Nightmares about Dad again. Not as intense and vivid as the fever dreams, but enough to wake me up. In one, I found him wandering the streets, naked. In another, he was falling. It doesn’t take a lot of analytical skill to figure out what’s on my mind.
Marie/Obama was out yesterday, and Dad was alone most of the day. When he goes for hours without contact with people, his language gets worse, so by the time I got there, he was pretty deep into Alzheimer-land.
When I arrived, he asked me about the “other two Indians,” an alzheimerish way of referring to Kate and Brianna. Later on, he asked me “how’s the big sister’s foot?” referring to Kate S. again. Later, hearing a siren, after much verbal flailing, he asked “do you know whether the guys who go to get fires going have different noises or not?” Of course, he meant firefighters, and was wondering whether they had different sirens than the police..
His confusion continued when I commented on his cigar, a genuine Cuban cigar, one of a box smuggled from Holland for him by a friend. “It’s illegal to smoke in Cuba?” “No, Dad, Cuban things are illegal in the U.S.”
At the end of the evening, Dad started asking for “a cup, a cup, a cup of . . . “ I offered him a few options, water, juice, milk, but he kept struggling. Finally, he got to “the stuff that loosens.” “Metamucil!” I exclaimed. Dad looked confused. “The stuff that helps with shitting,” I clarified and he nodded. I tore open a packet, poured the powdery contents into a glass of juice, stirred and gave it to Dad. It looked gross to me, but he drank it all.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
1/28/09
“What’s for dinner?” Dad is watching me unpack the groceries. “Lasagna.” “What’s lasagna?” Kate S. tries to explain “It’s pasta, like noodles, but wide.” “With cheese and tomato sauce,” I interject. “In layers,” she adds. “Is cheese OK?” Dad asks, stumping us both. A moment of silence occurs while we both try to figure out what he means. Coming up blank, we go into Alzheimer’s default mode – cheerful reassurance. “Cheese is great, Dad,” I say, just as Kate S., with equal forced enthusiasm, says “Cheese is awesome.” He gives us a look, clearly thinking that we’re the odd ones. Half an hour later, I realize that he is asking if cheese is OK because I’m a vegetarian. Oops.
Kate S. is telling Dad about her upcoming blood tests, for which she has to fast. “Should I take these tests?” asks Dad. “No, Dad, you don’t have problems with your blood sugar.” “I’ve never taken any tests where I couldn’t eat.” “Yes, you have Dad. You couldn’t eat before your colonoscopy.” “What’s a colonoscopy?” Uh-oh. Now I’ve done it. Might as well be direct. “It’s a test where they stick a camera up your ass, Dad.” “Nobody’s ever stuck a camera up my ass, and if they did, it wouldn’t get very far,” says Dad, indignantly. Later, Kate S. says, laughing, “He must have been thinking of a Nikon!” Dad was an avid photographer when his eyes were good, but that was long before current miniaturization. “It’s a very tiny camera,” Kate S. tells him.
“Dad, you’ve had a couple of colonoscopies , but maybe you don’t remember them because they put you to sleep.” “They can put you to sleep just like that and then wake you up?” “It took a while for you to wake up, and then you were farting a lot, remember? You woke up and asked ‘what’s the French word for fart?’” “What is the French word for fart?” Oh, dear. He won’t stop asking until he gets an answer. I reach for the computer, turn it on. “It won’t be in there,” says Dad, doubtfully. I google “French word for fart” and get a list of sites. I click one and read “pet”. Dad is amazed, “computers can do anything!” Kate S. meanwhile, has spotted a link titled “fart thesaurus” and can’t resist. She starts reading the lengthy list to Dad, who grows more and more astonished. “How many pages are in that book?” We try to explain that it’s a screen, not a book, but he’s focused on the length of the list.
Dad is watching me send a text message. “What is she doing?” “Sending a message,” says Kate S. Dad listens for a minute to the beeps as my fingers hit the letters and then he announces “She knows morse code!”
