Kristen Lovell took this photo with her camera phone. I have no idea why I'm glowing.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
july 20: green cats
Dad opens the cookie tin that sits within arm’s reach of his chair and feels around inside. “Someone ate ALL the cookies,” he announces, indignantly. “Dad,” I say, trying not to laugh, “I think that was you.” “No,” he says, “I ate some, but not all. Someone sneaky ate them.”
“How do you change your clothes?” he asks, out of the blue. While I’m pondering how to respond, it occurs to me that earlier I told him I had just come from swimming. “You mean, at the swimming pool?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “There’s a locker room,” I tell him.
I am showing Dad the new nightgown I got to replace my old, holey one. “Green’s my favorite color,” I tell him. “All your cats are green?” he asks. “My clothes are green, but not my cats,” I explain. “Why not?” he wants to know. “Cats don’t come in green,” I tell him. He examines the nightgown and then tells me to “break it in.”
Dad’s looking for the cat, feeling around by his chair to see if she is close. “Kitty cat, where you at?” he repeats, over and over in a range of voices from bass to falsetto.
Dad is having a philosophical moment. “Bad things happen,” he says. “Good things happen. And a lot of in between things happen.”
Dad is slowly making his way to the bathroom. In the hall, he passes the coathooks and pauses to examine the long, slender form of his folding chair in it’s bag. Apparently deciding that it is a person, he speaks to it briefly, and then continues down the hall.
When he returns, he settles back into his rocker, and picks up a green plastic tumbler from the table. Examining it closely, he asks, “do you think there’s lead in some of these? Some of them are pretty heavy.”
As it gets later, I notice him staring into empty space, a sign that he’s hallucinating. “Every once in a while,” he says, “a whole piece of material turns up, and then it goes and then it comes back again. I’ve never seen it, I’ve only seen illustrations, drawings, actual pieces.”
“Waggling,” says Dad. “Is that a real term or is that one of mine?” I’m impressed that he has enough awareness to realize that there are words that are his alone.
“What should I do to make up for all these guesses and gaps?” says Dad, apparently referring to his mental state. I wish I had an answer for him.
We spend a long time reviewing the plan for the coming three days, going over who will come see him which day. Thinking that no one is coming on Thursday, Dad concludes, “no one will see me except myself.” I remind him that I come on Thursdays and he seems relieved. He knows that it’s not good for him to be alone anymore.
He wants to know why I’m not coming on Wednesday, and I explain that I will be making sculptures. Dad remembers my sculptures, and is as supportive of them as ever. “Some of them are very complete,” he says. “Some of them are very weird. Some of them I never heard of, before or since.”
“How do you change your clothes?” he asks, out of the blue. While I’m pondering how to respond, it occurs to me that earlier I told him I had just come from swimming. “You mean, at the swimming pool?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “There’s a locker room,” I tell him.
I am showing Dad the new nightgown I got to replace my old, holey one. “Green’s my favorite color,” I tell him. “All your cats are green?” he asks. “My clothes are green, but not my cats,” I explain. “Why not?” he wants to know. “Cats don’t come in green,” I tell him. He examines the nightgown and then tells me to “break it in.”
Dad’s looking for the cat, feeling around by his chair to see if she is close. “Kitty cat, where you at?” he repeats, over and over in a range of voices from bass to falsetto.
Dad is having a philosophical moment. “Bad things happen,” he says. “Good things happen. And a lot of in between things happen.”
Dad is slowly making his way to the bathroom. In the hall, he passes the coathooks and pauses to examine the long, slender form of his folding chair in it’s bag. Apparently deciding that it is a person, he speaks to it briefly, and then continues down the hall.
When he returns, he settles back into his rocker, and picks up a green plastic tumbler from the table. Examining it closely, he asks, “do you think there’s lead in some of these? Some of them are pretty heavy.”
As it gets later, I notice him staring into empty space, a sign that he’s hallucinating. “Every once in a while,” he says, “a whole piece of material turns up, and then it goes and then it comes back again. I’ve never seen it, I’ve only seen illustrations, drawings, actual pieces.”
“Waggling,” says Dad. “Is that a real term or is that one of mine?” I’m impressed that he has enough awareness to realize that there are words that are his alone.
“What should I do to make up for all these guesses and gaps?” says Dad, apparently referring to his mental state. I wish I had an answer for him.
We spend a long time reviewing the plan for the coming three days, going over who will come see him which day. Thinking that no one is coming on Thursday, Dad concludes, “no one will see me except myself.” I remind him that I come on Thursdays and he seems relieved. He knows that it’s not good for him to be alone anymore.
He wants to know why I’m not coming on Wednesday, and I explain that I will be making sculptures. Dad remembers my sculptures, and is as supportive of them as ever. “Some of them are very complete,” he says. “Some of them are very weird. Some of them I never heard of, before or since.”
July 18: BBQ
I took Dad to the New Alternatives BBQ in Prospect Park today. He had been looking forward to it every time it was mentioned during the week and setting out, he was enthusiastic,“it’s good to get out.” In the cab on our way to Brooklyn, Dad asked his usual million questions, and did some singing. When we arrived, Kate S. already had the folding camp chair we bought in Gloucester set up for him, and one of my clients, Robin, was doting on him, bringing him soda and cookies. He ate a hotdog, and cheerfully greeted all the youth who came up to him, though he had no idea who they were.
