I get to Dad’s house and find him in bed, listening to a book. He hasn’t even heard me come in, so I flop down on the bed beside him. Noticing me, he fumbles for the red “off” button. Neither of us is in a hurry to move, so we just hang out there, talking. For a few minutes it feels like the old days. “Are you going to quit your job?” he asks. I’m a little stunned because I have worked hard to keep any of the issues at work and other stressful stuff, away from him. “I remember,” he says, “you were walking sadly.” Walking sadly? Can my very motion give me away? “I watch you,” he adds, confirming it. Even with his limited vision, he must get some kind of overall image or vibe, so even while I’m carefully arranging my face and regulating my voice, the rest of me is radiating emotion that he can pick up on.
Dad and I are listening to “Magic of the Panpipes,” a cd of classical music and showtunes played on the panpipe. At one point, the music swells, and I tell Dad “It’s very dramatic.” “Yes,” he says, “the ghost is about to appear now,”and then, as the music gets gentle and springlike, he adds “the two lovers are here.” He doesn’t appear to actually know the piece, so, as far as I can tell, he’s totally making it up, but it’s completely appropriate. Every ten minutes or so he asks, “what’s the main instrument?” and I tell him “Panflute,” but it just doesn’t stick.
I give Dad a piece of bubble wrap I have saved for him – it came from a ceramic supplier, so the things to pop are larger than usual and Dad says, “this is a biggie.”
Dad doesn’t usually like pizza – he calls it “leather with stuff on it,” but tonight he asks for it. Unfortunately, he proceeds to eat the crust first, and then asks me what he’s supposed to pick it up by. I roll it up for him, burrito-style - so he can finish it.
Panpipes over, I put on the Indigo Girls – totally different, but Dad goes with the flow, rocking his chair and nodding his head to their rhythms. One thing that makes Dad easy to take care of is that he’s just not picky at all. He’ll eat almost anything, he enjoys all types of music, and his general attitude is that he’s up for anything.
“Your forearms aren’t getting all knotty, are they?” Dad asks me suddenly. “No,” I say, “it takes 70 or 80 years to get them like ,this,” he says, holding out his arm.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Lights Out
Dad is halfway through eating his dinner when I arrive. Usually, he finishes his dinner while I eat mine, but today he pushes his half-eaten meal away, and looks at me hopefully. “Got any goodies?” “Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?” “I don’t think so. I think I’d rather have what you have.” So I get out a cupcake and slice it up for him, but I’m going to have to keep an eye on this, because substituting sweets for real food could get to be a problem.
We settle down and listen to Ruth Reichl reading her book about being a restaurant critic, “Sapphires and Garlic”. We’re content until we hit a flaw in the cd and the machine starts echoing and stuttering. I turn it off.
“I feel doomed,” says Dad. “You feel doomed? “ I ask, hoping for clarification. “I can’t see anything. Something has just crashed. Crashed. I don’t know what to do. An hour ago I could see, sort of, but now I can’t see anything. It’s all over.” “Dad, you say that every night. I think you see worse at night because the sun goes down. “I can’t see you. I can’t see you.” He yawns. “Are you getting tired?” “No, I’m getting hysterical.” I bring the cat over and put her in his lap, hoping she will distract him.
“I wonder if this is happening to all the buildings around here or is it just this apartment? How does it happen? I don’t change my lifestyle one bit.” I think we’re still talking about blindness, but I’m not sure.” “Maybe it’s like a lightbulb blowing out?” I suggest. “That’s an idea. Have you had it happen any other place?” “No,” I say, gingerly, since I’m not too sure what we’re actually talking about. “A lightbulb blew out in my bedroom today,” I say, trying to distract. “That’s nothing,” says Dad, “it happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
Later he says, “All the lights go out. I wonder if the rest of the building is like this?” I realize he’s thinking that there is a blackout. He sticks his head into the hallway, “all the lights are here,” he reports. He checks the kitchen, and then goes into the bathroom, “the light's on in the bathroom, the light’s on in here. I guess it’s just one bulb.”
It’s true that the living room is dim, since all the lights are on one side of the room. I wonder if brighter lights in here would help relieve his night-time blindness attacks. He returns to his rocker and “discovers” that the lights in the living room are on, too. “When I got up, all the lights went on,” he says.