Kate S. is telling Dad about her upcoming blood tests, for which she has to fast. “Should I take these tests?” asks Dad. “No, Dad, you don’t have problems with your blood sugar.” “I’ve never taken any tests where I couldn’t eat.” “Yes, you have Dad. You couldn’t eat before your colonoscopy.” “What’s a colonoscopy?” Uh-oh. Now I’ve done it. Might as well be direct. “It’s a test where they stick a camera up your ass, Dad.” “Nobody’s ever stuck a camera up my ass, and if they did, it wouldn’t get very far,” says Dad, indignantly. Later, Kate S. says, laughing, “He must have been thinking of a Nikon!” Dad was an avid photographer when his eyes were good, but that was long before current miniaturization. “It’s a very tiny camera,” Kate S. tells him.
“Dad, you’ve had a couple of colonoscopies , but maybe you don’t remember them because they put you to sleep.” “They can put you to sleep just like that and then wake you up?” “It took a while for you to wake up, and then you were farting a lot, remember? You woke up and asked ‘what’s the French word for fart?’” “What is the French word for fart?” Oh, dear. He won’t stop asking until he gets an answer. I reach for the computer, turn it on. “It won’t be in there,” says Dad, doubtfully. I google “French word for fart” and get a list of sites. I click one and read “pet”. Dad is amazed, “computers can do anything!” Kate S. meanwhile, has spotted a link titled “fart thesaurus” and can’t resist. She starts reading the lengthy list to Dad, who grows more and more astonished. “How many pages are in that book?” We try to explain that it’s a screen, not a book, but he’s focused on the length of the list.
Dad is watching me send a text message. “What is she doing?” “Sending a message,” says Kate S. Dad listens for a minute to the beeps as my fingers hit the letters and then he announces “She knows morse code!”
Sunday, January 25, 2009
1/25/09
Today Dad was watching me order his groceries online. He’s slowly getting used to the computer, but the online groceries really had him mystified. “How are they going to fit them in the mailbox?” I nearly fell on the floor laughing at the idea of a delivery man trying to shove the groceries into Dad’s narrow slot of a mailbox. But Dad was seriously puzzled, so I tried to explain, “they’ll bring them upstairs, Dad.” He still seemed confused. Hopefully he’ll understand when they arrive tomorrow – once he tried to send the groceries away because he forgot they were coming and thought they weren’t his.
The other problem with Dad and deliveries is that the door buzzer has disappeared from his reality. It’s not just that he doesn’t remember how to use it – Brianna tried standing outside the front door with her cell phone and talking him through it, but it didn’t work, he just came downstairs to let her in anyway.
Going downstairs to let people in is problematic in several ways . Aside from the possibility of falling since his knees are bad and he can’t see, there’s also the problem of clothing – or lack of it. He’s firmly convinced that if old people’s chests get cold they die on the spot, so he always wears multiple layers of shirts and sweaters, and he hates having his head or feet cold, so he wears a hat, socks, and shoes, but he considers underwear and pants optional. It’s one thing in the house, but going down four flights of stairs he could run into neighbors. Marie/Obama says that the other day when she forgot her keys, he came and opened the front door for her nude from waist to ankles.
The other problem with Dad and deliveries is that the door buzzer has disappeared from his reality. It’s not just that he doesn’t remember how to use it – Brianna tried standing outside the front door with her cell phone and talking him through it, but it didn’t work, he just came downstairs to let her in anyway.
Going downstairs to let people in is problematic in several ways . Aside from the possibility of falling since his knees are bad and he can’t see, there’s also the problem of clothing – or lack of it. He’s firmly convinced that if old people’s chests get cold they die on the spot, so he always wears multiple layers of shirts and sweaters, and he hates having his head or feet cold, so he wears a hat, socks, and shoes, but he considers underwear and pants optional. It’s one thing in the house, but going down four flights of stairs he could run into neighbors. Marie/Obama says that the other day when she forgot her keys, he came and opened the front door for her nude from waist to ankles.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Blueberries
Arriving today, I asked Dad if he was hungry – he sometimes doesn’t eat when he’s alone. “No, I had a big breakfast.” He eyeballs the shopping bags I’ve set down on the couch. “Got any dessert?” Smart man. He knows he can count on me to bring treats. “Blueberry cheesecake,” I say, getting a plate for him. He takes a few bites, then says, contentedly, “big, fat blueberries.”