After a couple of hours, though, came the moment I’d been dreading: the trip to the bathroom. Although JD had assured me that the bathroom wasn’t far, it was a huge trek by Dad standards. At first I tried to send him with Russell, his friend from Pride, but when Russell honestly told him how far away it was, he insisted on coming back. After a while, he decided to try again, so one of the youth, Bradley, and I each took a hand, towing him across the lawn. Trying to distract him from the walk, I was narrating the scenery – children feeding ducks, people boating. Dad said, “You’re going to throw me in that lake!” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Bradley went into the men’s room with him, and says that, after peeing, Dad washed his hands in the water from the urinal! Then came the return trip. “Are we in World War 1?” Dad asked, apparently thinking we were on some kind of forced march. By the time our group came into view, Dad was out of steam. He kept saying he had to stop, but would then push on for a while longer. Finally, Bradley ran ahead and moved Dad’s chair closer, and we settled right where we were, even though it was an area with no shade.
Once Dad was rested up, he was ready to go home. There was some difficulty getting a car back, and Dad asked me when we were going so many times that I was getting frazzled. On the way back, the driver helped Dad into the front seat, where he began his usual litany of questions. The driver, an Indian man with a thick accent, apparently didn’t realize that Dad was kind of kooky and kept dutifully answering the questions, even though his accent was so thick that I’m sure Dad didn’t understand him at all. It was kind of like watching a comedy skit from my vantage point in the backseat.
When we got home, Dad was confused. “It was the same day, right?” he asked. “We went on a BBQ with 50 people? When we got home, finally, it was daylight?” “Yeah, it was daylight when we left and daylight when we came back,” I explained. “How long were we gone altogether?” he wanted to know. “We left at 1pm and came back at 7:30pm, so six and a half hours,” I answered. “Finally we got an airport – airline?” he asked. “No, we took a car.” I clarified. “Where did we leave it off?” “In front of your building.” “Now what are you going to do?” “Hang out with you until you go to bed.” I answered. The questions continued on and on. Finally, Dad was concluded the inquiry, “Muy complicado,” he said, switching into Spanish.
I know that getting out in the fresh air and getting some exercise is good for Dad, but bringing him places is such an exhausting and stressful undertaking, and it leaves him so confused that it’s hard to get up the motivation to do it.
After a couple of hours, though, came the moment I’d been dreading: the trip to the bathroom. Although JD had assured me that the bathroom wasn’t far, it was a huge trek by Dad standards. At first I tried to send him with Russell, his friend from Pride, but when Russell honestly told him how far away it was, he insisted on coming back. After a while, he decided to try again, so one of the youth, Bradley, and I each took a hand, towing him across the lawn. Trying to distract him from the walk, I was narrating the scenery – children feeding ducks, people boating. Dad said, “You’re going to throw me in that lake!” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Bradley went into the men’s room with him, and says that, after peeing, Dad washed his hands in the water from the urinal! Then came the return trip. “Are we in World War 1?” Dad asked, apparently thinking we were on some kind of forced march. By the time our group came into view, Dad was out of steam. He kept saying he had to stop, but would then push on for a while longer. Finally, Bradley ran ahead and moved Dad’s chair closer, and we settled right where we were, even though it was an area with no shade.
Once Dad was rested up, he was ready to go home. There was some difficulty getting a car back, and Dad asked me when we were going so many times that I was getting frazzled. On the way back, the driver helped Dad into the front seat, where he began his usual litany of questions. The driver, an Indian man with a thick accent, apparently didn’t realize that Dad was kind of kooky and kept dutifully answering the questions, even though his accent was so thick that I’m sure Dad didn’t understand him at all. It was kind of like watching a comedy skit from my vantage point in the backseat.
When we got home, Dad was confused. “It was the same day, right?” he asked. “We went on a BBQ with 50 people? When we got home, finally, it was daylight?” “Yeah, it was daylight when we left and daylight when we came back,” I explained. “How long were we gone altogether?” he wanted to know. “We left at 1pm and came back at 7:30pm, so six and a half hours,” I answered. “Finally we got an airport – airline?” he asked. “No, we took a car.” I clarified. “Where did we leave it off?” “In front of your building.” “Now what are you going to do?” “Hang out with you until you go to bed.” I answered. The questions continued on and on. Finally, Dad was concluded the inquiry, “Muy complicado,” he said, switching into Spanish.
I know that getting out in the fresh air and getting some exercise is good for Dad, but bringing him places is such an exhausting and stressful undertaking, and it leaves him so confused that it’s hard to get up the motivation to do it.
july 17: funny noises
Dad’s freaking out about being blind again. He keeps saying that he went blind “suddenly, bang! Like that, bang!” and he has a new theory to explain it. This time he thinks it was something he ate, possibly something from India. He’s also convinced that someone stole his missing teeth, even though he knows that they’re made individually and that nobody else can use them. He says, “they don’t really do anything, except for the person who uses them. Probably some kid saw them and said, ‘gee, those look good,’ and tucked them away.”
Trying to distract him from all this, I tell him about how Mr. Wednesday, one of my black cats, has taken to hanging upside down with his head down the toilet and his feet on the seat. Dad laughs at this image and says, “he’s waiting for something else to happen.”
Dad is sitting next to me on the couch, feeling around to get his bearings. He stumbles across the notebook in my lap. “What’s all this, feathers?” he asks. “It’s my notebook,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I haven’t fucked for 40 or 50 years. Time has flown, flown, flown.” We’re on dangerous territory here, so I’m relieved when he asks, “how old am I?” “85 years old,” I tell him. “If I was 70, I’d be 15,” he says in a display of Alzheimer’s logic. “Wouldn’t it be great to be 15 again?” he says. “I’m really coming to pieces,” he says, and then says “I don’t know” over and over in a variety of silly voices. “I like to make funny noises,” he says, “it’s one of the few things I can do without much trouble.”
