8/27/09
Dad is still sick – he’s congested and his voice is hoarse. Even worse, the germs have somehow gotten into his eyes, which are red and oozing pus. We’ll have to call the doctor tomorrow.
Being sick has made Dad’s mental abilities deteriorate – he responds pretty appropriately to questions and in conversation, but when he speaks spontaneously, he either leaves the sentences unfinished, or just talks gibberish. For instance, he asked me “when is your normal floor takeover??” And then there was the following exchange; Dad: “I was going to spend time making up, but I didn’t do it, did I?” Me: “Making up?” Dad: “Doing lost causes.”
When I asked how he felt, he said, “My eyes are still drizzling.” He keeps trying to improve the situation by washing his face – in fact, one of his clearest remarks of the evening was “I’m going to wash my face assiduously.”
I tried to engage him in conversation, but it was slow going, as though the words were having to slog through the glop in his head. “The cat is drinking,” I told him. “I wonder if she’s drinking cedar or something stronger?” he asked. “Cats don’t drink cider,” I told him. “They don’t?” he asked. “They only drink water,” I explained, leaving out the unusual instance of Lex, my lemonade-loving grey tabby. “That’s all they drink?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.
“The cats like to knock over the garbage,” I told Dad. “They think it’s fun.” This made him laugh. “So you tip it over before they get a chance?” he asked, apparently thinking this was a logical solution. “No,” I told him, “I pick it up afterwards.”
“Why is he not sitting down?” he asked me suddenly, looking at thin air. “Why is who not sitting down?” I ask. “Did you see somebody?” “Yeah,” he answers, “but now I don’t see anybody.”
Oddly enough, when I put on Pete Seeger’s cd, Dad not only remembered him, but remembered going to see his concert way back in November and remembered that it was crowded! You never know what’s going to stick in that brain of his.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
8/24/09 Return from Gloucester
8/24/09
Driving home yesterday, Dad tortured us all for hours by asking question after question. “Where are we going?” “What are we going to do next?” “How far is it?” “How much do I owe you?” and on and on. We kept trying to answer them in a way that would make sense to him, but the questions kept reappearing, interspersed with snatches of the Stars and Stripes Forever. It was a huge relief when he fell asleep for a while.
Today he has a cold and is not very happy about it. He doesn’t exactly understand about germs anymore, but when we were both petting the cat and his hand touched mine, he said, “Now I’ve given you the bad things.” I explained that the bad things would have to get to my face to make me sick, and he urged me to wash my hands quickly.
Since was sick, he went to bed early. When I finished cleaning up and went to check on him, he had moved both pillows to the foot of the bed and was sitting up, looking confused. When I asked him what was going on, he said “I’m looking for a tie.” When I responded “a tie?” he mimed putting on a necktie. “You don’t need a tie, Dad, you’re going to bed,” I explained. He sat and thought about that for a while, and then corrected himself, “a hat.” I found his hat and he settled down.
Speaking of finding things, I stumbled across a treasure trove of photos on one of his shelves. Unfortunately, they’re not dated or labeled, and they range from photos from his archaeological expeditions to classroom photos, so I can only figure out details for a few.
For instance, this image is Dad using a microscope on an archaeological expedition – it has writing on the back that says “Arroyo Cuervo” and “Did I ever need that microscope!” (see next post for image)
Driving home yesterday, Dad tortured us all for hours by asking question after question. “Where are we going?” “What are we going to do next?” “How far is it?” “How much do I owe you?” and on and on. We kept trying to answer them in a way that would make sense to him, but the questions kept reappearing, interspersed with snatches of the Stars and Stripes Forever. It was a huge relief when he fell asleep for a while.
Today he has a cold and is not very happy about it. He doesn’t exactly understand about germs anymore, but when we were both petting the cat and his hand touched mine, he said, “Now I’ve given you the bad things.” I explained that the bad things would have to get to my face to make me sick, and he urged me to wash my hands quickly.
Since was sick, he went to bed early. When I finished cleaning up and went to check on him, he had moved both pillows to the foot of the bed and was sitting up, looking confused. When I asked him what was going on, he said “I’m looking for a tie.” When I responded “a tie?” he mimed putting on a necktie. “You don’t need a tie, Dad, you’re going to bed,” I explained. He sat and thought about that for a while, and then corrected himself, “a hat.” I found his hat and he settled down.
Speaking of finding things, I stumbled across a treasure trove of photos on one of his shelves. Unfortunately, they’re not dated or labeled, and they range from photos from his archaeological expeditions to classroom photos, so I can only figure out details for a few.