Blueberries always make me think of Dad because there are two long rows of blueberry bushes in the backyard of our house in Gloucester, pretty much all that remains of the gardens and fruit trees that surrounded the house when Dad was growing up there. During my childhood, every year Dad would make a trip up there in the Spring to prune the blueberry bushes, and then, when we would go up during my school vacation in August, the bushes would be loaded with fruit. I’ve never had blueberry pancakes like the ones my mother would make with those blueberries since.
“Are you reading something?” Dad interrupts this entry. “No, writing. I’m writing about you.” I read him the previous paragraph. “There’s no garden there at all anymore,” he says. “The blueberry bushes are there, they just need work.” “They probably need a lot of pruning.” And I wish I had paid more attention when I was younger so that I could take up the yearly ritual. I have no idea how to prune a blueberry and he can’t teach me now.
Or can he? One way to find out. “Dad, how do you know where to prune a blueberry?” “Did I ever know how to prune blueberries?” “You did it every year.” “Until when?” “Maybe five or six years ago?” I’m not really sure. “I haven’t been to Gloucester in decades.” “Dad, we were there in August. We go there a lot.” Even though I know a lot about the mind and how it works and what can go wrong, I am still sometimes stunned at how things can just disappear, as though they never happened. And here come the tears again.
Blueberries always make me think of Dad because there are two long rows of blueberry bushes in the backyard of our house in Gloucester, pretty much all that remains of the gardens and fruit trees that surrounded the house when Dad was growing up there. During my childhood, every year Dad would make a trip up there in the Spring to prune the blueberry bushes, and then, when we would go up during my school vacation in August, the bushes would be loaded with fruit. I’ve never had blueberry pancakes like the ones my mother would make with those blueberries since.
“Are you reading something?” Dad interrupts this entry. “No, writing. I’m writing about you.” I read him the previous paragraph. “There’s no garden there at all anymore,” he says. “The blueberry bushes are there, they just need work.” “They probably need a lot of pruning.” And I wish I had paid more attention when I was younger so that I could take up the yearly ritual. I have no idea how to prune a blueberry and he can’t teach me now.
Or can he? One way to find out. “Dad, how do you know where to prune a blueberry?” “Did I ever know how to prune blueberries?” “You did it every year.” “Until when?” “Maybe five or six years ago?” I’m not really sure. “I haven’t been to Gloucester in decades.” “Dad, we were there in August. We go there a lot.” Even though I know a lot about the mind and how it works and what can go wrong, I am still sometimes stunned at how things can just disappear, as though they never happened. And here come the tears again.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
1/21/09
I am so torn - I got a notice in the mail reminding me that I have until Feb. to decide whether I am going to sculpt this spring. I haven’ t been doing any sculpting this fall – instead of going to the studio on my Wednesdays off, I’ve been spending Wednesday evenings with Dad. Sculpting is really important to me – when I’m not doing it I can feel it both emotionally and physically, in my hands – it’s hard to explain. It’s like my hands miss the feel of the clay.
Dad would hate to be the reason I wasn’t sculpting – he was always really supportive of my artwork. He used to offer to support me while I took a year off and just made art, but I was always really involved at one job or another and never felt like I could just drop everything and do that.
But since I work evenings, Wednesday is the only time I can really spend time with him during the week. Marie/Obama is with him until 4pm, so he doesn’t need company as much in the afternoon, before I go to work. I’m already spending most of the weekend with him, before work on Saturday, and when I’m off on Sundays, but it never feels like enough. He’s so happy when I show up – it’s always a surprise to him, even though I follow a regular schedule – and he always thanks me for coming, in that formal way of his. Today he said "I'm very, very happy you turned out, I was in an awful, awful mood."
Mostly, I’m just really afraid of being left with regrets when he’s gone – it’s been ten years since my mother died and I still have moments when I wish I had done things differently, especially regarding her last hospitalization. If I had known she was dying, I wouldn’t have let them keep her in the hospital, where she was so uncomfortable.
Dad would hate to be the reason I wasn’t sculpting – he was always really supportive of my artwork. He used to offer to support me while I took a year off and just made art, but I was always really involved at one job or another and never felt like I could just drop everything and do that.