We chat for a while and then he says, “I’m liable to lose my . . . I might jump on you.” :uckily, the moment is interrupted by a loud honk from outside. “What’s that?” Dad asks. “A truck out in the street,” I explain. “A truck!” he exclaims, “What’s next?”
I remind him that we are going to a BBQ tomorrow. “I’ll dive into that all right,” he says, “that’s good.”
Suddenly, he says, “We could go at it on a warmer day. A warm day, otherwise I’d catch cold and die. I’m old. If you’d put up with me. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.” I’m trying not to be overly creeped out by these moments – I know he’s expressing his feeling of closeness with me and doesn’t realize he’s being inappropriate. I’m very grateful when the next thing out of his mouth is, “how strong are your glasses?”
It’s getting close to bedtime, and he’s getting more mixed up. “We’ll be back home in the morning?”he asks, as though we’re on the overnight train we used to ride from New York to Montreal. “You’re already home, Dad,” I tell him. “We haven’t gotten anywhere, then?” he asks. “No, we stayed right here.” I explain. “My memory is pretty shot,” he concludes.
I’m getting ready to go and suddenly we’re off the deep end again, “I think we might have a good time if we calculate it somehow a little better. I wouldn’t want to do it now. I want a nice bed, plenty of space,” he says. “No, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s not what fathers and daughters do.” “You’re sure I’m daughters and fathers?” he asks. “Yes,” I say firmly. “By god,” he says, “we’re going to stick together, then. I don’t want to be alone.” “You’re not going to be alone,” I assure him, and then settle him down for the night.
Trying to distract him from all this, I tell him about how Mr. Wednesday, one of my black cats, has taken to hanging upside down with his head down the toilet and his feet on the seat. Dad laughs at this image and says, “he’s waiting for something else to happen.”
Dad is sitting next to me on the couch, feeling around to get his bearings. He stumbles across the notebook in my lap. “What’s all this, feathers?” he asks. “It’s my notebook,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I haven’t fucked for 40 or 50 years. Time has flown, flown, flown.” We’re on dangerous territory here, so I’m relieved when he asks, “how old am I?” “85 years old,” I tell him. “If I was 70, I’d be 15,” he says in a display of Alzheimer’s logic. “Wouldn’t it be great to be 15 again?” he says. “I’m really coming to pieces,” he says, and then says “I don’t know” over and over in a variety of silly voices. “I like to make funny noises,” he says, “it’s one of the few things I can do without much trouble.”
We chat for a while and then he says, “I’m liable to lose my . . . I might jump on you.” :uckily, the moment is interrupted by a loud honk from outside. “What’s that?” Dad asks. “A truck out in the street,” I explain. “A truck!” he exclaims, “What’s next?”
I remind him that we are going to a BBQ tomorrow. “I’ll dive into that all right,” he says, “that’s good.”
Suddenly, he says, “We could go at it on a warmer day. A warm day, otherwise I’d catch cold and die. I’m old. If you’d put up with me. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.” I’m trying not to be overly creeped out by these moments – I know he’s expressing his feeling of closeness with me and doesn’t realize he’s being inappropriate. I’m very grateful when the next thing out of his mouth is, “how strong are your glasses?”
It’s getting close to bedtime, and he’s getting more mixed up. “We’ll be back home in the morning?”he asks, as though we’re on the overnight train we used to ride from New York to Montreal. “You’re already home, Dad,” I tell him. “We haven’t gotten anywhere, then?” he asks. “No, we stayed right here.” I explain. “My memory is pretty shot,” he concludes.
I’m getting ready to go and suddenly we’re off the deep end again, “I think we might have a good time if we calculate it somehow a little better. I wouldn’t want to do it now. I want a nice bed, plenty of space,” he says. “No, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s not what fathers and daughters do.” “You’re sure I’m daughters and fathers?” he asks. “Yes,” I say firmly. “By god,” he says, “we’re going to stick together, then. I don’t want to be alone.” “You’re not going to be alone,” I assure him, and then settle him down for the night.
july 13: one grandiose meatball
“Today I feel like I’m falling apart,” Dad greets me at the door. “I’m doing crazy things.” “Like what?” I ask. “They rang up and I rushed around trying to find the telephone but it was right there, and I thought I had to do something to work it and it wasn’t true,” he explained.
“You know,” says Dad, “I’m kind of scared at times and one of the times is now.” “Why?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve been very, very skittish the last couple of days. Skittish. Is that a word?” “Yes,” I answer. “Skittish, skittish, skittish,” he repeats.
Dad’s describing a mystery: the water he spilled has disappeared! “It evaporated,” I tell him. “Evaporated,” he says, “that’s a good word. It isn’t used very much, is it?” I start to answer, “well, only . . . “ and then get stuck for a minute, so Dad completes the sentence for me: “Only by really fancy people who have a lot of courage, a lot of stuff, then they use that word, evaporated.”
“Are you reading something?” Dad asks me, and then answers himself, “No, just commoding. That’s what I do most of my time, commode.” He sees me writing. “Are you working out the system?” he asks. I answer noncommittally.
Dad is pondering his dinner. He spears a meatball, pronouncing it a “big, grandiose meatball.” Later, he announces that his dinner is “a good chew.” Apparently he gets hooked on the sound of the words, because he goes on to rhyme, “one good chew,” with “one good horseshoe.”
Later, as we’re sitting on the couch with his cat wedged between us, he makes up a chant, like the kind of song the kids vogue to at my job, that goes: “putty cat. Putty cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Putty. Putty. Cat. Cat. Put. Cat. Put. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Etc.” He ends the song by blowing several raspberries and asking me, “how’s that?” “Quite impressive,” I reply, somewhat stunned by this performance.