For instance, this image is Dad using a microscope on an archaeological expedition – it has writing on the back that says “Arroyo Cuervo” and “Did I ever need that microscope!” (see next post for image)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
August 23 Dad's great escape
8/22/09
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a mistake to take Dad out of his familiar surroundings. He’s still really disoriented and spent pretty much the whole day today peppering me with questions about where we are and what we’re doing here. At one point, I had finally gotten through to him that we are in Gloucester and then he said, “why don’t I just walk home?” and then I had to go through the whole explanation about how he lives in NYC and we’re going back there tomorrow. Then he thought he needed to find an apartment and a job in NYC!
Today we went to our house and visited with one of the tenants, and Dad had one of his “crazy” attacks where he seemed to know absolutely nothing. I was sitting at the table with him, answering question after question, and finally he said, “I’m scared,” and it was just too much for me and the tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t speak so Paul and Kate S. and Brianna had to pinch hit some of the questions for me. Eventually he came out of it, and was able to say that he had felt “crazy”.
I was exhausted when we got back to the motel and so was Dad, so we both took a nap. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn’t hear Dad get up, until I heard a stranger saying, loudly, “the bathroom isn’t here, you’re not in your room!” I jolted awake and discovered that Dad had gone through the room door instead of the bathroom door and was outside, by himself. Luckily, that door led to the parking lot and not the road, rocks and ocean on the other side, any one of which could have been a total disaster for Dad. That would have made a hell of a headline for the local small-town newspaper, where at least one front-page story is usually about fish: “Elder falls in ocean while caregiver sleeps!”
Kate S. and Brianna had the brainstorm of getting takeout and bringing it to the motel while Dad and I stayed behind, sparing him another trip and another new environment. After we ate, Dad went back into inquisition mode, and they headed off to bed, leaving me to answer another barrage of questions. One of the things that gets hard about Dad’s disoriented episodes is that even his ability to process language breaks down, so it’s hard to keep answering his questions and make yourself understood. For instance, he wanted to know what he would do when we got back to NYC, and I explained that lots of people would visit him. He wanted to know why people visited him, and I said, “because you’re a fun guy.” “I’m a sun god?” he asked, bewildered. “No,” I said, “you’re a fun guy.” “Spun guide?” he asked, even more confused, and on we went.
We’re leaving here tomorrow, and even though Gloucester is my “special place” and I love it here, it will be a relief to go. I can’t imagine being here without Dad, but I also can’t wrap my head around coming back with him, at least without a paid caregiver.
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a mistake to take Dad out of his familiar surroundings. He’s still really disoriented and spent pretty much the whole day today peppering me with questions about where we are and what we’re doing here. At one point, I had finally gotten through to him that we are in Gloucester and then he said, “why don’t I just walk home?” and then I had to go through the whole explanation about how he lives in NYC and we’re going back there tomorrow. Then he thought he needed to find an apartment and a job in NYC!
Today we went to our house and visited with one of the tenants, and Dad had one of his “crazy” attacks where he seemed to know absolutely nothing. I was sitting at the table with him, answering question after question, and finally he said, “I’m scared,” and it was just too much for me and the tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t speak so Paul and Kate S. and Brianna had to pinch hit some of the questions for me. Eventually he came out of it, and was able to say that he had felt “crazy”.
I was exhausted when we got back to the motel and so was Dad, so we both took a nap. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn’t hear Dad get up, until I heard a stranger saying, loudly, “the bathroom isn’t here, you’re not in your room!” I jolted awake and discovered that Dad had gone through the room door instead of the bathroom door and was outside, by himself. Luckily, that door led to the parking lot and not the road, rocks and ocean on the other side, any one of which could have been a total disaster for Dad. That would have made a hell of a headline for the local small-town newspaper, where at least one front-page story is usually about fish: “Elder falls in ocean while caregiver sleeps!”
Kate S. and Brianna had the brainstorm of getting takeout and bringing it to the motel while Dad and I stayed behind, sparing him another trip and another new environment. After we ate, Dad went back into inquisition mode, and they headed off to bed, leaving me to answer another barrage of questions. One of the things that gets hard about Dad’s disoriented episodes is that even his ability to process language breaks down, so it’s hard to keep answering his questions and make yourself understood. For instance, he wanted to know what he would do when we got back to NYC, and I explained that lots of people would visit him. He wanted to know why people visited him, and I said, “because you’re a fun guy.” “I’m a sun god?” he asked, bewildered. “No,” I said, “you’re a fun guy.” “Spun guide?” he asked, even more confused, and on we went.
