"Ah So"

Dad loves the Asian culture. Of any kind. Doesn't matter which country, as long as it comes from somewhere west of the Pacific. I think I mentioned before that Dad studies Japanese. He continues to do this, launching into a blur of what sounds like Japanese phrasing at any given time, but usually when he's enjoying a meal. None of us have any idea if he's actually saying anything Japanese, but he says it with such conviction that we all just humor him, repeat back whatever he just said, and go on from there.

I would be remiss however if I did not mention one of Dad's most characteristic quirks--the "Ah so." Since his hearing is so bad and he often can't hear what people are saying he has a tried and true fallback. He simply nods, says "Ah so", and walks away. In other words, "I can't hear you, and I don't really care." It's his "whatever" equivalent.

So I was thinking the other day how ironic it is that Dad uses the phrase "ah so" when he doesn't understand/can't hear/doesn't care to understand something. Because, well, isn't "ah so" used when you DO understand or agree with somebody or something? Right?

That's all. Just thinking out loud here.

My Sanity for a Harness and a Muzzle

You ever see parents with their toddlers, with those harnesses around them, so they don't wander off and get lost?

You know how with toddlers, you have repeat everything a few times before it finally sinks in?

You know how toddlers ask you the stupidest questions? (Yeah, I said "stupid questions". All that business about "There's no such thing as a stupid question" is a lot of hooey. There are all sorts of stupid questions. Doesn't mean they shouldn't be asked. Doesn't mean the person asking them is stupid. But they're still stupid questions.)

Yeah.

So anyway.... I went to CostCo today with my parents. And I suppose you already know where I'm going with this one. You'd be right.

Like......every time BEFORE I take Mom and Dad to CostCo, Dad always asks, while we're still at the house mind you, "What do we need?" And I mean, those exact words. Every time. So he and I go over the list. But it never fails, as soon as we get to CostCo, we have to go through the same, exact, exercise. It's like we never had that conversation back at home!

Like.......my mom ALWAYS gets lost! She uses one of those motorized carts. And I don't know how she does it, but she'll be right there with Dad and me, and I'll turn around right before we're ready to head for the checkout, and she's gone! Vanished! And do you KNOW how SLOW those carts go?! I mean, I know it's necessary, cuz I remember the time Mom and her cart took out an entire display of canned fruit at QFC. If the cart had been going any faster, gawd knows the damage she would've done! I'm just saying. They're soooo slow! How can she disappear so fast?

Anyway, back to Mom disappearing.....so I walk down every aisle. No Mom. I finally find her in some obscure aisle, like by the camping supplies or the water purifiers, and I'll say, "Mom, let's go, we're checking out." Then I'll turn to leave, and then turn back to make sure she's behind me, and she's gone again! Buzzing off into the complete opposite direction!

Like........how Dad has to say everything SO LOUD so that everyone around you can hear it. This isn't really a problem EXCEPT when we're almost at the checkout line and he's asking me if there's anything else we need to get (for the fifth time) and I suddenly remember, "Oh, Mom needs Depends" and he says, "She needs pencils?" and I repeat, "Depends," and he says, "She needs pens?" and I repeat (directly into his one remaining half-way-decent ear "DEE-PENDSSS", and he says, (at full volume) "ohhh DIAPERS!"

So yeah. A muzzle for Dad. A harness for Mom.

When Age Limits the Ambitious Mind

Age is tough on the ambitious. The mind wants to do this and that. The body says no. Time says no.

My father made his morning appearance as usual today, a little grumpier than usual. We reviewed the weekly errands, appointments, and tasks, decided our CostCo run would happen Thursday, and reviewed Mom's birthday menu (Saturday is her 89th birthday) of filet, mushrooms, and salad. I reminded Dad that he has a haircut scheduled for tomorrow at 1pm and a retinologist appointment on Thursday.

He sighed.

Then he complained and grumbled that it took him so much longer to get dressed this morning because of the new lotion his dermatologist told him to apply to his thinning, aging skin, and because of the new cortisone foam his GP has recommended for his.....ahem.......area-that-PreparationH-isn't-helping.

Then there was a pause.

Then he said, "You know, we spend so much time going to appointments and to CostCo and hair appointments. And for what reason? What a waste."

He turned and wheeled his way out of my office shaking his head disgustedly. But before he turned the corner into the hall he blurted out one word. One word that I'm still processing. He said, "Terminate."

It's profoundly jarring to hear the man you've always thought of as your personal "John Wayne", one of the original big-gun surfers of Southern California, who was doing backflips into the family swimming pool at age sixty, who built every inch of fencing for our 2 acre quarter horse ranch, who used to play classical piano and classical guitar for hours at a time, whose garage looks like the tool section at True Value, who, even at age 93, is still studying Japanese, wants to learn to play the concertina, wants to sing Italian arias, and wants to read every page of the newspaper so he knows what's going on in the world.

Terminate? Did he really say it?

He did.

And because I am the ambitious apple that doesn't fall far from the tree, I can understand how frustrated my dad must get. Were it not for the limitations of his body--his poor vision, his poor hearing, his crumbling bones and joints--he would still be playing piano and guitar every day, and he would be learning the concertina, and he would be exploring the world around him. But his body simply says no.

Perhaps I'll look for a used concertina...

Funnel Vision

Universe,

Milky Way galaxy,

Solar System,

Earth,

Northern Hemisphere,

North America,

United States of America,

Washington,

Olympic Peninsula,

Sequim,

Heath Road

Office

Me.

What we learn

We learn many things from our parents--what to do, what not to do; how to live, how not to live. My current lesson is learning and recognizing these things from both my parents.

