Sitting in the waiting room, waiting to get his new hearing aid, Dad asks “why are we here?” “To see the ear doctor, Dad,” I explain for the 43rd time. “I never noticed that you needed to see an ear doctor,” he responds, much to the amusement of the other people waiting.
When we got home with the hearing aid, Dad was full of questions. “What is all that running water?” Dad asked. “It's raining, Dad, and that's the sound of cars going over wet streets,” I explain. He's amazed and I'm thrilled – the hearing aid really works! He even heard the creaky floorboards between his bathroom and bedroom. Of course, now we're going to have a lot of “What the hell is that?!” while he gets used to all the “new” sounds.
A couple of days later, Dad is still having trouble differentiating wet sounds. “Is it raining?” he asks. “No, Dad, that's someone in the bathroom, peeing!” I explain, trying not to laugh.
In an effort to get Dad back to a normal schedule, Jaelynn has tied his bedroom curtains back so that in the morning, he can feel the sun on his face. It seems to be working – lately he's been up and demanding breakfast at 6am – but it had an unintended consequence; the other night Jaelynn was putting Dad to bed, sitting with him in his darkened bedroom. She looked out the window, and observed one of Dad's neighbors, a man in the building behind his, performing a Britney Spears dance, stark naked. Dad, sensing that her attention had wandered, asked, “what are you looking at?” “This man is naked,” she explained. “Bacon?” asked Dad, who has to take his hearing aid out at bedtime. “No, naked!” yelled Jaelynn.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
3/20/10
3/20/10
3:30am I am wakened from a fitful sleep on Dad's couch by a roar – a wordless shout of pure feeling, of panic and pain and anger. “Dad!” I yell, searching for my glasses on the floor, “what's wrong?” “I woke up blind.” I find him in the bathroom, agitated. “What will I do now?” he asks. A tough question at any time, never mind 3:30am. “You'll feel things, with your hands, to find out where they are,” I tell him. “One trip downstairs will kill me,” he says. “You won't go downstairs alone. Somebody will help you.” “I'll have to go to the . . . .to the” he gets stuck, but I know he means the nursing home, which he usually calls “that place.” “You're not going anywhere, you're staying right here, at home, with people to help you all the time, like me, now.” He seems reassured. I lead him back to bed.
On thursday evening, I was on my way home from Dad's house, lost in thought on the subway, when a woman who was clearly still celebrating St. Patrick's day a day later started talking to me. She wound up telling me about her father-in-law, who is 82 and has Alzheimer's. Having owned a bar and first met her there, he still remembers her drink of choice - “Chardonnay!” he exclaims whenever he sees her and starts trying to serve her some, even if it's 8am.
An unexpected responsibility: now that I'm running Dad's life, I'm also in charge of his cigars. I can tell that something's not right – the cigars are too dry and prone to crumbling when I snip off the end. He keeps them in an ancient humidor, a big mahogany box with cedar inside, but there's also a piece of metal in there, and I vaguely remember him moistening it somehow, but I'm really not sure how much water to add or where it goes. I tried looking for information on line, but the articles seem to refer to more modern humidors that have some kind of gel in them, or they assume you know what the parts are called. I need a cigar expert!
3:30am I am wakened from a fitful sleep on Dad's couch by a roar – a wordless shout of pure feeling, of panic and pain and anger. “Dad!” I yell, searching for my glasses on the floor, “what's wrong?” “I woke up blind.” I find him in the bathroom, agitated. “What will I do now?” he asks. A tough question at any time, never mind 3:30am. “You'll feel things, with your hands, to find out where they are,” I tell him. “One trip downstairs will kill me,” he says. “You won't go downstairs alone. Somebody will help you.” “I'll have to go to the . . . .to the” he gets stuck, but I know he means the nursing home, which he usually calls “that place.” “You're not going anywhere, you're staying right here, at home, with people to help you all the time, like me, now.” He seems reassured. I lead him back to bed.
On thursday evening, I was on my way home from Dad's house, lost in thought on the subway, when a woman who was clearly still celebrating St. Patrick's day a day later started talking to me. She wound up telling me about her father-in-law, who is 82 and has Alzheimer's. Having owned a bar and first met her there, he still remembers her drink of choice - “Chardonnay!” he exclaims whenever he sees her and starts trying to serve her some, even if it's 8am.