But since I work evenings, Wednesday is the only time I can really spend time with him during the week. Marie/Obama is with him until 4pm, so he doesn’t need company as much in the afternoon, before I go to work. I’m already spending most of the weekend with him, before work on Saturday, and when I’m off on Sundays, but it never feels like enough. He’s so happy when I show up – it’s always a surprise to him, even though I follow a regular schedule – and he always thanks me for coming, in that formal way of his. Today he said "I'm very, very happy you turned out, I was in an awful, awful mood."
Mostly, I’m just really afraid of being left with regrets when he’s gone – it’s been ten years since my mother died and I still have moments when I wish I had done things differently, especially regarding her last hospitalization. If I had known she was dying, I wouldn’t have let them keep her in the hospital, where she was so uncomfortable.
Dad at Pride
Samantha Box just sent me this fabulous picture she took of Dad at Pride two years ago. I marched, but it was too far for Dad so Rev Pat hoisted him onto the Metropolitan Community Church float and he rode the whole way, waving at the crowds on the sidewalk.Dad actually took me to my very first gay pride march - it was 1976, and I was still in a stroller!!! I don't remember it, of course, but Dad says it was very small, only a couple blocks long, and that, in those days before gay families were common, everyone was amazed to see a small child in the parade.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Transcontinental Voyage
Dad’s friend Dick, who went to high school with him in Gloucester and now lives in San Diego, has sent an invitation – or maybe it should be called a command - for Dad to come visit him. In his letter, he says “we should be able to arrange something that would be interesting, instructive, and morally edifying” – quite a tall order for a vacation!
Last time we went to visit, Dad and I went by plane, but this time Dad wants to make a “transcontinental voyage” by train. I can’t afford to take the time off, but Brianna and Kate S. are going to do it. Yesterday we started working on figuring out the details – we’re going to reserve adjoining bedrooms on the train so that they can keep a close eye on Dad. Once they get to San Diego, they’ll stay in the “hospitality room” at Dick’s assisted living residence.
Visiting Dick was an interesting experience – out since the 1940s, Dick was in love with Dad and followed him each time Dad switched colleges, so they both wound up at Bard. He still gets really excited about seeing Dad – once, when Dick was still well enough to travel, we were all in Gloucester at the same time, and Dick, seeing a rental car in the driveway of our house, decided to stop by for a visit. As Dad climbed up the porch stairs, Dick rose from his chair and came hobbling towards us, bellowing “Addiiissssoooon!” in a shaky tenor.
Dad has travelled cross-country by both train and bus a number of times. The first time was in the early 1950s, when a group of his friends decided that he was loafing around too much and applied to graduate school in his name and then informed him that he has 3 weeks to get to Oregon to start work on his M.A.!!! In those days, the bus had no bathroom, so it stopped a lot, and Dad smoked marijuana at every stop. He ran out about three hours before arriving, and never smoked it again.
Last time we went to visit, Dad and I went by plane, but this time Dad wants to make a “transcontinental voyage” by train. I can’t afford to take the time off, but Brianna and Kate S. are going to do it. Yesterday we started working on figuring out the details – we’re going to reserve adjoining bedrooms on the train so that they can keep a close eye on Dad. Once they get to San Diego, they’ll stay in the “hospitality room” at Dick’s assisted living residence.
Visiting Dick was an interesting experience – out since the 1940s, Dick was in love with Dad and followed him each time Dad switched colleges, so they both wound up at Bard. He still gets really excited about seeing Dad – once, when Dick was still well enough to travel, we were all in Gloucester at the same time, and Dick, seeing a rental car in the driveway of our house, decided to stop by for a visit. As Dad climbed up the porch stairs, Dick rose from his chair and came hobbling towards us, bellowing “Addiiissssoooon!” in a shaky tenor.
Dad has travelled cross-country by both train and bus a number of times. The first time was in the early 1950s, when a group of his friends decided that he was loafing around too much and applied to graduate school in his name and then informed him that he has 3 weeks to get to Oregon to start work on his M.A.!!! In those days, the bus had no bathroom, so it stopped a lot, and Dad smoked marijuana at every stop. He ran out about three hours before arriving, and never smoked it again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
