This week has been challenging for Team Dad. On Monday, Kate S. was talking to Dad on the phone and told him she would be coming to see him the next day. Then I, desperate for conversation topics, told Dad that he would be coming to my house for Halloween, to hand out candy to the kids. He loves children, and has always enjoyed this in the past, so I thought it would make him happy.
Unfortunately, all this information about the future overloaded Dad’s fragile memory banks and sent him into a spin. He spent the entire rest of the evening interrogating me: “Tomorrow is?” he would start. “Tuesday, Dad,” I would answer. “And something is happening?” he inquired. “Big Kate is coming to visit you,” I’d tell him. “What time?” he wanted to know. “4pm.” I answered. “Do I need to dress up?” he’d ask, in a worried tone. “No, just wear pants,” I’d tell him. “Pants?” he’d ask, confused. “Trousers!” I shouted. “What’s tomorrow?” the loop begins again. “Tuesday, Dad” . . . and we did that for HOURS.
On Tuesday, when Kate S. actually arrived, Dad repeated the exercise, except this time he was asking her about Saturday. “Something’s happening on Saturday?” he’d ask and on it went, repeating until she was on the verge of tears.
Today, during the day, Dad had forgotten all but “Something’s Happening?” which he repeated to his housekeeper so often that she called me to see if I had any idea what he was talking about. I explained to her that he’s coming to my house for Halloween, but I have no idea if she tried to explain it to him because by the time I got there tonight, he had forgotten all about it and didn’t mention it at all.
I guess it’s a lesson for us Dad-keepers: don’t mention future plans because he remembers only enough to make him know there’s more he should know and it makes him anxious.
Luckily, this evening with Brianna and I, he was pretty mellow. “What are you doing now?” he asked me. “I’m looking at you,” I told him. “That’s all you’re doing?” he replied, “Jesus, that’s dangerous!”
Later he asked me, for the umpteenth time, how old he was. “86” I replied. “Is it possible that I be that old and still walk around and talk around?” he asked me. “How old can a person be and still have kittens?” he wanted to know. “Babies?” I asked. “Yes.” He replied. I broke into laughter at the idea of a person delivering a litter of kittens.
He was playing around with his voices again, too. “Kitty cat, kitty cat, kitty cat, where are you going kitty cat?” asked his normal voice. He replied, in his special cat voice, “I’m going to shit.” The cat herself slept through this performance.
Somehow we wound up talking about yogurt, and Dad was fascinated by the sound of the word. “Yogurt. Yo-gurt. Does that mean anything?” he asked me. “I don’t think so,” I responded. “’yo’, that means ‘I’ and ‘gurt’ – I don’t know,” he said, startling me – I didn’t know he remembered any Spanish.
And then there were the just plain mysterious remarks: “There’s something different about the animal catching or seeing or believing, I think. In the old days, they either fucked him or washed him away,” declared Dad, authoritatively. I have no idea what he meant.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
10/24/09: gangsta Dad
Kate S. took this picture of Dad, wearing his hat "gangsta" style.Dad found my pants, which I had hung in the bathroom to dry. He came shuffling out of his bedroom with the elastic waist drooping around his hips and crinkly purple fabric ballooning around his skinny legs. "Dad, you're wearing my pants!" I exclaimed, and led him back to his bedroom. While I was helping him change, I said "Dad, didn't you notice that they were too big?" "Huge," he said "huge!"
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
october 8 2009: arrogance lesson
10/8/09
Showing up at Dad’s, I find him in bed, but not asleep. He’s very surprised to see me and asks what time it is. When I tell him it’s 5 o’clock, he thinks I mean 5am, and I can’t convince him otherwise. When his friend Peter calls, he wonders why he’s calling at such an odd hour. To me, he says, “your parents don’t complain about early business?” “You are my parent,” I tell him. “So, I have to pay you,” he says. “No, you don’t,” I tell him, surprised by the twist the conversation has taken. “Yes, I do,” he insists.
“Big Kate is at an Arabic lesson,” I tell Dad. “An arrogance lesson?” he asks. “No, an Arabic lesson,” I clarify. “What’s that mean?” he wants to know. “Arabic is a language,” I explain.
“How old are you?” Dad asks me for what seems like the millionth time. “33,” I answer. “Mini, mini, mini,” he comments.
