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.