An unexpected responsibility: now that I'm running Dad's life, I'm also in charge of his cigars. I can tell that something's not right – the cigars are too dry and prone to crumbling when I snip off the end. He keeps them in an ancient humidor, a big mahogany box with cedar inside, but there's also a piece of metal in there, and I vaguely remember him moistening it somehow, but I'm really not sure how much water to add or where it goes. I tried looking for information on line, but the articles seem to refer to more modern humidors that have some kind of gel in them, or they assume you know what the parts are called. I need a cigar expert!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
3/18/10
3/18/10
It's been a busy week for Dad and Jaelynn, who have been navigating their way to various appointments by themselves while I've been busy with my own medical bullshit. On tuesday, they headed to the Quest lab for Dad's urine culture, and to the foot doctor. In the elevator, Dad was doing his usual blind groping to find out about his surroundings – unfortunately, he was feeling the Fed Ex guy's ass. Luckily, the guy was cool about it. At the lab, Dad startled the “audience” of waiting people by asking JaeLynn, loudly, if he could fuck her. “Dad! We're in the doctor's office!” she told him, but he was not deterred.
Jaelynn has become the latest target of Dad's affections – he asks her to get naked or to have sex with him at least once a day. The other day, he patted her and said, “you're a little plump, aren't you?” She takes it in stride and just laughs about the situation.
The other day Dad asked Jaelynn what she was doing. “I'm painting my toenails, Dad,” she said. “Can you do mine?” asked Dad. “No, only women – and some transwomen – and some gay men paint their nails,” she said. “Do mine,” Dad insisted, removing his shoe. Dad now has a layer of shiny, clear polish.
Today they went for Dad's follow up appointment at the Urologist. The inefection has cleared up, but the doctor did a sonogram and showed JaeLynn how much urine Dad is retaining. He told her that if the situation does not improve by the next visit, Dad may have to have surgery. I wish I had been there to get more details, but I was being x-rayed so much that I probably glow in the dark now.
We've been making a general effort to keep Dad busy – now that the weather's nice, Jaelynn sits with him outside, she's got him doing his leg exercises again, and today we had him playing with a shape sorter, feeling the blocks and the holes to figure out where to put them. The increased activity has definitely helped – he's sleeping through the night a lot more now, more likely to wake up in the morning, walking better, and overall in a better mood.
It's been a busy week for Dad and Jaelynn, who have been navigating their way to various appointments by themselves while I've been busy with my own medical bullshit. On tuesday, they headed to the Quest lab for Dad's urine culture, and to the foot doctor. In the elevator, Dad was doing his usual blind groping to find out about his surroundings – unfortunately, he was feeling the Fed Ex guy's ass. Luckily, the guy was cool about it. At the lab, Dad startled the “audience” of waiting people by asking JaeLynn, loudly, if he could fuck her. “Dad! We're in the doctor's office!” she told him, but he was not deterred.
Jaelynn has become the latest target of Dad's affections – he asks her to get naked or to have sex with him at least once a day. The other day, he patted her and said, “you're a little plump, aren't you?” She takes it in stride and just laughs about the situation.
The other day Dad asked Jaelynn what she was doing. “I'm painting my toenails, Dad,” she said. “Can you do mine?” asked Dad. “No, only women – and some transwomen – and some gay men paint their nails,” she said. “Do mine,” Dad insisted, removing his shoe. Dad now has a layer of shiny, clear polish.
Today they went for Dad's follow up appointment at the Urologist. The inefection has cleared up, but the doctor did a sonogram and showed JaeLynn how much urine Dad is retaining. He told her that if the situation does not improve by the next visit, Dad may have to have surgery. I wish I had been there to get more details, but I was being x-rayed so much that I probably glow in the dark now.
We've been making a general effort to keep Dad busy – now that the weather's nice, Jaelynn sits with him outside, she's got him doing his leg exercises again, and today we had him playing with a shape sorter, feeling the blocks and the holes to figure out where to put them. The increased activity has definitely helped – he's sleeping through the night a lot more now, more likely to wake up in the morning, walking better, and overall in a better mood.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
3/9/10
3/9/10
Jaelynn and I took Dad to the ear doctor on friday. The appointment was in the afternoon, but Dad was asleep, and he was pissed about being woken up and dragged out of the house. All the way down the stairs and in the cab, he kept complaining “This is stupid! This is insane!” Finally, I realized that he thought it was the middle of the night rather than mid-afternoon. I left JaeLynn and Dad sitting in the waiting room while I filled out various forms, and when I turned back to them, Dad had taken Jaelynn's glasses and was wearing them himself! It was pretty funny.