He’s struggling with his words, getting words that have the same sounds or rhythm mixed up. He starts a sentence, “I, under the underhand . . . “ when he means “I, on the other hand . . . “
“I’m very unused to this,” Dad declares. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Unused to what?” I ask. “This usage of philosophy,” he responds. We have not been discussing anything remotely philosophical. “Oh,” I say, lost. “So you’ll have to be very careful,” he continues, “this should be an adventure.”
Showing up at Dad’s, I find him in bed, but not asleep. He’s very surprised to see me and asks what time it is. When I tell him it’s 5 o’clock, he thinks I mean 5am, and I can’t convince him otherwise. When his friend Peter calls, he wonders why he’s calling at such an odd hour. To me, he says, “your parents don’t complain about early business?” “You are my parent,” I tell him. “So, I have to pay you,” he says. “No, you don’t,” I tell him, surprised by the twist the conversation has taken. “Yes, I do,” he insists.
“Big Kate is at an Arabic lesson,” I tell Dad. “An arrogance lesson?” he asks. “No, an Arabic lesson,” I clarify. “What’s that mean?” he wants to know. “Arabic is a language,” I explain.
“How old are you?” Dad asks me for what seems like the millionth time. “33,” I answer. “Mini, mini, mini,” he comments.
He’s struggling with his words, getting words that have the same sounds or rhythm mixed up. He starts a sentence, “I, under the underhand . . . “ when he means “I, on the other hand . . . “
“I’m very unused to this,” Dad declares. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Unused to what?” I ask. “This usage of philosophy,” he responds. We have not been discussing anything remotely philosophical. “Oh,” I say, lost. “So you’ll have to be very careful,” he continues, “this should be an adventure.”
Saturday, October 10, 2009
10/10/09 Coming Out Day
10/10/09
As soon as I got to his house today, Dad announced, “Thank goodness you’re here, now I can get some rest!” and headed off to bed. About an hour later, he emerged. “Are you up?” I asked him. “I don’t know if I’m up, down, or sideways,” he replied.
I tell Dad the story of Pax’s tail-vs.-flypaper incident this morning, but I had to describe flypaper to him: “it’s a strip of paper coated in glue so that bugs will stick to it and you can get rid of them,” I carefully explained. When I got to the part about Pax trying to outrun the flypaper wrapped around his tail, Dad burst into laughter.
Later, he asks me what kind of work I do. “I work with young people,” I tell him. “So you always have people alive,” he observes. “There’s not much you can do for people who aren’t alive,” I respond, trying not to laugh. “Except bury them,” he says.
Continuing on the same general subject, Dad says, in a confused tone, “people who are alive live longer than people who are not alive, is that it?”
Dad is obviously searching for something, feeling various objects in his vicinity. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Any idea where a posture, a commonplace, is?” he responds, unhelpfully. When I don’t respond, he elaborates, “something to put over me?” “A sweater?” I ask, bringing him one. “Yes.”
“Where are we now?” Dad asks, while we are sitting on his couch. “In your living room,” I tell him. “I know that,” he says, impatiently. “Where are we technologically?” I am at a loss.
“What do you think the percentage is of people who don’t get born, but come alive?” I think of Frankenstein. “Zero,” I say. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
After dinner, Dad gets into a thoughtful mood. “In a sense, I’ve been ashamed all my life,” he says. “Ashamed of what?” I ask. “Everything,” he says.
“50 years ago, people thought about it, but didn’t talk about it, but now they talk about it. If you talked like that 50 years ago, you’d get fired,” says Dad, rather mysteriously. “Now, they don’t care. ‘I’m not normal’ ‘oh,OK, teach your class, everyone’s a little different.’ But 50 years ago you had to shut up and I’m so old I don’t give a damn.” Am I hearing right? Is my Dad talking about being a closeted teacher?
“Some people are absolutely against all of this and the moment there’s any suggestion of –‘out! Get out!’” he continues.“Nobody’s going to kick you out or fire you now,” I reassure him, since he seems genuinely alarmed at the thought. “No, of course not, not in this City. They might have been the best teachers around, but bang!” he says.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be a big march for homosexual rights in DC,” I tell him, purposely using the word that he and his octogenarian friends tend to prefer. “Really?” he asks. “I’d like to see that. And I bet nobody throws anything at it, but 50 years ago . . . “
This is not the first time in his post-Alzheimer’s life that Dad has raised the issue of his own sexual identity, and it really confuses me. I always thought he was straight, but then again, people have a way of not noticing things that are under their own noses. Was I in denial? His many gay friends, his total acceptance of me and my queer friends, the money he gave to ACT UP and GMHC, the gay pride parades . . . those could all be seen as clues.