Dad’s feeling around the couch and comes to his own thigh. “What that?” he asks. “Your leg.” I tell him. Having discovered his leg, he proceeds to slap himself repeatedly on the thigh, saying, “naughty, naughty, naughty.”
“You know,” says Dad, “I’m kind of scared at times and one of the times is now.” “Why?” I ask. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve been very, very skittish the last couple of days. Skittish. Is that a word?” “Yes,” I answer. “Skittish, skittish, skittish,” he repeats.
Dad’s describing a mystery: the water he spilled has disappeared! “It evaporated,” I tell him. “Evaporated,” he says, “that’s a good word. It isn’t used very much, is it?” I start to answer, “well, only . . . “ and then get stuck for a minute, so Dad completes the sentence for me: “Only by really fancy people who have a lot of courage, a lot of stuff, then they use that word, evaporated.”
“Are you reading something?” Dad asks me, and then answers himself, “No, just commoding. That’s what I do most of my time, commode.” He sees me writing. “Are you working out the system?” he asks. I answer noncommittally.
Dad is pondering his dinner. He spears a meatball, pronouncing it a “big, grandiose meatball.” Later, he announces that his dinner is “a good chew.” Apparently he gets hooked on the sound of the words, because he goes on to rhyme, “one good chew,” with “one good horseshoe.”
Later, as we’re sitting on the couch with his cat wedged between us, he makes up a chant, like the kind of song the kids vogue to at my job, that goes: “putty cat. Putty cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Putty. Putty. Cat. Cat. Put. Cat. Put. Cat. Cat. Cat. Cat. Etc.” He ends the song by blowing several raspberries and asking me, “how’s that?” “Quite impressive,” I reply, somewhat stunned by this performance.
Dad’s feeling around the couch and comes to his own thigh. “What that?” he asks. “Your leg.” I tell him. Having discovered his leg, he proceeds to slap himself repeatedly on the thigh, saying, “naughty, naughty, naughty.”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
hair and sheet metal
Dad is feeling the objects on his dining room table. He comes to an item in a crinkly plastic wrapper and can’t figure out what it is. “That’s a fortune cookie,” I tell him. “You mean I open it and hope for the best?” he says.
Later, Kate S. and I are sitting on the couch while Dad is in his customary rocker, and he says, “If you have any trouble, tell me and I’ll make it worse.” This is a glimpse of the old Dad, who was known for joking with his friends.
His friend Charlie calls. I don’t know what they’re discussing, but Dad says, “bullshit is male, right? And cowshit can be anything.” Kate S. and I crack up laughing.
Dad’s singing the Stars and Stripes Forever again. Why this snippet of music keeps re-occurring is a mystery to me, but it’s gotten so common that Kate S. and I sing along. Dad seems pleased by this.
Dad is trying to give me money again. Because of his tendency to give his cash away – he always had a very generous personality – he gets a small “allowance” on a weekly basis. I tell him, “Dad, we don’t need money. Sitting on your ass is an absolutely free activity.” “I believe you,” he says “and I’m going to do it right now.”
Brianna goes to get Dad a cigar from the other room. When she returns she reports, “if anyone needs a band-aid, there’s a box of them in the humidor.”
Dad surveys his plate – salad with black beans and avocado and cilantro-lime dressing and homemade tortilla chips –and announces, “there’s nothing on my plate but hair and sheet metal.” Unfazed, Kate S. urges him to try a chip, “this sheet metal is edible – take a bite.”
“I’m starting a bottle-cap collection,” says Kate S., collecting several from the dining room table. “A heart attack collection?” asks Dad. I offer her my biological father’s heart attack in Heathrow airport to start with – it was fatal, so it should be worth more.
We’re listening to John Mellencamp, but Dad has a complaint; “There’s too much sand in there,” he says, referring to the music.
I’m reminding Dad that he has to let his lady help him bathe, at least once a week. “I don’t see a point in taking a shower every day,” he says, “unless you’re working in mud puddles.”
Later, as we’re watching his cat eat, he says to me, “you live in a cat world, you can’t deny it.”
As it gets later, Dad slips out of reality. “How old am I now? About 18? 17? 15?” he asks. “Dad, you’re 85,” I tell him. He laughs like I have made the world’s funniest joke. “85!” he gasps, “oh, come on, you’ve killed that one.”
Later, Kate S. and I are sitting on the couch while Dad is in his customary rocker, and he says, “If you have any trouble, tell me and I’ll make it worse.” This is a glimpse of the old Dad, who was known for joking with his friends.
His friend Charlie calls. I don’t know what they’re discussing, but Dad says, “bullshit is male, right? And cowshit can be anything.” Kate S. and I crack up laughing.
Dad’s singing the Stars and Stripes Forever again. Why this snippet of music keeps re-occurring is a mystery to me, but it’s gotten so common that Kate S. and I sing along. Dad seems pleased by this.
Dad is trying to give me money again. Because of his tendency to give his cash away – he always had a very generous personality – he gets a small “allowance” on a weekly basis. I tell him, “Dad, we don’t need money. Sitting on your ass is an absolutely free activity.” “I believe you,” he says “and I’m going to do it right now.”
Brianna goes to get Dad a cigar from the other room. When she returns she reports, “if anyone needs a band-aid, there’s a box of them in the humidor.”
Dad surveys his plate – salad with black beans and avocado and cilantro-lime dressing and homemade tortilla chips –and announces, “there’s nothing on my plate but hair and sheet metal.” Unfazed, Kate S. urges him to try a chip, “this sheet metal is edible – take a bite.”