We’re leaving here tomorrow, and even though Gloucester is my “special place” and I love it here, it will be a relief to go. I can’t imagine being here without Dad, but I also can’t wrap my head around coming back with him, at least without a paid caregiver.
Friday, August 21, 2009
august 21 86th birthday
August 21, 2009
Today is Dad’s 86th birthday! He has re-discovered it several times; as in “today is our birthday?” “No, Dad, it’s YOUR birthday!”and mostly been delighted, although shocked by his age. He says, “I don’t feel more than 25.”
We all gathered in one of our motel rooms and presented him with his gifts: a “stop the whaling” sweatshirt, four music cds - including one of Souza marches (uh-oh) – a hat with the logo of his cigar store, and the most exciting – a box of 100 Macanudo Ascots, his current favorite cigar. He was very happy.
The celebration continued tonight at Alchemy, one of the best restaurants in Gloucester, with our friends John and Paul Henry. Dad wasn’t at his best – we’d been dragging him around all day and he was tired and the restaurant was noisy. He was impatient and barely involved in the conversation; his sole focus seemed to be on dessert. He was also doing his voices, the first time I’ve seen him do that in public, and, on the way out, his groping hand landed squarely on a strange man’s ass. Ooops! To the guy’s credit, he ignored it.
Earlier in the day, we went to Rockport, with the primary goal of purchasing salt water taffy, which is made at this ancient candy store called Tuck’s. Since Dad’s walking is limited, we had to take turns sitting on a bench with him while the others went into the store. Rockport is a lovely, picturesque place to wander around – great for window-shopping, a favorite activity of Brianna’s – but none of us could really wander freely without worrying about whoever was stuck baking on the bench with Dad. We didn’t stay long.
We also went on a quest: to find Dad’s safe-deposit box. We know he has one, probably opened about 60 years ago, but we don’t know which bank it’s in or what, if anything, is inside. We started with the Bank of Gloucester, the obvious choice since he has an old savings account there, but no luck. We then tried the Cape Ann savings bank, which seemed familiar to Dad, but had no records of his box. In the Cape Ann bank, there was a line, and Dad quickly got tired, and began – loudly – asking for a chair. Finally, I got out of line and guided him to a green sofa on one side of the lobby, where he sat kicking his feet with the orange clogs. Luckily, the teller was kind and didn’t make a fuss about him not being the one making the request. I think we’re going to have to wait until the annual bill comes and see which bank it’s from.
Today is Dad’s 86th birthday! He has re-discovered it several times; as in “today is our birthday?” “No, Dad, it’s YOUR birthday!”and mostly been delighted, although shocked by his age. He says, “I don’t feel more than 25.”
We all gathered in one of our motel rooms and presented him with his gifts: a “stop the whaling” sweatshirt, four music cds - including one of Souza marches (uh-oh) – a hat with the logo of his cigar store, and the most exciting – a box of 100 Macanudo Ascots, his current favorite cigar. He was very happy.
The celebration continued tonight at Alchemy, one of the best restaurants in Gloucester, with our friends John and Paul Henry. Dad wasn’t at his best – we’d been dragging him around all day and he was tired and the restaurant was noisy. He was impatient and barely involved in the conversation; his sole focus seemed to be on dessert. He was also doing his voices, the first time I’ve seen him do that in public, and, on the way out, his groping hand landed squarely on a strange man’s ass. Ooops! To the guy’s credit, he ignored it.
Earlier in the day, we went to Rockport, with the primary goal of purchasing salt water taffy, which is made at this ancient candy store called Tuck’s. Since Dad’s walking is limited, we had to take turns sitting on a bench with him while the others went into the store. Rockport is a lovely, picturesque place to wander around – great for window-shopping, a favorite activity of Brianna’s – but none of us could really wander freely without worrying about whoever was stuck baking on the bench with Dad. We didn’t stay long.
We also went on a quest: to find Dad’s safe-deposit box. We know he has one, probably opened about 60 years ago, but we don’t know which bank it’s in or what, if anything, is inside. We started with the Bank of Gloucester, the obvious choice since he has an old savings account there, but no luck. We then tried the Cape Ann savings bank, which seemed familiar to Dad, but had no records of his box. In the Cape Ann bank, there was a line, and Dad quickly got tired, and began – loudly – asking for a chair. Finally, I got out of line and guided him to a green sofa on one side of the lobby, where he sat kicking his feet with the orange clogs. Luckily, the teller was kind and didn’t make a fuss about him not being the one making the request. I think we’re going to have to wait until the annual bill comes and see which bank it’s from.
