has it backwards. “Well, not biologically, but emotionally.” “I’m flummoxed,” he says.
“And all the time you thought I knew all about you. I didn’t know a thing about you.” By now I’m trying to hide my tears.” “How is it I’m alive?” What a question! “Usually people who have no brains are dead,” he says. “Parts of your brain are working OK.” “Like what?” “You know how to eat with a fork and wash dishes and listen to music . . .”
“Well, well. we’re certainly going to be pals for the rest of our lives, the rest of my life, not yours,” says Dad. “So I’ve been with you all my life. I only remember a couple of months ago. I suppose I’ve been this way with everybody. But you’re the favorite.”
I guess the emotion building in the room was really powerful at that point because, suddenly, the recycling pile toppled over, spilling cardboard across the floor. “What the fuck is that!” Dad is startled. “The recycling fell over,” I tell him. “Recycling. What is recycling?” he wants to know. I try to explain. “It’s when they take something from the garbage and use it to make something new.”
More questions. “Did I ever do any work at all?” “You were a teacher.” “Other than that?” “ You cut fish on the docks in Gloucester. “ “That was a long time ago and I made a lot of money.” “ I know you worked at Macy’s wrapping up packages.” “I do remember that, I do, I do.” “And then you worked at a place called Radio TV Reports.” “I worked there for ages. I still do, don’t I?” “No, you’re retired and I don’t think Radio TV Reports is around anymore. That’s where you met my mother.” “ I don’t remember your mother.”
“We certainly tied together ourselves,” he says, “I had no idea of any of this.”
“What was I doing while you were eating?” he asks, oddly. “You were eating, too.” “Did I talk?” “No,” “Why not?” “Because your mouth was full.” Dad laughs. “That’s a good line,” he says.
Later, I came out of the bathroom. Dad was sitting at the dining room table with two empty cups in front of him. “How do you turn on the water?” he asked me. “Turn on the water where?” I asked him. “I want to rinse these dishes,” he said, gesturing at the cups. “Then I think you’d better come into the kitchen and rinse them at the sink,” I said, trying to project a calm matter-of-factness that was far from what I felt.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
is the cat really drunk?
“Is the cat really drunk?” Dad asks me, looking at the cat lying on the couch. “No, Dad,” I say, trying not to laugh out loud, “she’s just sleeping.”
Another laugh-out-loud moment: I’m telling our friend John that Dad likes to listen to pan flutes. Dad, who’s listening, says, puzzled, “canned fruit?” This gives me a mental image of someone holding a can of fruit up to their ear, and this time I burst out laughing.
The old “couch” – really more of a daybed - is gone. John put the boxspring – so old that it was made of twine and burlap – out on the curb, and disassembled the frame, and loaded the frame into his truck for the trip to Gloucester. There’s now a big empty space in Dad’s apartment until the new sofabed arrives and the cat, who spent at least 20 hours a day lying on the couch, is in a state of confusion. I feel somewhat upset myself. This is the first major change to Dad’s apartment in the 15 or more years since it got remodeled and it feels weird. The old furniture was hopelessly uncomfortable, but I was used to lying there with the cat. I guess disassembling it feels like a foreshadowing of the time when I’ll be packing up this apartment for good.
Noticing Dad sitting at the table with his eyes closed, I ask what he’s doing. “I’m doing absolutely nothing,” he says. This exchange reminds me of when I was a little girl and I’d find him sitting still and ask what he was doing. He would always say, “I’m sitting and thinking,” and I would say “that’s boring,” and wander off.
When I got here today, a little past noon, Dad had just taken out some grapes and yogurt for breakfast, but when he saw me, he said “you can cook something up!” I had nothing planned and there was only one egg, not enough for matzo brei or an omelet, but I found some bread and wound up making cinnamon toast. Dad really liked it – predictable, since he likes anything sweet. John brought him some fig bars, so he’s now well supplied with snacks.
Dad says, “you know, it’s a funny thing, I feel lonely now that that thing is gone.” That makes three of us –him, the cat, and me.
Another laugh-out-loud moment: I’m telling our friend John that Dad likes to listen to pan flutes. Dad, who’s listening, says, puzzled, “canned fruit?” This gives me a mental image of someone holding a can of fruit up to their ear, and this time I burst out laughing.