“I’m starting a bottle-cap collection,” says Kate S., collecting several from the dining room table. “A heart attack collection?” asks Dad. I offer her my biological father’s heart attack in Heathrow airport to start with – it was fatal, so it should be worth more.
We’re listening to John Mellencamp, but Dad has a complaint; “There’s too much sand in there,” he says, referring to the music.
I’m reminding Dad that he has to let his lady help him bathe, at least once a week. “I don’t see a point in taking a shower every day,” he says, “unless you’re working in mud puddles.”
Later, as we’re watching his cat eat, he says to me, “you live in a cat world, you can’t deny it.”
As it gets later, Dad slips out of reality. “How old am I now? About 18? 17? 15?” he asks. “Dad, you’re 85,” I tell him. He laughs like I have made the world’s funniest joke. “85!” he gasps, “oh, come on, you’ve killed that one.”
Thursday, July 9, 2009
absolutely totally foreign
Today started out off-kilter – I totally forgot Dad’s neurologist appointment. I got here and found him all dressed (by Marie) and waiting to go, but it was too late. It’s hard to get an appt. with this doctor, so it really sucks that I forgot this particular one. Now who is the one who is losing their mind?
Dad was trying to pay me for something, as usual, and I said to him, “Yo tengo dinero (I have money).” “I have plenty,” he translated, which is pretty close, considering his condition. Later, as we were discussing dinner, he said, in a bass voice, “I will eat anything.” “Omniverous,” I said. “That’s a good word,” said Dad. “Omni means ‘everything’. ‘Eat-all-things.’” Definitely an English teacher moment.
But then after dinner, things got weird. “Where can I stay tonight?” asked Dad. “This is your apartment,” Kate S. told him. “Is there someplace to lie down?” he wanted to know. “Yes, your bed,” she told him. “I’ll need somebody to take me home,” he said. “Have I been in this place before?” “You’ve been here since the 1960s,” I told him. “So, I don’t go anywhere?” he asked. “I’m getting pretty confused,” he continued, “since I’m on the way to 90.”
“Does my room door have a number on it?” Dad asked, apparently thinking he was at a hotel. “Nope, it’s the only bedroom here,” we told him. “It’s the only bedroom here? How many people live here?” he wanted to know. “Just one, Dad, you,” I explained. “Is there running water in the room?” he asked. “There’s running water in the kitchen and bathroom,” I told him. “I don’t know where they are,” he said, totally confused. “Just down the hall,” I said, gesturing. “If the door’s closed, someone’s in there?” he asked. “Yes, if it’s the bathroom,” I replied.
“You sound really familiar,” Dad said to me. “I’m little Kate, your daughter.” “Oh,” said Dad and reached out to shake my hand as though we’d just met.
“Does my room have a toilet?” Dad wanted to know. “You have a whole apartment, Dad.” “Then I have a kitchen, bathroom, a regular room and a living room. What do I have to pay for a night?” “You pay $330 a month,” I told him. “How about for a couple of nights?” he asked, confirming my suspicion that he thought he was in a hotel. “They don’t rent by the night,” I said.
Dad started exploring the hall and the bedroom. “I think I’ve been here before,” he said. “You’ve been here for 40 years,” I reminded him. He wandered into the bathroom. “You mean I’ve been pissing in this john for 20 years?” “40 years,” I corrected. “40 years,” he said in amazement.
I led him to a seat on the couch. “I thought I was being taken into a foreign place but it was all mine, all mine. I can’t believe it,” he said, in astonishment. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist, this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.” “That room is my room and it’s been my room for 40 years?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist. In other words, I just rent this apartment, right?” “You own this apartment,” I tell him. “Do I own these buildings?” “You own this apartment. Each person owns their own apartment.”
“Is it illegal to stay here?” Dad asks. “No, it’s totally legal,” I tell him, wondering where that question came from. “Then you can stay the night,” he concludes.
“How far up am I?” Dad asks. “This is the 4th floor,” I tell him. “I go up and down in an elevator?” “There is no elevator.” “It’s old-fashioned then,” says Dad, “but it looks totally modern.” “It got renovated,” I tell him. “How long ago did it get renovated?” “About 15 years ago,” I tell him though I’m not totally sure myself. “I’ve been right here for 40 years,” he says to himself.
“You know what?” says Dad. “It’s all new to me, all brand new, never saw it before yesterday.” “I had no idea,” he continues, “that you could rent places like this really cheaply, a thing as big as this costs one or two thousand dollars a month.” “Where did I live before this?” he wants to know. “You moved around a lot . . . “ I start the explanation. “And I found this place and liked it,” he finishes for me.
“What is the floor made of?” Dad asks. “Wood.” “This is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Nothing even came close,” he says, in a contemplative tone. “Did you expect I’d go crazy?” he asks me. “No,” I say. “You thought it was ordinary,” he says.
“Maybe tomorrow, when it’s lighter, I’ll be able to recognize it, but not right now. It’s utterly strange,” he says, looking around. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight, it’s so weird. It’s amazing how things can change, suddenly. Everything looks absolutely totally foreign to me. I should stay here all night, appreciating the new apartment.”
“The cat is here?” Dad is looking around for her. “Yes,” I tell him, “in the corner, asleep.”
Slowly, Dad seems to come out of the trance and starts finding familiar objects. He sits next to me at the dining room table, and starts feeling items on the table. “That’s a cookbook, Dad,” I tell him. “Are you using it?” he asks. “I will when I cook tomorrow.” “I don’t think I’ve ever used a cookbook. I’m still alive,” he says. “I think you used to when you had dinner parties,” I remind him. “I think so,” he says, “You know, I’m getting to be an old geezer. I don’t realize it until I start thinking about it and say, ‘my god, I’m over 80 years old,’ and I try to forget it and I do forget it and then whang, something happens and I remember again.”