Dad in Gloucester Day 2
8/20/09
Vacationing with Dad is pretty exhausting. Not only is he waking up a lot at night to pee, but he has lost the ability to realize that he’s keeping me awake, so after he gets back from the bathroom, we have these nonsensical, half-awake discussions until he falls asleep. It doesn’t help that Marie packed the pills for his knees, but left out the ones for his prostate. Last night, he asked me three times in a row why we couldn’t go to bed together. He was so discombobulated that neither the word “family” or the word “relatives” registered with him, so I just said, sternly, “because I’m your daughter.” Even if the meaning of the words wasn’t clear to him, the tone must have been, because he backed off and went to sleep, though I heard him mumble the word “limp” as he was falling asleep.
Being in new surroundings is definitely disorienting him. At 1:30am, he decided to rehearse the route to the bathroom, so we traipsed back and forth several times. Then he lay in bed, tracing the route in the air with his hand until he fell asleep. Even so, today we heard a “how do I get out of here?” from the bathroom. Kate S. went to fetch him and found him in the bathtub – despite the sizable step over the side of the tub, he had stumbled in.
Today, we took Dad to the beach. He needed appropriate footwear, so we bought him a pair of orange crocs (the only color available in his size at the end-of-season sale). He looked adorable in them. It was too far for him to walk to the water, but we set him up in his folding chair in the sand. I peeled him down to just a t-shirt and he sat there in the salty breeze and said, “this is good.” Brianna sat with him while Kate S. and I frolicked in the water.
Vacationing with Dad is pretty exhausting. Not only is he waking up a lot at night to pee, but he has lost the ability to realize that he’s keeping me awake, so after he gets back from the bathroom, we have these nonsensical, half-awake discussions until he falls asleep. It doesn’t help that Marie packed the pills for his knees, but left out the ones for his prostate. Last night, he asked me three times in a row why we couldn’t go to bed together. He was so discombobulated that neither the word “family” or the word “relatives” registered with him, so I just said, sternly, “because I’m your daughter.” Even if the meaning of the words wasn’t clear to him, the tone must have been, because he backed off and went to sleep, though I heard him mumble the word “limp” as he was falling asleep.
Being in new surroundings is definitely disorienting him. At 1:30am, he decided to rehearse the route to the bathroom, so we traipsed back and forth several times. Then he lay in bed, tracing the route in the air with his hand until he fell asleep. Even so, today we heard a “how do I get out of here?” from the bathroom. Kate S. went to fetch him and found him in the bathtub – despite the sizable step over the side of the tub, he had stumbled in.
Today, we took Dad to the beach. He needed appropriate footwear, so we bought him a pair of orange crocs (the only color available in his size at the end-of-season sale). He looked adorable in them. It was too far for him to walk to the water, but we set him up in his folding chair in the sand. I peeled him down to just a t-shirt and he sat there in the salty breeze and said, “this is good.” Brianna sat with him while Kate S. and I frolicked in the water.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
August 19: Gloucester 1
8/19/09
We’re in Gloucester! It’s been a long day – tons of traffic caused by an accident on the way up, and, of course, frequent bathroom stops for Dad.
We got off to a wacky start when Brianna arrived at Dad’s apartment and found him still undressed and saying that he didn’t want to go, that we should just go without him. She managed to convince him to get dressed and then got him downstairs and into the car, but as we were driving, he was making comments about being “forced to go on this expedition.” It wasn’t until after lunch that he started to get more enthusiastic, saying that he was glad he came.
One of the most nerve-wracking aspects of traveling with Dad is having to send him into public men’s rooms without us. At a rest stop today, he was gone for long enough that Kate S. and I were getting anxious and hovering by the door. Finally Kate S. asked a man coming out whether he had seen an old man “bumbling around” in there – he often can’t find the exit and just wanders until he comes across it by accident. The guy assured us, in a southern drawl, that another guy was helping him, and indeed, Dad reappeared on the arm of another man. Thank goodness for kind strangers.
We had a funny moment in the car – Dad was doing his usual feeling of things around him, and came to Brianna, sitting next to him in the backseat. He ran his hand over her face in the usual blind-and-curious style, and then announced, “you need a shave!” We all laughed and laughed at that.
One problem was his difficulty remembering where we were going. The whole way he kept asking and we kept reminding him that we were going to Gloucester. Then once we arrived, he didn’t believe us when we told him we were in Gloucester! Finally, Brianna thought of a creative way to convince him – she went into a gas station and came back with a bottle of Moxie, a very local drink, and had Dad drink it so that he would know where he was. Moxie seems to be Dad’s madeleine.