In the exam room, the doctor quickly caught on that you have to address Dad LOUDLY, and he used his best loud voice to ask him how long he'd been having trouble hearing. “I don't have any trouble hearing,” said Dad, looking confused. At that point, the doctor decided to address his questions to me. After he examined Dad, he sent us down the hall to the audiologist. I had some doubts about whether Dad would be able to remember the instructions well enough to complete the hearing tests, but he did pretty well, and they were able to determine that he is pretty much completely deaf in his right ear (which we knew) and fairly deaf in his left ear (which was a surprise). I feel pretty bad that I let him get this deaf without bringing him to the doctor, but it's hard to figure out what part of his misunderstandings is his brain and what part is his ears. I'm looking forward to seeing how he does with his new, very expensive, hearing aid – it's supposed to be ready on the 22nd.
Saturday night, two of my now-grown former youth dropped by – one of them is a real estate agent who is showing a storefront near Dad's house. JD was there to spend the night with Dad, and he had brought along his girlfriend, Sam, so it was a full house and Dad, my party animal, seemed to be enjoying it. At one point, he asked how many people were there. “Five – plus you!” JD told him. “Fuck you?” he asked, causing everyone to laugh. Sam and I, who both saw the mischievous look on his face, are convinced that his remark was not a misunderstanding, but Dad having a little fun.
Last night started out to be a boring, gloomy evening – Dad headed to bed as soon as I arrived, and Marie said that she thought maybe we should start him on Ensure since he's not eating as much because he's always asleep. Luckily Brianna was feeling antsy at home, and decided to come visit us. I lured Dad out of bed with the promise of lemon sorbet, and he sat on the couch gloomily. “I feel really bad,” he said. “I feel ancient.”
Brianna had brought play-doh, thinking that maybe Dad's sleepiness is just boredom. I handed Dad a piece of play-doh, which he inspected, but didn't seem to know what to do with. “Can you make a ball?” I asked him. He couldn't figure it out, so I took it, made a rough ball, and gave it back to him. “I'm making it smooth,” he said turning it around and around in his hands. Once he had perfected the ball, I took it from him, and made something else. “It's a snake,” I said giving it back to him. He felt it carefully; “here's the head,” he said, before giving it back. Next I made two balls and handed them to him, “there are two now,” he said. Then the two became four, which Dad carefully counted. When we got to eight, he said, “I'm not going to drop any,” cupping them all precariously in one hand. I took another piece of play-doh and made a bowl, which I balanced in his other hand. Gingerly, he placed all eight balls in the bowl. We played with the play-doh for forty minutes, which is a really long time for someone with Dad's attention span.
Jaelynn and I took Dad to the ear doctor on friday. The appointment was in the afternoon, but Dad was asleep, and he was pissed about being woken up and dragged out of the house. All the way down the stairs and in the cab, he kept complaining “This is stupid! This is insane!” Finally, I realized that he thought it was the middle of the night rather than mid-afternoon. I left JaeLynn and Dad sitting in the waiting room while I filled out various forms, and when I turned back to them, Dad had taken Jaelynn's glasses and was wearing them himself! It was pretty funny.
In the exam room, the doctor quickly caught on that you have to address Dad LOUDLY, and he used his best loud voice to ask him how long he'd been having trouble hearing. “I don't have any trouble hearing,” said Dad, looking confused. At that point, the doctor decided to address his questions to me. After he examined Dad, he sent us down the hall to the audiologist. I had some doubts about whether Dad would be able to remember the instructions well enough to complete the hearing tests, but he did pretty well, and they were able to determine that he is pretty much completely deaf in his right ear (which we knew) and fairly deaf in his left ear (which was a surprise). I feel pretty bad that I let him get this deaf without bringing him to the doctor, but it's hard to figure out what part of his misunderstandings is his brain and what part is his ears. I'm looking forward to seeing how he does with his new, very expensive, hearing aid – it's supposed to be ready on the 22nd.
Saturday night, two of my now-grown former youth dropped by – one of them is a real estate agent who is showing a storefront near Dad's house. JD was there to spend the night with Dad, and he had brought along his girlfriend, Sam, so it was a full house and Dad, my party animal, seemed to be enjoying it. At one point, he asked how many people were there. “Five – plus you!” JD told him. “Fuck you?” he asked, causing everyone to laugh. Sam and I, who both saw the mischievous look on his face, are convinced that his remark was not a misunderstanding, but Dad having a little fun.