I tell him about the rally yesterday and describe putting the pillows and sleeping bag on the ground to represent the need for shelter for homeless youth. “They must have gotten pretty dirty,” he says. “Yes, we washed them,” I tell him. “But there wasn’t any violence or anything?” “No, nothing like that.”
I tell Dad I have to call to arrange for the delivery of his new sofabed. At the word “delivery,” he perks up. “A big box came.” “That was the shower chair, not the couch,” I tell him. “She unpacked it all and took it away, I don’t know where she put it.” She is Marie, in this case. “She put it in the bathtub.” “The bathtub!!!” Dad is agog. It’s true that not many things belong in the bathtub. “It’s a chair for the bathtub, so that you can sit down while you wash up,” I explain, knowing as I say it that the close proximity of “up” and “down” may cause confusion. “I’m going to go see it!” Dad exclaims, getting up. I know he won’t be able to see a white chair in a white bathtub, so I invite myself along. “Let’s go look at it together!” In the bathroom, I lead Dad’s hand. “This is the back of the chair, this is the seat, these are the legs. There are holes in the seat for the water to go through.” Feeling the holes he says, “they’re a quarter of an inch.” It’s odd what remains. When we get back to the table, he asks “isn’t it going to be spattering all over the place?” “You mean from the water hitting the shower chair?” I clarify. “Yes.” “The shower curtain will keep it in,” I reassure him, adding “hopefully” to myself.
“It’s raining harder now than it was before I came,” I tell Dad. “You’ve got a big table,” he says, “bigger than the one I use. “ Say what? Then I realize he’s talking about the new sofabed, which hasn’t been delivered yet. “The thing that’s not there yet, will be there, and it will be more comfortable than this one because it will be brand new and this one’s over 100 years old.” All this is Dad trying to tell me I could avoid the rain by sleeping over!
We settle down and listen to Ruth Reichl reading her book about being a restaurant critic, “Sapphires and Garlic”. We’re content until we hit a flaw in the cd and the machine starts echoing and stuttering. I turn it off.
“I feel doomed,” says Dad. “You feel doomed? “ I ask, hoping for clarification. “I can’t see anything. Something has just crashed. Crashed. I don’t know what to do. An hour ago I could see, sort of, but now I can’t see anything. It’s all over.” “Dad, you say that every night. I think you see worse at night because the sun goes down. “I can’t see you. I can’t see you.” He yawns. “Are you getting tired?” “No, I’m getting hysterical.” I bring the cat over and put her in his lap, hoping she will distract him.
“I wonder if this is happening to all the buildings around here or is it just this apartment? How does it happen? I don’t change my lifestyle one bit.” I think we’re still talking about blindness, but I’m not sure.” “Maybe it’s like a lightbulb blowing out?” I suggest. “That’s an idea. Have you had it happen any other place?” “No,” I say, gingerly, since I’m not too sure what we’re actually talking about. “A lightbulb blew out in my bedroom today,” I say, trying to distract. “That’s nothing,” says Dad, “it happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
Later he says, “All the lights go out. I wonder if the rest of the building is like this?” I realize he’s thinking that there is a blackout. He sticks his head into the hallway, “all the lights are here,” he reports. He checks the kitchen, and then goes into the bathroom, “the light's on in the bathroom, the light’s on in here. I guess it’s just one bulb.”
It’s true that the living room is dim, since all the lights are on one side of the room. I wonder if brighter lights in here would help relieve his night-time blindness attacks. He returns to his rocker and “discovers” that the lights in the living room are on, too. “When I got up, all the lights went on,” he says.
I tell him about the rally yesterday and describe putting the pillows and sleeping bag on the ground to represent the need for shelter for homeless youth. “They must have gotten pretty dirty,” he says. “Yes, we washed them,” I tell him. “But there wasn’t any violence or anything?” “No, nothing like that.”