Dad was trying to pay me for something, as usual, and I said to him, “Yo tengo dinero (I have money).” “I have plenty,” he translated, which is pretty close, considering his condition. Later, as we were discussing dinner, he said, in a bass voice, “I will eat anything.” “Omniverous,” I said. “That’s a good word,” said Dad. “Omni means ‘everything’. ‘Eat-all-things.’” Definitely an English teacher moment.
But then after dinner, things got weird. “Where can I stay tonight?” asked Dad. “This is your apartment,” Kate S. told him. “Is there someplace to lie down?” he wanted to know. “Yes, your bed,” she told him. “I’ll need somebody to take me home,” he said. “Have I been in this place before?” “You’ve been here since the 1960s,” I told him. “So, I don’t go anywhere?” he asked. “I’m getting pretty confused,” he continued, “since I’m on the way to 90.”
“Does my room door have a number on it?” Dad asked, apparently thinking he was at a hotel. “Nope, it’s the only bedroom here,” we told him. “It’s the only bedroom here? How many people live here?” he wanted to know. “Just one, Dad, you,” I explained. “Is there running water in the room?” he asked. “There’s running water in the kitchen and bathroom,” I told him. “I don’t know where they are,” he said, totally confused. “Just down the hall,” I said, gesturing. “If the door’s closed, someone’s in there?” he asked. “Yes, if it’s the bathroom,” I replied.
“You sound really familiar,” Dad said to me. “I’m little Kate, your daughter.” “Oh,” said Dad and reached out to shake my hand as though we’d just met.
“Does my room have a toilet?” Dad wanted to know. “You have a whole apartment, Dad.” “Then I have a kitchen, bathroom, a regular room and a living room. What do I have to pay for a night?” “You pay $330 a month,” I told him. “How about for a couple of nights?” he asked, confirming my suspicion that he thought he was in a hotel. “They don’t rent by the night,” I said.
Dad started exploring the hall and the bedroom. “I think I’ve been here before,” he said. “You’ve been here for 40 years,” I reminded him. He wandered into the bathroom. “You mean I’ve been pissing in this john for 20 years?” “40 years,” I corrected. “40 years,” he said in amazement.
I led him to a seat on the couch. “I thought I was being taken into a foreign place but it was all mine, all mine. I can’t believe it,” he said, in astonishment. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist, this is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.” “That room is my room and it’s been my room for 40 years?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Jesusmotherfuckingchrist. In other words, I just rent this apartment, right?” “You own this apartment,” I tell him. “Do I own these buildings?” “You own this apartment. Each person owns their own apartment.”
“Is it illegal to stay here?” Dad asks. “No, it’s totally legal,” I tell him, wondering where that question came from. “Then you can stay the night,” he concludes.
“How far up am I?” Dad asks. “This is the 4th floor,” I tell him. “I go up and down in an elevator?” “There is no elevator.” “It’s old-fashioned then,” says Dad, “but it looks totally modern.” “It got renovated,” I tell him. “How long ago did it get renovated?” “About 15 years ago,” I tell him though I’m not totally sure myself. “I’ve been right here for 40 years,” he says to himself.
“You know what?” says Dad. “It’s all new to me, all brand new, never saw it before yesterday.” “I had no idea,” he continues, “that you could rent places like this really cheaply, a thing as big as this costs one or two thousand dollars a month.” “Where did I live before this?” he wants to know. “You moved around a lot . . . “ I start the explanation. “And I found this place and liked it,” he finishes for me.
“What is the floor made of?” Dad asks. “Wood.” “This is the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Nothing even came close,” he says, in a contemplative tone. “Did you expect I’d go crazy?” he asks me. “No,” I say. “You thought it was ordinary,” he says.
“Maybe tomorrow, when it’s lighter, I’ll be able to recognize it, but not right now. It’s utterly strange,” he says, looking around. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight, it’s so weird. It’s amazing how things can change, suddenly. Everything looks absolutely totally foreign to me. I should stay here all night, appreciating the new apartment.”
“The cat is here?” Dad is looking around for her. “Yes,” I tell him, “in the corner, asleep.”
Slowly, Dad seems to come out of the trance and starts finding familiar objects. He sits next to me at the dining room table, and starts feeling items on the table. “That’s a cookbook, Dad,” I tell him. “Are you using it?” he asks. “I will when I cook tomorrow.” “I don’t think I’ve ever used a cookbook. I’m still alive,” he says. “I think you used to when you had dinner parties,” I remind him. “I think so,” he says, “You know, I’m getting to be an old geezer. I don’t realize it until I start thinking about it and say, ‘my god, I’m over 80 years old,’ and I try to forget it and I do forget it and then whang, something happens and I remember again.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
weird theories
Yesterday Dad was totally focused on his blindness, a subject that’s gotten less frequent recently, to the great relief of everyone around him. In particular, he was completely focused on his theory about how he lost his vision, in which vision is a utility, like electricity, and can be turned off for non-payment or other, more nefarious reasons, like a plot by the company to save money by cheating those 85 and over, which is what he thinks happened to him.