When we got to our house, I told Dad we were at 424 Essex Ave., and he said, “I live here!”apparently forgetting that he left Gloucester at twenty and has never really lived here since. Since the house is rented to our friend John and his brother, we aren’t staying there.
Arriving at the motel, I gave Dad a tour of the room. When came to the bathroom, he pointed at the toilet, and said, “is this the teapot?” a cross between “toilet” and “pisspot” – a word he still sometimes uses even though the days of outhouses in Gloucester and chamber pots are long gone.
More anxiety dreams last night - in one, we were swimming and suddenly I realized Dad was underwater. I hauled him out, all limp and grey. In the second, Dad had turned into this tiny, fragile worm-thing that I was holding very gingerly in the palm of my hand.
We’re in Gloucester! It’s been a long day – tons of traffic caused by an accident on the way up, and, of course, frequent bathroom stops for Dad.
We got off to a wacky start when Brianna arrived at Dad’s apartment and found him still undressed and saying that he didn’t want to go, that we should just go without him. She managed to convince him to get dressed and then got him downstairs and into the car, but as we were driving, he was making comments about being “forced to go on this expedition.” It wasn’t until after lunch that he started to get more enthusiastic, saying that he was glad he came.
One of the most nerve-wracking aspects of traveling with Dad is having to send him into public men’s rooms without us. At a rest stop today, he was gone for long enough that Kate S. and I were getting anxious and hovering by the door. Finally Kate S. asked a man coming out whether he had seen an old man “bumbling around” in there – he often can’t find the exit and just wanders until he comes across it by accident. The guy assured us, in a southern drawl, that another guy was helping him, and indeed, Dad reappeared on the arm of another man. Thank goodness for kind strangers.
We had a funny moment in the car – Dad was doing his usual feeling of things around him, and came to Brianna, sitting next to him in the backseat. He ran his hand over her face in the usual blind-and-curious style, and then announced, “you need a shave!” We all laughed and laughed at that.
One problem was his difficulty remembering where we were going. The whole way he kept asking and we kept reminding him that we were going to Gloucester. Then once we arrived, he didn’t believe us when we told him we were in Gloucester! Finally, Brianna thought of a creative way to convince him – she went into a gas station and came back with a bottle of Moxie, a very local drink, and had Dad drink it so that he would know where he was. Moxie seems to be Dad’s madeleine.
When we got to our house, I told Dad we were at 424 Essex Ave., and he said, “I live here!”apparently forgetting that he left Gloucester at twenty and has never really lived here since. Since the house is rented to our friend John and his brother, we aren’t staying there.
Arriving at the motel, I gave Dad a tour of the room. When came to the bathroom, he pointed at the toilet, and said, “is this the teapot?” a cross between “toilet” and “pisspot” – a word he still sometimes uses even though the days of outhouses in Gloucester and chamber pots are long gone.
More anxiety dreams last night - in one, we were swimming and suddenly I realized Dad was underwater. I hauled him out, all limp and grey. In the second, Dad had turned into this tiny, fragile worm-thing that I was holding very gingerly in the palm of my hand.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
August 16: Weird dream
8/16/09
Weird dream last night:
I was in Dad’s apartment, and I looked up and saw a hole in the wall, clear through to the sky, and cracks all around. I didn’t know where Dad was, so I ran through the apartment looking for him and saw that all the rooms had cracks and holes – the building was collapsing. Finally I found Dad, in his rocking chair, on a narrow outdoor balcony that doesn’t exist in reality. I wanted to grab him and rush out of the building, but I was afraid he would fall off the balcony, so I had to gingerly edge out and guide him in, while the building was collapsing all around us.
Weird dream last night:
I was in Dad’s apartment, and I looked up and saw a hole in the wall, clear through to the sky, and cracks all around. I didn’t know where Dad was, so I ran through the apartment looking for him and saw that all the rooms had cracks and holes – the building was collapsing. Finally I found Dad, in his rocking chair, on a narrow outdoor balcony that doesn’t exist in reality. I wanted to grab him and rush out of the building, but I was afraid he would fall off the balcony, so I had to gingerly edge out and guide him in, while the building was collapsing all around us.
August 15th: discombobulated
8/15/09
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
I got to Dad’s late, after seeing off the New Alternatives youth, who were going to see a production of Rent at a castle in NJ. He was asleep, so I followed the wise path best known to mothers of infants - I let him sleep while taking a moment for myself. He woke up after half an hour, completely discombobulated. He came shuffling out of the bedroom wearing a navy sweatshirt, red socks, black dress shoes, and a wine-red baseball cap. No underwear or pants. He got all the way across the apartment, then said “I haven’t got my pants on,” and reversed course, giving me a good view of his wobbly, deflated ass.