I tell Dad I have to call to arrange for the delivery of his new sofabed. At the word “delivery,” he perks up. “A big box came.” “That was the shower chair, not the couch,” I tell him. “She unpacked it all and took it away, I don’t know where she put it.” She is Marie, in this case. “She put it in the bathtub.” “The bathtub!!!” Dad is agog. It’s true that not many things belong in the bathtub. “It’s a chair for the bathtub, so that you can sit down while you wash up,” I explain, knowing as I say it that the close proximity of “up” and “down” may cause confusion. “I’m going to go see it!” Dad exclaims, getting up. I know he won’t be able to see a white chair in a white bathtub, so I invite myself along. “Let’s go look at it together!” In the bathroom, I lead Dad’s hand. “This is the back of the chair, this is the seat, these are the legs. There are holes in the seat for the water to go through.” Feeling the holes he says, “they’re a quarter of an inch.” It’s odd what remains. When we get back to the table, he asks “isn’t it going to be spattering all over the place?” “You mean from the water hitting the shower chair?” I clarify. “Yes.” “The shower curtain will keep it in,” I reassure him, adding “hopefully” to myself.
“It’s raining harder now than it was before I came,” I tell Dad. “You’ve got a big table,” he says, “bigger than the one I use. “ Say what? Then I realize he’s talking about the new sofabed, which hasn’t been delivered yet. “The thing that’s not there yet, will be there, and it will be more comfortable than this one because it will be brand new and this one’s over 100 years old.” All this is Dad trying to tell me I could avoid the rain by sleeping over!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Circles
Today is what Dad calls “chickenshit weather,” a term he coined long before Alzheimer’s to describe grey, rainy, dreary days. It reflects his hatred of cleaning out the chicken house as a boy in Gloucester.
Dad is pondering the bowl of cheese-flavored potato chips I have given him for a snack. He says, “somehow I think they’re waterproof, at least to a degree.” Then he moves on to considering their shape: “these cheeses are different than others, they curl around.”
Dad’s preparing to wash the dishes. “I’m pretty slow at it, but I’m good at it, not a speck on any of it.”
“My Mom sends you ‘hello’ from Maine,” says Kate S. “Send her hello, too, from Massachssetts,” says Dad. “You mean New York,” says Kate. “I think I’m cracking up,” says Dad. “I’m forgetting piles of things.”
Dad is offered some cheese straws as an appetizer. He has trouble navigating the long, limp pieces to his mouth, so he cups them in one hand and gobbles at them. When he notices that Kate S. and I are laughing at this, he gobbles in a more exaggerated fashion, like a monster on sesame street, and keeps doing it for a little while after the straws are gone. What a ham.
“No circle is better than none,” says Dad, bafflingly. “No circle is not better than none, I made a mistake. Any circle is better than none. No, that’s not true.” “What kind of circle?” I ask. “Circle? Circle? What kind of a circle?” Dad seems as confused as I am. “You just said ‘no circle is better than none,’” I tell him. “ ‘No circle is better than none?’ How do you accomodate that? I don’t think it’s accomodatable.”
Kate S. gets out the steel drum. “Can you play that? I can’t play it,” says Dad. “Sure, you can,” says Kate, setting it up in front of him. “No, I can’t, I never played it before,” he says, though he has. Kate S. gives him the stick and he starts banging out one of his rhythms. “Can you actually play music on this?” he says, stopping. “Yeah, you can,” says Kate, “but I don’t have any music.” I hand her Twinkle, Twinkle and she plays it for him, and he is duly amazed.
Kate S. installed a grab bar that I bought for Dad on the side of his bathtub. When she’s done, we steer him into the bathroom for a look. She shows him how he can use it help himself get in and out of the tub and says, “it’s really solid.” He gives it a pull and says “how did it get to be so solid?” She shrugs. “I’m really strong.”
Kate S. has given Dad the bubble wrap that was wrapped around the grab bar. Popping the bubbles, he says, “who knows how many thousands there are here?”
Kate S. and I are getting ready to leave when thunder starts to boom. Dad hears it and says, “I think you will be greeted by a thunderstorm.”
Dad is pondering the bowl of cheese-flavored potato chips I have given him for a snack. He says, “somehow I think they’re waterproof, at least to a degree.” Then he moves on to considering their shape: “these cheeses are different than others, they curl around.”
Dad’s preparing to wash the dishes. “I’m pretty slow at it, but I’m good at it, not a speck on any of it.”
“My Mom sends you ‘hello’ from Maine,” says Kate S. “Send her hello, too, from Massachssetts,” says Dad. “You mean New York,” says Kate. “I think I’m cracking up,” says Dad. “I’m forgetting piles of things.”
Dad is offered some cheese straws as an appetizer. He has trouble navigating the long, limp pieces to his mouth, so he cups them in one hand and gobbles at them. When he notices that Kate S. and I are laughing at this, he gobbles in a more exaggerated fashion, like a monster on sesame street, and keeps doing it for a little while after the straws are gone. What a ham.