On the other hand, what about the collection of black cheerleader porn? Or his love for Andy Dupee (who herself married a closeted gay man)? Or my mother? I only saw him touch her in a romantic way once, but it was undeniably genuine. On the morning she died, when he came to relieve me after I’d sat with her all night, he climbed onto her hospital bed, gathered her in his arms and began kissing her gently all over. I fled the room, went home and fell into bed, and he was the one who was with her when she took her last breath.
I guess it’s really not an either/or situation – I, of all people, should know that sexual identity is a spectrum and he has said himself that he never knew whether he was straight or gay. At the time, I thought maybe that wasn’t really what he meant, just the dementia mixing up his words, but now I wonder whether what’s actually happening is that the dementia is lifting away his inhibitions, making him free to come out.
Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day.
As soon as I got to his house today, Dad announced, “Thank goodness you’re here, now I can get some rest!” and headed off to bed. About an hour later, he emerged. “Are you up?” I asked him. “I don’t know if I’m up, down, or sideways,” he replied.
I tell Dad the story of Pax’s tail-vs.-flypaper incident this morning, but I had to describe flypaper to him: “it’s a strip of paper coated in glue so that bugs will stick to it and you can get rid of them,” I carefully explained. When I got to the part about Pax trying to outrun the flypaper wrapped around his tail, Dad burst into laughter.
Later, he asks me what kind of work I do. “I work with young people,” I tell him. “So you always have people alive,” he observes. “There’s not much you can do for people who aren’t alive,” I respond, trying not to laugh. “Except bury them,” he says.
Continuing on the same general subject, Dad says, in a confused tone, “people who are alive live longer than people who are not alive, is that it?”
Dad is obviously searching for something, feeling various objects in his vicinity. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Any idea where a posture, a commonplace, is?” he responds, unhelpfully. When I don’t respond, he elaborates, “something to put over me?” “A sweater?” I ask, bringing him one. “Yes.”
“Where are we now?” Dad asks, while we are sitting on his couch. “In your living room,” I tell him. “I know that,” he says, impatiently. “Where are we technologically?” I am at a loss.
“What do you think the percentage is of people who don’t get born, but come alive?” I think of Frankenstein. “Zero,” I say. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
After dinner, Dad gets into a thoughtful mood. “In a sense, I’ve been ashamed all my life,” he says. “Ashamed of what?” I ask. “Everything,” he says.
“50 years ago, people thought about it, but didn’t talk about it, but now they talk about it. If you talked like that 50 years ago, you’d get fired,” says Dad, rather mysteriously. “Now, they don’t care. ‘I’m not normal’ ‘oh,OK, teach your class, everyone’s a little different.’ But 50 years ago you had to shut up and I’m so old I don’t give a damn.” Am I hearing right? Is my Dad talking about being a closeted teacher?
“Some people are absolutely against all of this and the moment there’s any suggestion of –‘out! Get out!’” he continues.“Nobody’s going to kick you out or fire you now,” I reassure him, since he seems genuinely alarmed at the thought. “No, of course not, not in this City. They might have been the best teachers around, but bang!” he says.
“Tomorrow there’s going to be a big march for homosexual rights in DC,” I tell him, purposely using the word that he and his octogenarian friends tend to prefer. “Really?” he asks. “I’d like to see that. And I bet nobody throws anything at it, but 50 years ago . . . “
This is not the first time in his post-Alzheimer’s life that Dad has raised the issue of his own sexual identity, and it really confuses me. I always thought he was straight, but then again, people have a way of not noticing things that are under their own noses. Was I in denial? His many gay friends, his total acceptance of me and my queer friends, the money he gave to ACT UP and GMHC, the gay pride parades . . . those could all be seen as clues.
On the other hand, what about the collection of black cheerleader porn? Or his love for Andy Dupee (who herself married a closeted gay man)? Or my mother? I only saw him touch her in a romantic way once, but it was undeniably genuine. On the morning she died, when he came to relieve me after I’d sat with her all night, he climbed onto her hospital bed, gathered her in his arms and began kissing her gently all over. I fled the room, went home and fell into bed, and he was the one who was with her when she took her last breath.
I guess it’s really not an either/or situation – I, of all people, should know that sexual identity is a spectrum and he has said himself that he never knew whether he was straight or gay. At the time, I thought maybe that wasn’t really what he meant, just the dementia mixing up his words, but now I wonder whether what’s actually happening is that the dementia is lifting away his inhibitions, making him free to come out.
Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day.
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