January 30th, 2010

Dad is driving me crazy tonight. He's completely obsessed with his bed and the idea that someone's going to steal it. He keeps asking questions like “Somebody's going to come at 12 o'clock and push me out?” No matter how many times I reassure him, he can't shake the thought. “What about the guy that usually uses it?” he asks. When I tell him that he sleeps there every night, he won't believe me. When I ask him where he thinks he's been sleeping, he says “here and there.” So far, we've been to check on his bed three times, feeling it thoroughly to make sure there aren't any intruders. “Are you sure someone isn't there?” he keeps asking. “I'm always afraid that someone's going to come and say 'get out of there'!” “If every day, someone comes and gets into it, what do I do?” I'm running out of patience, and say, louder than I intend, “Dad! That's never happened and it never will.” It doesn't work. “What if the guy who sleeps here comes?” he asks again. I try a different approach. “He moved out.” I say, as confidently as I can. “Yesterday?” Dad asks. “Yes, he moved to Switzerland yesterday.” “I might as well use the bed, then,” says Dad.

On one of our bed-inspection trips, Dad decided he wanted an extra blanket, so I started rummaging in the closet. I found a blanket-bag, but it was labeled “1910-era bear skin lap robe”!!! I've never been good with dead animals so I just left the bag closed and shoved it back in the closet. The other blanket-bag contained a handmade patchwork quilt, made by a relative of Dad's who was injured while fighting the civil war and spent the rest of his life, unable to walk, making quilts. Given the quilt's age, I was afraid to actually put it on the bed, so I shoved that back, too. I think I'll just buy Dad a new blanket.