“No circle is better than none,” says Dad, bafflingly. “No circle is not better than none, I made a mistake. Any circle is better than none. No, that’s not true.” “What kind of circle?” I ask. “Circle? Circle? What kind of a circle?” Dad seems as confused as I am. “You just said ‘no circle is better than none,’” I tell him. “ ‘No circle is better than none?’ How do you accomodate that? I don’t think it’s accomodatable.”
Kate S. gets out the steel drum. “Can you play that? I can’t play it,” says Dad. “Sure, you can,” says Kate, setting it up in front of him. “No, I can’t, I never played it before,” he says, though he has. Kate S. gives him the stick and he starts banging out one of his rhythms. “Can you actually play music on this?” he says, stopping. “Yeah, you can,” says Kate, “but I don’t have any music.” I hand her Twinkle, Twinkle and she plays it for him, and he is duly amazed.
Kate S. installed a grab bar that I bought for Dad on the side of his bathtub. When she’s done, we steer him into the bathroom for a look. She shows him how he can use it help himself get in and out of the tub and says, “it’s really solid.” He gives it a pull and says “how did it get to be so solid?” She shrugs. “I’m really strong.”
Kate S. has given Dad the bubble wrap that was wrapped around the grab bar. Popping the bubbles, he says, “who knows how many thousands there are here?”
Kate S. and I are getting ready to leave when thunder starts to boom. Dad hears it and says, “I think you will be greeted by a thunderstorm.”
Friday, March 27, 2009
Steel Drums
My stressed brain is playing tricks on me – I left my keys at work last night, and my phone at home today. I got to Dad’s and, having no keys, had to ring the doorbell. I knew Dad wouldn’t buzz me in, but I figured he’d come down to let me in, hopefully wearing clothes. He never appeared, so I settled down with my book to wait for a neighbor to come along. When I finally got upstairs (I had the apartment key on a separate set), I found Dad sitting on a dining room chair he’d pulled into the kitchen, using his pedal device to exercise his knees. “I hope that wasn’t you ringing and ringing,” he said.
Dad and I are discussing the floods in North Dakota. “That’s a very, very leaky place,” he says. I’ve discovered that the Times web site has little video “articles” – the audio is great for the blind, and the short length makes it possible for Dad to concentrate on them and not lose track of what’s going on.
Dad and I are talking about his relationships to cats. “You used to play with the cats at my house,” I tell him. “You even built a little house for stray cats in the backyard.” “I did?” “Yes, it was insulated and everything.” “I built things?” “Yes, you built bookshelves at my house, and you built the ones you’re sitting in front of right now.” “I did? Where are they?” He gets up and goes over to inspect the bookshelves. “I built these? You’re kidding.” When I finally convince him that he really did build them, he says, “I must’ve had a secret life.”
After Kristen ate her cat food tonight, she headed back to her spot on the couch and Dad commented “She’s back on the shelf.”
“I’ve made a number of really messy messes,” says Dad, gingerly reaching for his cup. “First I tip over one thing, and then I tip another, and ooof, what a mess.”
I joined in with Dad’s tapping again tonight – he had started with his hands, and then his feet started, too, so I joined in, and once again, we stopped at the same moment, and Dad laughed. I think it makes him feel connected when I do that. We have always had a strange kind of connection. When I was in high school, he went to parent-teacher night and freaked out my English teacher by sitting in my exact seat, apparently just by chance.
Since he was in a rhythmic mood, I got out his steel drum. “Can you play actual songs on that thing?” he asked, so I hammered out “Twinkle, Twinkle” to show that it’s possible. After we finished with the drum, I put on his “Steel Drum Party” cd, which he didn’t remember, and we danced to it, Dad dancing with his legs and his head from the rocker, and me on the couch with a lapful of elderly cat. The cat was uncertain about the dancing – she dug her claws in for extra security, but then purred anyway.
Dad and I are discussing the floods in North Dakota. “That’s a very, very leaky place,” he says. I’ve discovered that the Times web site has little video “articles” – the audio is great for the blind, and the short length makes it possible for Dad to concentrate on them and not lose track of what’s going on.
