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.”