The old “couch” – really more of a daybed - is gone. John put the boxspring – so old that it was made of twine and burlap – out on the curb, and disassembled the frame, and loaded the frame into his truck for the trip to Gloucester. There’s now a big empty space in Dad’s apartment until the new sofabed arrives and the cat, who spent at least 20 hours a day lying on the couch, is in a state of confusion. I feel somewhat upset myself. This is the first major change to Dad’s apartment in the 15 or more years since it got remodeled and it feels weird. The old furniture was hopelessly uncomfortable, but I was used to lying there with the cat. I guess disassembling it feels like a foreshadowing of the time when I’ll be packing up this apartment for good.
Noticing Dad sitting at the table with his eyes closed, I ask what he’s doing. “I’m doing absolutely nothing,” he says. This exchange reminds me of when I was a little girl and I’d find him sitting still and ask what he was doing. He would always say, “I’m sitting and thinking,” and I would say “that’s boring,” and wander off.
When I got here today, a little past noon, Dad had just taken out some grapes and yogurt for breakfast, but when he saw me, he said “you can cook something up!” I had nothing planned and there was only one egg, not enough for matzo brei or an omelet, but I found some bread and wound up making cinnamon toast. Dad really liked it – predictable, since he likes anything sweet. John brought him some fig bars, so he’s now well supplied with snacks.
Dad says, “you know, it’s a funny thing, I feel lonely now that that thing is gone.” That makes three of us –him, the cat, and me.
Friday, May 1, 2009
9 or 10 pieces of gravel
When I got here today, Dad was in the grip of another strange idea. He told me “I suddenly realized that two or three people make the rounds of the big cities and cut people off. They tend to wait until someone is busy and then, bang, they do it in less than five minutes, less than two minutes.” At first, I had no idea what he was talking about, but then I realized that it was about his vision – the idea that someone shut off his vision. “They watch every god-damn thing and the first thing I knew they were doing my – they didn’t even tell me, and I can’t do anything and I can’t see anything. The thing is, I would be able to function if I had that but I don’t have it, they take it away. How many people deserve all - it’s a hell of a lot of people that have that and then they take it away. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m not. I watched the guy do it, you know, I was doing something else. He didn’t ask me anything or anything else. Maybe I’m going crazy.” “I’ve never heard of anything like that,” I said, gently. Suddenly, the topic changed; “Most people get their nails clipped and that’s that. Thousands and thousands of people have their nails clipped every so often.” Then he seemed to realize, maybe by saying the words out loud, that his thoughts weren’t making sense. “Now,” he said, “it doesn’t seem quite right to me.” “I think you kind of dreamed that,” I offer, using the word he used for his previous hallucination.
I have gotten a new bed for Dad’s cat, to replace the daybed that she loves but we’re having taken back to Gloucester. “Did you ever have a cat?” Dad asks me. “I have 14 cats.” Dad clutches his head. “That’s right,” he says, “I’m going crazy.”
His cat comes up to us and clearly wants something. “I think she wants some food,” I tell Dad. “That’s right. Number one is always number one, he says. “Food. Food. Food.”
Dad is thinking about our house in Gloucester, wondering how much the “9 or 10 pieces of gravel and the house” are worth. The “gravel” he refers to is actually various plots of land surrounding the house, most of it covered in woods these days. Since they were all originally separate pieces of land, they all have separate deeds, and therefore separate tax bills, which is a major pain. Next time I’m in Gloucester I should go to City Hall and beg them to consolidate these bills.
Just as Dad is sitting down in his rocker, I sneeze. Dad thinks the timing is hilarious and laughs and laughs.
“Someone different is supposed to come tomorrow,” says Dad as I’m getting ready to leave. “John Henry,” I remind him. “Henry! Oh, I know him.”
I have gotten a new bed for Dad’s cat, to replace the daybed that she loves but we’re having taken back to Gloucester. “Did you ever have a cat?” Dad asks me. “I have 14 cats.” Dad clutches his head. “That’s right,” he says, “I’m going crazy.”
His cat comes up to us and clearly wants something. “I think she wants some food,” I tell Dad. “That’s right. Number one is always number one, he says. “Food. Food. Food.”
Dad is thinking about our house in Gloucester, wondering how much the “9 or 10 pieces of gravel and the house” are worth. The “gravel” he refers to is actually various plots of land surrounding the house, most of it covered in woods these days. Since they were all originally separate pieces of land, they all have separate deeds, and therefore separate tax bills, which is a major pain. Next time I’m in Gloucester I should go to City Hall and beg them to consolidate these bills.
Just as Dad is sitting down in his rocker, I sneeze. Dad thinks the timing is hilarious and laughs and laughs.
“Someone different is supposed to come tomorrow,” says Dad as I’m getting ready to leave. “John Henry,” I remind him. “Henry! Oh, I know him.”
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