Here’s his explication (explication used to be one of his favorite words):
“I was very suspicious when I saw the guy, I don’t know what they were doing, but they were doing something to my thing and they wrecked it. I think they do that to all people who presumably don’t have any money. They had me tied down somehow, I couldn’t move. There were two people doing this thing, and by the end of it, I couldn’t see. I think they’ve been saving money for a hundred years like this. You see, by this time, a person has just about given up. By that time, you’re so worn out, busted out, that you’re only going to live a couple years. If you start to sign up and try to compete, then you have to put money into it. I’m not sure, but I’m quite sure it happened. You see, if they do try to compete or cause trouble, they drag it out and drag it out until you’re dead. Maybe they do win a case or two, I don’t know. What’s the big company that does that? See, they didn’t bother me until I was 85 and then they said ‘he’s only going to live a couple more years.” You see, people who don’t have any vision use much more electricity than people who do. I don’t think they do anything until people are 85, if a couple people make money out of it, big deal, but mostly they save money. People who are 85 or more, they probably chuck a lot of it out. If they’re going to fight, they’ll drag it out ten years and they’ll be dead. But you never see anybody who isn’t 85 or more doing it but when it comes to 85 they turn the tables, but consider the money that has been saved, it’s one of the oldest and they’re accepted by now. Does all the money go into one place or not? If you reduce – see a lot of these people use more money than usual because they sit around and it’s getting darker and they see less and less. Once they get to be 85, bang!, then it’s usually too old. They lose a few cases, you know, because people live another 10-15 years and battle them out and after five years they say, ‘shit, give them the money,’ but it’s very rare.”
I was pretty flabbergasted by the length and detail of this theory – clearly he’s been thinking a lot about it.
On the subject of weird theories, Mia told me that Dad’ next door neighbor, Charlie McKenna told her that he doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with Dad, that he thinks it’s all an elaborate joke!!! Dad is known as something of a joker among his friends, but this idea blows my mind. I pointed out to Mia that Dad probably couldn’t have faked the brain scans. They’ve all known each other for decades, and fought together to save their buildings from being condemned and demolished, and I guess maybe this is Charlie’s form of denial, of not seeing that something is happening to his friend.
Here’s his explication (explication used to be one of his favorite words):
“I was very suspicious when I saw the guy, I don’t know what they were doing, but they were doing something to my thing and they wrecked it. I think they do that to all people who presumably don’t have any money. They had me tied down somehow, I couldn’t move. There were two people doing this thing, and by the end of it, I couldn’t see. I think they’ve been saving money for a hundred years like this. You see, by this time, a person has just about given up. By that time, you’re so worn out, busted out, that you’re only going to live a couple years. If you start to sign up and try to compete, then you have to put money into it. I’m not sure, but I’m quite sure it happened. You see, if they do try to compete or cause trouble, they drag it out and drag it out until you’re dead. Maybe they do win a case or two, I don’t know. What’s the big company that does that? See, they didn’t bother me until I was 85 and then they said ‘he’s only going to live a couple more years.” You see, people who don’t have any vision use much more electricity than people who do. I don’t think they do anything until people are 85, if a couple people make money out of it, big deal, but mostly they save money. People who are 85 or more, they probably chuck a lot of it out. If they’re going to fight, they’ll drag it out ten years and they’ll be dead. But you never see anybody who isn’t 85 or more doing it but when it comes to 85 they turn the tables, but consider the money that has been saved, it’s one of the oldest and they’re accepted by now. Does all the money go into one place or not? If you reduce – see a lot of these people use more money than usual because they sit around and it’s getting darker and they see less and less. Once they get to be 85, bang!, then it’s usually too old. They lose a few cases, you know, because people live another 10-15 years and battle them out and after five years they say, ‘shit, give them the money,’ but it’s very rare.”
I was pretty flabbergasted by the length and detail of this theory – clearly he’s been thinking a lot about it.
On the subject of weird theories, Mia told me that Dad’ next door neighbor, Charlie McKenna told her that he doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with Dad, that he thinks it’s all an elaborate joke!!! Dad is known as something of a joker among his friends, but this idea blows my mind. I pointed out to Mia that Dad probably couldn’t have faked the brain scans. They’ve all known each other for decades, and fought together to save their buildings from being condemned and demolished, and I guess maybe this is Charlie’s form of denial, of not seeing that something is happening to his friend.
Cheap Cheese
Saturday Dad was in a talkative mood. On the phone with Kate S., he told her “I’m alive and kicking and swearing sometimes.” Telling her about the years between college and graduate school, he said “I bummed around. I looked for the cheap cheese.” Then, apparently realizing that the sentence about cheap cheese wasn’t what he’d meant to say, he added “I’m losing my mind.”
Later, after complaining about an itchy arm, he said, “That’s right. I was going to take a tank. Did I take a tank?” More and more often, he’s saying things that we can’t figure out. Sometimes I can get enough information by asking more questions to solve the puzzle, but other times, like this one, I just say, “I’m not sure, Dad.”
One of the hardest parts is his own awareness that something’s wrong – after the question about the tank, he said, “I’m getting rather dipsy and dumpsy.” And when I ran into Mia on the street yesterday, she told me that he’d told her that something was wrong with his brain, which hopefully is a sign that my constant explanations about his brain “not working so well” have been getting through on some level, at least.
Watching his cat walk by, he commented “she’s an older cat and she’s in good condition, but she never used her language until a week ago?”
As the sun set, he got more confused. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t know where the hell I am.” “At the dinner table,” I replied. “Are we having dinner?” he asked, even though there were no plates or food on the table. “No,” I told him. “We already had dinner.”
When his best friend Charlie called, he told him, “I’m feeling rather peevish.” Listening to him on the phone with Charlie, I was able to tell how he had hidden his impairment from Peter Heinemann for so long – he mostly lets the other person talk, and asks questions about whatever detail he is able to latch on to.
As I was getting ready to go, he asked, “Is this my land or your land?” I wanted to burst into a chorus of Woody Guthrie, but instead I told him, “It’s your apartment, Dad.”