He seemed puzzled by my presence, so I said, “I came by to see how you’re doing.” “I’m doing crazy,” Dad responded. “It’s a good thing I came by, then,” I replied. Dad was genuinely puzzled, “Why? What’re you going to do about it?” “Just keep you company while you’re being crazy,” I answered.
Watching Dad sitting down, his careful maneuvering toward the seat, turning around, and gingerly lowering himself onto the couch reminds me of a plane coming in for a landing.
Sitting next to me, he says, “I’d like to drill right through you and make something great.” This sentence could be creepy, but it resonates with my artistic side and I imagine myself as part of a sculpture. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Dad asks me. “It sounds artistic,” I reply. “My mind is rolling around,” Dad explains.
I’m helping Dad reconstruct his day before I arrived. I look for clues, like a detective.“You ate a banana – there’s a peel in the garbage. You ate the leftover mashed potatoes – the Tupperware is in the sink. You ate ¾ of a donut – the last quarter is sitting on the counter. And you probably talked to Charlie Burgess at some point today.” “Crossed the Charles, the river?” Dad asks. “No, Charlie Burgess, you talk to him every day,” I explain. Dad responds indignantly, “I do not. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’ve wrecked everything, I guess.” Dad says, gloomily. “I don’t think you’ve wrecked anything,” I respond. To lighten the moment, I start singing the Stars and Stripes Forever. Dad joins in, singing at the top of his lungs. “You’re just a little discombobulated today,” I tell him when we’re done singing. “Discombobulated!” he says, “hey, that’s a word I’ve used all my life. It’s a wonderful word.”
Dad asks me a question. “Yep,” I answer. “Yep, yep,” he says, savoring the sound of the word, “I love that. Yep. Yep. Yep!”
“I didn’t know who the hell you were until 15 minutes ago, but now I do,” says Dad, starting to land back in reality. He starts reminiscing about his grad school days. “Three or four guys said, ‘this guy is going to pieces if we don’t do something about it, so they did something about it and it changed my life. They said, ‘you’re going to Oregon.’ I said, ‘I’m not going to Oregon.’ They said ‘you’re GOING to Oregon.’ And I shut up. Before that I was just blah, blah, blah, blah. I never did anything bad, I just did raucous things. My mom said, ‘Oh well, gee whiz, the hell with it.’ She didn’t give a damn, I guess. I finally came back and I was a completely different person.”
“What am I?” Dad asks, abruptly. There are many possible answers. I opt for simplicity. “You’re my Dad!” I tell him. “I’m your dog?” he asks. “No, D-A-D!” I yell. “B-A-G?” he tries again. “D-A-D!!” I get louder. “B-A-D?” he asks. “D! D! D-A-D!!!” I keep trying.
I’m still prepping him for Gloucester. We go through the week, day by day. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and Michael is coming to see you,” I tell him. “Nothing on Monday,” he chimes in. “On Tuesday, they cut my . . . “ “Beard,” I fill in. “And you need to take a bath.” Dad laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “That’s a good one,” he says.
“Here I am in my mid-nineties . . . “ Dad starts out. “Hey,” I interrupt, “You’re in your mid-eighties, you’re exaggerating.” “I like to exaggerate,” Dad admits.
“I’m lazy today,” I tell Dad, flopping on the couch. “So am I,” says Dad, “although my brain keeps popping, popping.” I have an image of kernels of popped corn flying out his ears.
“You know what I regret,” Dad says, “not having kids.” “You have me,” I remind him, poking him gently. “you’re only ½ a kid, aren’t you?” he says. “I feel like a whole person,” I tell him, feeling oddly indignant at being reduced to a half. Dad doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and pats me under the chin, the way you would with a cat.
“You know what?” he says. “What?” I ask, because this is not rhetorical – he will wait for an answer indefinitely. “I’m never going to use that word again.” “What word?” I ask, confused. “I forgot,” he says.
“You know what s the trouble?” he asks again. “What?” I reply. “If we all strip down completely, it’ll be a different world.” He pauses, apparently pondering a word of nudity. “Maybe a terrible world,” he concludes.
August 13: Smut nut
8/13/09
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
“What are you famous for?” Dad asks, waking up from his nap. I know what my claim to fame is in his mind. “Cooking,”I tell him. “I’m the one that likes to cook.”