Dad and I are talking about his relationships to cats. “You used to play with the cats at my house,” I tell him. “You even built a little house for stray cats in the backyard.” “I did?” “Yes, it was insulated and everything.” “I built things?” “Yes, you built bookshelves at my house, and you built the ones you’re sitting in front of right now.” “I did? Where are they?” He gets up and goes over to inspect the bookshelves. “I built these? You’re kidding.” When I finally convince him that he really did build them, he says, “I must’ve had a secret life.”
After Kristen ate her cat food tonight, she headed back to her spot on the couch and Dad commented “She’s back on the shelf.”
“I’ve made a number of really messy messes,” says Dad, gingerly reaching for his cup. “First I tip over one thing, and then I tip another, and ooof, what a mess.”
I joined in with Dad’s tapping again tonight – he had started with his hands, and then his feet started, too, so I joined in, and once again, we stopped at the same moment, and Dad laughed. I think it makes him feel connected when I do that. We have always had a strange kind of connection. When I was in high school, he went to parent-teacher night and freaked out my English teacher by sitting in my exact seat, apparently just by chance.
Since he was in a rhythmic mood, I got out his steel drum. “Can you play actual songs on that thing?” he asked, so I hammered out “Twinkle, Twinkle” to show that it’s possible. After we finished with the drum, I put on his “Steel Drum Party” cd, which he didn’t remember, and we danced to it, Dad dancing with his legs and his head from the rocker, and me on the couch with a lapful of elderly cat. The cat was uncertain about the dancing – she dug her claws in for extra security, but then purred anyway.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Boggled
Marie took the knobs off the stove several days ago, and today Kate S. arrived to find Dad, in her words, “boggled” by their disappearance. Hours later, he’s still thinking about it: “Do you know what she did? She took all the knobs off the stove. I can’t imagine why.”
Kate. S. and Brianna arrived at Dad’s before me today – I was at a meeting – and when I got here, they had put on a dvd of Henry Rollins, a comedian. Dad was listening and laughing, even though we had heard this one before – he didn’t remember.
I look over and Dad is fumbling around among the knives and scissors. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Something to cut my nails with,” he says, reaching for a large knife. I leap out of my seat. “No, Dad, we have something for that,” I say, getting out the fingernail clipper. I demonstrate on one of his nails and he settles down to clip the rest.
“It’s spring,” I tell Dad “time to decide what to plant in the garden.” “Flowers or vegetables?” he asks. “Some of both,” I tell him, “definitely tomatoes.” “Tomatoes but not potatoes? Not potatoes because they come up” and makes a hand gesture depicting a potato plant coming up through the soil. “I don’t have enough room for potatoes, but I’d like a climbing rose to climb up the side of the house.” “Because your house is brick,” he says, “it disturbs the bricks after a while.” “I’ll put a trellis up,” I tell him. “Mucho mas mejor,” he says, surprising me. This is the polyglot Dad of my childhood, slipping from French to English to Spanish with the occasional anglo saxon phrase thrown in for good measure - we don’t hear much from him but English these days.
“You know what I should do?” asks Dad. “I should make up a book of telephone numbers. I don’t know a single telephone number.” “Dad, this is your phone book,” I say, sliding it across the table to him. He reads the cover “B-I-G P-R-I-N-T. Big Print.” He starts flipping through. “Wow. This really is big print.”
“How long have I been jittering with this?” he asks suddenly. “Having trouble with your memory?” I ask, cautiously. “Yes.” “A few years.” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “But more and more?” “ Yes, it’s getting worse.” “Do a lot of people have this?” “About 4 million.” This seems to satisfy him.
He’s definitely getting more aware of his memory problems. The other day Marie forgot something and said, out loud, “I need a pill for my brain.” “So do I,” chimed in Dad, who had been sitting quietly. “Dad, you took the pills for your brain. They gave you bad dreams, so you stopped, remember? There was the one where the walls were closing in and there was the one where you hurt your shoulder struggling.” I don’t mention that, aside from the dreams, the medications didn’t seem to do much of anything. “Oh yeah,” says Dad, “I remember that.” “The only medicines for the brain that are left are experimental, they’re just trying them out.” “I don’t want them to poison me,” says Dad. “They’re not testing them to see if they’re poisonous,” I tell him, “they’re testing them to see how well they work.” “In that case,” says Dad, “I’m game. Count me in.”