Last night started out to be a boring, gloomy evening – Dad headed to bed as soon as I arrived, and Marie said that she thought maybe we should start him on Ensure since he's not eating as much because he's always asleep. Luckily Brianna was feeling antsy at home, and decided to come visit us. I lured Dad out of bed with the promise of lemon sorbet, and he sat on the couch gloomily. “I feel really bad,” he said. “I feel ancient.”
Brianna had brought play-doh, thinking that maybe Dad's sleepiness is just boredom. I handed Dad a piece of play-doh, which he inspected, but didn't seem to know what to do with. “Can you make a ball?” I asked him. He couldn't figure it out, so I took it, made a rough ball, and gave it back to him. “I'm making it smooth,” he said turning it around and around in his hands. Once he had perfected the ball, I took it from him, and made something else. “It's a snake,” I said giving it back to him. He felt it carefully; “here's the head,” he said, before giving it back. Next I made two balls and handed them to him, “there are two now,” he said. Then the two became four, which Dad carefully counted. When we got to eight, he said, “I'm not going to drop any,” cupping them all precariously in one hand. I took another piece of play-doh and made a bowl, which I balanced in his other hand. Gingerly, he placed all eight balls in the bowl. We played with the play-doh for forty minutes, which is a really long time for someone with Dad's attention span.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
3/3/10
3/3/10
We took Dad to the dentist yesterday. He was unhappy about going out and kept asking “is this necessary?” the whole way. When we got there, we shared an elevator with an older gay man, on his way to the same dentist, who kept chatting with Dad. When we got to the waiting room, apparently deciding that the waiting people were his audience, he announced, loudly “This is my favorite song!” and then sang a few bars of “Do-Do-Da-Do,” and ended with “etcetera, etcetera.” Everyone in the waiting room laughed. Then the gay man told Dad, “you are so lucky to have such a nice daughter caring for you.” Dad responded, indignantly, “I don't have a daughter!” Everyone, including the ladies behind the desk, froze, wondering what was going to happen next. I suppose they thought I might burst into tears or something, but I just told Dad, calmly, “I'm your daughter, right here!” and tapped him on the shoulder, at which point he said, “Oh, good!” and applauded.
Once they brought him into the dental office, the dentist pulled three of his front teeth on the bottom. It was hardly pulling, actually, he just kind of effortlessly plucked them out and sutured the hole. Aside from one “Shit!”, Dad didn't seem bothered by the process. We brought him home and he went straight to bed. We were all afraid that he would be in pain, but he woke up fine, though he was complaining to Jaelynn that someone stole his teeth.
Somehow the whole thing was harder for me than it was for him. It was like I couldn't stand losing any piece of dad, not even three rotten teeth, and all these feelings came rising up. I kept stuffing them down – couldn't cry in front of Dad, then JD showed up at my office having just been fired, then I had clients . . . finally, on the train on my way home, I opened a book, hid my face, and cried all the way home.
We took Dad to the dentist yesterday. He was unhappy about going out and kept asking “is this necessary?” the whole way. When we got there, we shared an elevator with an older gay man, on his way to the same dentist, who kept chatting with Dad. When we got to the waiting room, apparently deciding that the waiting people were his audience, he announced, loudly “This is my favorite song!” and then sang a few bars of “Do-Do-Da-Do,” and ended with “etcetera, etcetera.” Everyone in the waiting room laughed. Then the gay man told Dad, “you are so lucky to have such a nice daughter caring for you.” Dad responded, indignantly, “I don't have a daughter!” Everyone, including the ladies behind the desk, froze, wondering what was going to happen next. I suppose they thought I might burst into tears or something, but I just told Dad, calmly, “I'm your daughter, right here!” and tapped him on the shoulder, at which point he said, “Oh, good!” and applauded.
Once they brought him into the dental office, the dentist pulled three of his front teeth on the bottom. It was hardly pulling, actually, he just kind of effortlessly plucked them out and sutured the hole. Aside from one “Shit!”, Dad didn't seem bothered by the process. We brought him home and he went straight to bed. We were all afraid that he would be in pain, but he woke up fine, though he was complaining to Jaelynn that someone stole his teeth.
Somehow the whole thing was harder for me than it was for him. It was like I couldn't stand losing any piece of dad, not even three rotten teeth, and all these feelings came rising up. I kept stuffing them down – couldn't cry in front of Dad, then JD showed up at my office having just been fired, then I had clients . . . finally, on the train on my way home, I opened a book, hid my face, and cried all the way home.
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