I have to plan the menu for tomorrow’s Friday night dinner, so I pull a book of desserts from the shelf. I hand it to Dad to examine. “What is this?” he wants to know. “A book,” I tell him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he says, “what is it?” “A cookbook,” I tell him. “You want me to open it up and find a really good dinner?” I know all the pages look blank to him now that his eyes are so bad, so I tell him, “I’ll read you a couple of recipes and you can tell me which sounds good.”
Instead of handing the book back to me, Dad opens it, like a tablet, holding it sideways. I reach out and rotate it, and then read over his arm, “apple filo napoleons.” “Apple spiders?” he asks. I read a few more. He keeps struggling to understand. “Tart!” I yell. “Like, the queen of hearts, she ate all the tarts.” He laughs, loving the rhyme. Maybe I should read him nursery rhymes, I think. “Walnut cake!” “Wal?” he asks. “Nut!” I yell, probably piqueing the neighbors’ interest. “Smut?” Sometimes I think he’s playing with me. “Nut!!!”
Dad discovers that he can guess which of the recipes I’ve already cooked, by feeling each page. The pages of recipes I’ve used tend to be marred with streaks of melted chocolate and bits of lemon rind and the occasional drift of sugar. The corners are dog-eared, and they open wider than the recipes I’ve never used. So it becomes a game. I read the name of every single recipe and Dad feels the pages and renders his guess. He’s very accurate. He comments along the way, “all kind of goo on it!” He starts brushing stuff off, and even scratching at the page, like a cat sharpening it’s claws. “I’m improving your book, don’t doubt it,” he says.
Dad gets up, goes to the door, sticks his head into the hallway, “hello-o-o-o-o-o!” he shouts into the empty stairwell, warbling the syllables so that he sounds like a giant bird. Getting no reply, he comes back in. “Must’ve been a fake,” he reports.
Dad is pondering the lack of other people his age; “I suppose the dearth of individual exiles – people have scattered and died. That’s why I’m the only one.”
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
August 10th: moo-ing
8/10/09
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
Dad and I are sitting on the couch being hot, when he starts to make these odd sounds. They kind of sound like a cow moo-ing, so I moo, too. Dad stops for a minute and says, admiringly, “hey, you can really do it.” Then we sit there and moo together until we run out of steam.
Dad has found my notebook again and wants to know what’s in it. I read him a list of things to take to Gay Pride, “lollipops, sunblock, water, paperwork, bananas, phone, keys.” He’s impressed. “Does everybody have a book like this?” “Just people who have to remember a lot,” I tell him.
“I’ve just been sitting here here here here and there there there there, here there, here there, dee dah doo doo doo,” says Dad about his day’s activities.
I tell Dad that Kate S. had to go to the ER last night with high blood sugar and he is worried. Trying to reassure him, I get her on the phone so they can talk. “Then you’re alive, you’re inspected, you’re OK,” he tell her, relieved.
Dad decides to make fun of his eternal confusion about Brianna’s gender. “Kate and Brianna, they’re both male, right?” he says to Kate S. on the phone. When she starts correcting him, he says, “I know, I’m kidding,” and grins at his own joke.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks me. “I’m not doing anything, I’m just lying here on the couch,” I respond to Dad, who is right beside me. “That’s about what I’m doing, too” he says.
“Do you think the cat’s going to try to pile more meat on you?” Dad asks. I don’t even try to figure this one out. The cat is hiding under the bed.
I’m trying to prep Dad for our trip to Gloucester, going through all the things we’re going to do. When I get to drinking moxie, a soda that’s not available most places, Dad brightens up. “I remember Moxie from when I was a kid,” he says.
Dad wants to know if Charlie is going to be in Gloucester and is surprised when I say no. “I thought he was part of the island,” he says.
august 6th: chocolate mouse cake
I arrive at Dad’s house, and he asks me, “you’re all dressed, right?” Odd question. “Yes, Dad.” I answer. “I didn’t want anyone to get shocked,” he explains. We’re the only ones there.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
We sit down for dinner, quesadillas, and Dad says, “this has long strings.” “That’s the cheese,” I explain. After dinner, Dad eaches out, takes hold of two of my fingers and shakes hands with them, as though he’s congratulating me on making it through another meal.
I hand Dad a small rainbow flag I got at yesterday’s vigil for the LGBT youth killed and wounded in Tel Aviv. He examines it all over, and then blows on it to make it flutter. “Is today Gay Pride?” he asks. I explain about the shootings, and he says, about the shooter, “they really ought to shoot him. Probably, they won’t.” Then his mind wanders a bit; “I wonder why they called it gay?” he muses. “It seems to me they could have gotten a better thing than that. It is short and sweet.”