Kate. S. and Brianna arrived at Dad’s before me today – I was at a meeting – and when I got here, they had put on a dvd of Henry Rollins, a comedian. Dad was listening and laughing, even though we had heard this one before – he didn’t remember.
I look over and Dad is fumbling around among the knives and scissors. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “Something to cut my nails with,” he says, reaching for a large knife. I leap out of my seat. “No, Dad, we have something for that,” I say, getting out the fingernail clipper. I demonstrate on one of his nails and he settles down to clip the rest.
“It’s spring,” I tell Dad “time to decide what to plant in the garden.” “Flowers or vegetables?” he asks. “Some of both,” I tell him, “definitely tomatoes.” “Tomatoes but not potatoes? Not potatoes because they come up” and makes a hand gesture depicting a potato plant coming up through the soil. “I don’t have enough room for potatoes, but I’d like a climbing rose to climb up the side of the house.” “Because your house is brick,” he says, “it disturbs the bricks after a while.” “I’ll put a trellis up,” I tell him. “Mucho mas mejor,” he says, surprising me. This is the polyglot Dad of my childhood, slipping from French to English to Spanish with the occasional anglo saxon phrase thrown in for good measure - we don’t hear much from him but English these days.
“You know what I should do?” asks Dad. “I should make up a book of telephone numbers. I don’t know a single telephone number.” “Dad, this is your phone book,” I say, sliding it across the table to him. He reads the cover “B-I-G P-R-I-N-T. Big Print.” He starts flipping through. “Wow. This really is big print.”
“How long have I been jittering with this?” he asks suddenly. “Having trouble with your memory?” I ask, cautiously. “Yes.” “A few years.” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “But more and more?” “ Yes, it’s getting worse.” “Do a lot of people have this?” “About 4 million.” This seems to satisfy him.
He’s definitely getting more aware of his memory problems. The other day Marie forgot something and said, out loud, “I need a pill for my brain.” “So do I,” chimed in Dad, who had been sitting quietly. “Dad, you took the pills for your brain. They gave you bad dreams, so you stopped, remember? There was the one where the walls were closing in and there was the one where you hurt your shoulder struggling.” I don’t mention that, aside from the dreams, the medications didn’t seem to do much of anything. “Oh yeah,” says Dad, “I remember that.” “The only medicines for the brain that are left are experimental, they’re just trying them out.” “I don’t want them to poison me,” says Dad. “They’re not testing them to see if they’re poisonous,” I tell him, “they’re testing them to see how well they work.” “In that case,” says Dad, “I’m game. Count me in.”
Taco Salad
I’m still shaken by Dad’s not remembering my name, even though logically there’s no reason why that particular piece of information should be protected from the deterioration going on inside his brain. On a deep, maybe primal level, though you just expect your parent, the person who was part of your naming (though my mother rejected Dad’s suggestions, including his mother’s name, Grace, as too old-fashioned and New Englandy), to remember your name.
Lately, Dad’s been leaning way to one side, making himself burp. This time he did it and nothing happened. “It didn’t come,” he said, trying the other side. Still nothing. “No one wants to throw up,” he said. I had a momentary, hilarious image of a crowd of tiny people inside him, then got myself under control and said, “You mean burp, Dad.” “Durp?” he asks. “No, B-U-R-P.” I spell it out. “Burp. Burp, Burp,” he says, over and over, like someone learning a new word in a foreign language. “Is it a real word?” he asks. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it before,” he answers himself.
I order Dad a taco salad, the kind that comes in a bowl made of a hardened tortilla, because I know he will be fascinated and he is, though it takes me three tries before I manage to convince him that the bowl is, in fact, edible. “What will they come up with next?” he asks, breaking off a piece and chewing on it.
Dad is tapping his feet, the same rhythm over and over, so I join in, rapping my pen on the table. We both instinctively stop at the same moment. “Very good,” says Dad, looking pleased.
Lately, Dad’s been leaning way to one side, making himself burp. This time he did it and nothing happened. “It didn’t come,” he said, trying the other side. Still nothing. “No one wants to throw up,” he said. I had a momentary, hilarious image of a crowd of tiny people inside him, then got myself under control and said, “You mean burp, Dad.” “Durp?” he asks. “No, B-U-R-P.” I spell it out. “Burp. Burp, Burp,” he says, over and over, like someone learning a new word in a foreign language. “Is it a real word?” he asks. “Yes, I guess I’ve heard it before,” he answers himself.
