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!