Dad’s on the phone with Kate S., and she says something about me, “Little Kate”. “Where’s Little Kate?” Dad asks her, even though I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “With me?” he says into the phone. Kate tries to explain. “You mean, I’m Little Kate?” he asks her. I poke him. “I AM little Kate,” I tell him. After he gets off the phone, he says to me, “what’s the relation between us?” “I’m your daughter,” I tell him. “That’s actually true, then,” he says, applauding. “I’d heard it before but I thought it was just kidding.”
Dad and I are reviewing tomorrow’s plans. “We’re having dinner with Big Kate and Brianna,” I tell him. “Am I invited?” he asks. “of course, Dad, it’s your house,” I tell him. “That’s right,” he says, “I live here.” “I’m going to make a chocolate mousse cake,” I say. “A chocolate m-o-u-s-e cake?” he asks. “Not mouse, mousse!” I explain.
As I’m leaving, Dad’s sitting on the couch, and he pulls me down to say good-bye. I’m off-balance but I don’t fall. Then I pretend to fall on Dad, and he laughs and laughs. His sense of humor is very slapstick these days.
8/3: rocketing around
8/3/09
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
I spent the weekend in Connecticut with Kate S. and Brianna, visiting Kate’s aunt and uncle. It was a nice, relaxing weekend – we swam in a lake, went to see Harry Potter, nothing too unusual, but it was a big deal – my first time going away without Dad in years. It was a struggle deciding to go – I felt guilty about wanting to do something without him and worried about his well-being while I was away. Michael agreed to watch him, and they ran into a few problems – Dad ate all his prepared meals for the weekend on Friday, leaving nothing for Saturday and Sunday, so Michal had to be resourceful, and on Sunday, Dad drank so much prune juice that he gave himself diarrhea – but overall things went well.
Arriving at Dad’s house yesterday, I found him standing at the kitchen table, in an agitated state. Once I got him calmed down, it turned out that he was upset because the phone kept ringing and he couldn’t find it.
Sitting down, he announced “there’s a campaign going now that’s supposed to wipe me out.” Startled, I asked him what he meant. “There’s some kind of a campaign against me,” he repeated. “Everyone else is in their 30s or 40s and I’m in my 80s. There are very few people in their 80s rocketing around and I’m rocketing around.” Ignoring the paranoid thinking, which is typical of Alzheimer’s patients, I started reminding him of the people he knows who are in their 80s and are still active. When I brought up Inga, and told him that she’s still writing novels, Dad actually remembered her and said, “I used to know her well, 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”
july 30th: wedding ring
“What do you look like?” asks Dad, a strange question to be asked by your own Dad. I described myself as best I could – I’m short, with long red hair (which I let him feel), glasses, green clothes and a big bag. “After all, “ said Dad, “you’re older than I am.” “No, I’m not,” I told him. “How old are you?” he wanted to know. “33,” I answered. “Jesus!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Are your mother and father still alive?” he wants to know. “No, my mother’s dead, but you’re my Dad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize that I was getting so old,” he says, “I’m getting to be very old.”
Dad’s hands are wandering across the table again, feeling every object he comes to. He discovers a ring that someone has left on the table. “What’s this?” he wants to know. “It looks like a wedding ring,” I tell him. He tries it on each finger, and then, finding a finger that fits, leaves it there – ironically, the fourth finger of his left hand.
Searching for conversation topics, I tell him about the sculpture I have just been working on, a small person being crushed by a giant brain. “Is all your stuff like that?” he wants to know. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, but I describe the sculptures in his apartment, one by one, and hand him one to feel.
Dad comes across my notebook in his exploring. “If you leave it here, it’ll be damaged, banished,” he tells me. “Lost?” I suggest. “Yes,” he says, satisfied.
“Are your mother and father still alive?” he wants to know. “No, my mother’s dead, but you’re my Dad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize that I was getting so old,” he says, “I’m getting to be very old.”
Dad’s hands are wandering across the table again, feeling every object he comes to. He discovers a ring that someone has left on the table. “What’s this?” he wants to know. “It looks like a wedding ring,” I tell him. He tries it on each finger, and then, finding a finger that fits, leaves it there – ironically, the fourth finger of his left hand.
Searching for conversation topics, I tell him about the sculpture I have just been working on, a small person being crushed by a giant brain. “Is all your stuff like that?” he wants to know. I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, but I describe the sculptures in his apartment, one by one, and hand him one to feel.
Dad comes across my notebook in his exploring. “If you leave it here, it’ll be damaged, banished,” he tells me. “Lost?” I suggest. “Yes,” he says, satisfied.
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