I order Dad a taco salad, the kind that comes in a bowl made of a hardened tortilla, because I know he will be fascinated and he is, though it takes me three tries before I manage to convince him that the bowl is, in fact, edible. “What will they come up with next?” he asks, breaking off a piece and chewing on it.
Dad is tapping his feet, the same rhythm over and over, so I join in, rapping my pen on the table. We both instinctively stop at the same moment. “Very good,” says Dad, looking pleased.
Friday, March 20, 2009
doodley-doodley-do
Dad forgot my name today. He called me “what’s-her-name.” I suppose it was inevitable, but it still hurts. Later he asked “Is there any difference between your Kate and the other Kate?” “No, they’re the same person.” “The same person!” I decide to clarify. “There’s me, Kate, and then there’s the other Kate. That’s it.” “Oh!”
Today we made an excursion to the bank, where we saw Mr. Shetty, Dad’s financial advisor from the last 12 years. He told me to get a durable power of attorney so that I can make decisions about Dad’s finances. Right now, there’s nothing much to decide – we’re just waiting for the market to improve – but I have to get this done while Dad can still sign his name. He didn’t seem to recognize Mr. Shetty at all, just sat there periodically agreeing with me in a somewhat automatic manner. When we got home, he commented on how nice Mr. Shetty had been – he said he wasn’t expecting it. “I had a vague suspicion that this wasn’t going to be so good.”
“I suppose if I was suddenly WHANG! (claps his hands) given the stuff I can see, I would be suicidal,” says Dad, out of the blue. “What do you mean, whang?” “Well, whang, bang, any kind of noise. I’ve been getting used to it all my life, I’ve only ever had one eye, you know.” Apparently he meant that if he had normal vision and suddenly went blind, he would be suicidal.
I read Dad an article about Michelle Obama’s organic garden, but he was suspicious, “She’s not doing all the digging. She’ll do 20 minutes or so and then there will be ten men working like hell to finish it.” “Is the White House still white?” he inquired. “Yes.” “I bet every year they touch it up.” This from the man who used to paint our – white – house in Gloucester from top to bottom.
“What year do most of the cats prefer?” This question has me stumped. Are we talking wine vintages? I don’t let my cats drink. None of them are old enough. “What year?” I ask. “One, two, three, four?” he elaborates. Still no idea. “Are you asking how old they are?” “No,” he says, “how much do they play around?” “Well, some play a lot and others hardly at all.”
Dad’s singing again. The song he’s made up consists of the words: “I’m forgetful, I’m forgetful, doodley-doodley-do.”
Today we made an excursion to the bank, where we saw Mr. Shetty, Dad’s financial advisor from the last 12 years. He told me to get a durable power of attorney so that I can make decisions about Dad’s finances. Right now, there’s nothing much to decide – we’re just waiting for the market to improve – but I have to get this done while Dad can still sign his name. He didn’t seem to recognize Mr. Shetty at all, just sat there periodically agreeing with me in a somewhat automatic manner. When we got home, he commented on how nice Mr. Shetty had been – he said he wasn’t expecting it. “I had a vague suspicion that this wasn’t going to be so good.”
“I suppose if I was suddenly WHANG! (claps his hands) given the stuff I can see, I would be suicidal,” says Dad, out of the blue. “What do you mean, whang?” “Well, whang, bang, any kind of noise. I’ve been getting used to it all my life, I’ve only ever had one eye, you know.” Apparently he meant that if he had normal vision and suddenly went blind, he would be suicidal.
I read Dad an article about Michelle Obama’s organic garden, but he was suspicious, “She’s not doing all the digging. She’ll do 20 minutes or so and then there will be ten men working like hell to finish it.” “Is the White House still white?” he inquired. “Yes.” “I bet every year they touch it up.” This from the man who used to paint our – white – house in Gloucester from top to bottom.
“What year do most of the cats prefer?” This question has me stumped. Are we talking wine vintages? I don’t let my cats drink. None of them are old enough. “What year?” I ask. “One, two, three, four?” he elaborates. Still no idea. “Are you asking how old they are?” “No,” he says, “how much do they play around?” “Well, some play a lot and others hardly at all.”
Dad’s singing again. The song he’s made up consists of the words: “I’m forgetful, I’m forgetful, doodley-doodley-do.”
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