Later, after complaining about an itchy arm, he said, “That’s right. I was going to take a tank. Did I take a tank?” More and more often, he’s saying things that we can’t figure out. Sometimes I can get enough information by asking more questions to solve the puzzle, but other times, like this one, I just say, “I’m not sure, Dad.”
One of the hardest parts is his own awareness that something’s wrong – after the question about the tank, he said, “I’m getting rather dipsy and dumpsy.” And when I ran into Mia on the street yesterday, she told me that he’d told her that something was wrong with his brain, which hopefully is a sign that my constant explanations about his brain “not working so well” have been getting through on some level, at least.
Watching his cat walk by, he commented “she’s an older cat and she’s in good condition, but she never used her language until a week ago?”
As the sun set, he got more confused. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t know where the hell I am.” “At the dinner table,” I replied. “Are we having dinner?” he asked, even though there were no plates or food on the table. “No,” I told him. “We already had dinner.”
When his best friend Charlie called, he told him, “I’m feeling rather peevish.” Listening to him on the phone with Charlie, I was able to tell how he had hidden his impairment from Peter Heinemann for so long – he mostly lets the other person talk, and asks questions about whatever detail he is able to latch on to.
As I was getting ready to go, he asked, “Is this my land or your land?” I wanted to burst into a chorus of Woody Guthrie, but instead I told him, “It’s your apartment, Dad.”
Friday, July 3, 2009
imported from Mars
Gus-the-kitten is standing on my notes, screaming for attention, and occasionally swatting me as I write this.
Wednesday evening I took Gus to visit Dad. Kate S. and Michael were there, too. Dad held Gus and gingerly stroked his tiny, fuzzy body.
Dad was in a silly mood, and Kate S. said to him, “you’re a lot of fun, Addison.” To which he replied, “sometimes . . . sometimes I’m kind of gruesome.”
As part of his overall silliness, Dad stuck his nose into his tall plastic cup and used his nose to rock it back and forth. At first he did it with an empty cup, but then he did it with the cup filled with juice. Kate S. tried to warn him, “Addison, you might spill it.” “I very well might,” he agreed, seeming not at all disturbed by the possibility and continuing to do it. When he was done with this activity, he said “I did something nobody else has ever done, hooray!” and threw up his arms in a cheer.
The day before, he and Kate S. were listening to the “light classical” station, and there were several composers neither of them had heard of. Dad theorized that “they must have imported them from Mars.”
Gay Pride 2009
My writing has gotten severely derailed by the presence of Gus, a 5-week old motherless grey tabby kitten. Even as I type this with one hand, Gus is grabbing the other hand in a fit of kitten playfulness. He’s going to his new home tomorrow, leaving me sad, but hopefully a lot more productive.
Dad didn’t make it to the Pride dance last Friday because both Brianna and Kate were too sick to take him, but he did join New Alternatives for the Pride Parade on Sunday. One of our volunteers, Russell went to pick him up. When he got there, Dad said “I though nobody was going to come get me.” They took a cab to the area where we were lining up, and we put Dad in the cab of the truck. Everyone was so excited to have him there, they kept giving him treats – every time I went to check on him, he was eating something different – a hot dog, a sandwich, a tootsie pop.
The Parade was excruciatingly late leaving – we had been told to line up at 11am and we didn’t step off until 2pm, but Dad hung in there until 25th st or so, when he started trying to get out of the truck and it turned out that he needed to pee. Russell and another volunteer, got him out of the truck and took him to a coffee shop bathroom. I was worried about them catching up, but they got a lift from the police – it scared the hell out of us when a police car pulled up next to our contingent, but it was just Dad and Russell! Dad tried to pay the cop, mistaking him for a cab driver.
Dad started to get confused – somehow he had gotten it through his head that we were trying to catch a train, and he was worried that we were going to be late and miss it because the truck was moving so slowly. When I told him that we were in the Gay Pride Parade, he said “is that what the trouble is?”
He wasn’t able to finish the whole 5-mile route because we had to take the truck out of service at 15th street – it was a rental and the parade was so behind schedule that we had to return the truck before the parade ended. Everyone else walked, but Russell took Dad home. The adventure must’ve worn him out, because when I got there about 7pm, he was sleeping crossways across his bed.
Dad didn’t make it to the Pride dance last Friday because both Brianna and Kate were too sick to take him, but he did join New Alternatives for the Pride Parade on Sunday. One of our volunteers, Russell went to pick him up. When he got there, Dad said “I though nobody was going to come get me.” They took a cab to the area where we were lining up, and we put Dad in the cab of the truck. Everyone was so excited to have him there, they kept giving him treats – every time I went to check on him, he was eating something different – a hot dog, a sandwich, a tootsie pop.
The Parade was excruciatingly late leaving – we had been told to line up at 11am and we didn’t step off until 2pm, but Dad hung in there until 25th st or so, when he started trying to get out of the truck and it turned out that he needed to pee. Russell and another volunteer, got him out of the truck and took him to a coffee shop bathroom. I was worried about them catching up, but they got a lift from the police – it scared the hell out of us when a police car pulled up next to our contingent, but it was just Dad and Russell! Dad tried to pay the cop, mistaking him for a cab driver.
Dad started to get confused – somehow he had gotten it through his head that we were trying to catch a train, and he was worried that we were going to be late and miss it because the truck was moving so slowly. When I told him that we were in the Gay Pride Parade, he said “is that what the trouble is?”
He wasn’t able to finish the whole 5-mile route because we had to take the truck out of service at 15th street – it was a rental and the parade was so behind schedule that we had to return the truck before the parade ended. Everyone else walked, but Russell took Dad home. The adventure must’ve worn him out, because when I got there about 7pm, he was sleeping crossways across his bed.
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