doddering diddering doodling

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.