My father starts every morning with a song.

My mother has nightmares that strange people are trying to take her away.

My father can barely see and hear, but wants to learn how to play a concertina.

My mother used to knit.

My father urges me to write to our congressman about this or that bill.

My mother worries she'll have no cottage cheese for dinner.

My father laughs out loud at least three times a day.

My mother groans at least a dozen.

My father always offers to help.

My mother always asks for help.

My father takes three medications.

My mother takes ten.......twice a day.

My father made choices.

My mother made choices.

I make choices.

Friday

Not a great day. Why, you ask? Two words: vomit; immodium.

Adopting Haiti Chowder

Here's a snippet of a conversation between Mom and Dad that took place yesterday afternoon while Dad was reading the food section of the newspaper, and Mom was watching CNN's coverage of the situation in Haiti.
Dad: "Patricia did you see this picture of the Grilled Scallop Chowder in the food section?
Mom: "No."
Dad: "It looks delicious! I think we should try this!"
2-3 pause..............
Mom: "I think we should adopt one of these Haitian children."
Dad: "What?"
Mom: "I said, I think we should...."
Dad: "Chowder? Did you see this picture? Doesn't it sound good?"
Mom: "Haitian children............"
Dad: "You hate chowder? How can you say that? Look at this picture..."
Mom: "No, I said I think....."
Dad: "Look at this picture.......look at these big scallops........oh boy........."
Mom: "No. I said I think we should adopt a child from Haiti!"
short pause.............
Dad: "...adopt a child from Haiti?"
Mom: "Yeeees."
Dad: "Patricia are you crazy? How could we do that?"
Mom: "Oh I don't know. I just feel awful for them."
another short pause.......
Dad: "But we're too old to adopt children!"
Nothing from Mom.
Dad: "Let's have chowder for dinner tonight."

Duck Tape

I've never been exactly sure what it is. Is it duct tape or duck tape? Or are they both correct? I dunno. In any case, I'm assuming everyone knows what I'm talking about. That stuff McGyver uses to save the world, or, in my father's case, what he uses to keep his shoes from falling apart.

See, my Dad has this favorite pair of boots--they're sort of like Uggs. I think. And I'm sure they were lovely, once. Currently however, their original color is entirely up for grabs. Gray? Brown? Or, god forbid, white??? ew. But, whatever. The color is irrelevant to Dad, since he's lost half his vision and fashion has never been his strongpoint. (Good grief, it took him until he turned 70 to wear anything but white shirts!)

Dad wears his boots-of-a-color-that-shall-not-be-named everywhere. HAS worn them everywhere for years. And this is because Dad is not one to get rid of clothing he likes (hence the tattered sleeves and collar of all his beloved Land's End rugby shirts). As a result, the beforementioned boots have developed little holes in them exactly on the places that coverDad's fungus-eaten big toes (And that reminds me. What is UP with old people and their toes?! Okay, okay. That'll have to wait for a different blog. Stay tuned. I'll call that one Toe Jam. Watch for it.). And rather than invest in a pair of new boots (whose color would be instantly recognizable), he continues to patch up those big-toe-holes with duct (or was it duck? Did we decide?) tape. My brother even got Dad a new pair of Uggs two xmases ago. They're still sitting in Dad's closet! With no duck-duct tape on them!

But Dad doesn't stop with taping his boots together. He uses duct-duck-goose tape to fix practically anything. It's like in My Big Fat Greek Wedding--the Dad that heals everything with Windex!

So, that's really it for today. For some reason, the ever-present vision of those little silver-gray patches of tape on the toes of my dad's boots was burning a hole in my brain. Gosh, if only I could use quacker-tape on my brain.

Dad wants a dog.

I go through this about once a month. Dad starts longing for his beloved Zeus, who we had to put down early last year. Our local newspaper always seems to run some story about a lost, or rescued, or abandoned, or abused dog or horse, and Dad wants to adopt them all, love them all, rescue them all. So this morning wasn't a complete surprise when Dad came into the office and said, "Let's adopt a greyhound." He had read a story about a bunch of greyhounds, ex-racing dogs, that needed homes. Dad's heartstrings were plucked.

Don't get me wrong, I love animals. My two dogs are my lifeline to sanity most days. But taking on an additional dog, along with the other responsibilities I have is not an option for me.

So, I explained to Dad the primary reason why we should not adopt a greyhound: The dog will likely outlive Dad and Mom, which means I end up being responsible for three dogs, which I don't want to do. Not if I want to be able to see my kids when I want to.

Dad understood. In fact, I was amazed at how completely he understood. But his exit is what prompted this blog.

He nodded in agreement and said, "Good point. I understand."

Then he turned his walker around and started walking out of the office. And I heard him exclaim as he toddled out of sight...."I just want a dog that I can bond with."

And that's what tugged at MY heartstrings.

The Rare Uneventful Day

When you live with elderly, very elderly parents, most every day includes at least one minor crisis. You get used to it. You feel pretty good if you have a quiet half-day after troubleshooting through a couple of little crises in the morning. What constitutes a crisis? Before I moved in with my parents it was logical stuff--a car accident, a house fire, a theft, a death, a near-death. But when you're over eighty, at least with my parents, a crisis is having no bananas for breakfast the next morning, forgetting how to use the TV remote, not getting the Time magazine in Saturday's mail, not getting the newspaper, or, in my mother's case, running out of cottage cheese.

So, I am happy to report that today: there were plenty of bananas and cottage cheese; the Time magazine WAS in Saturday's mail; both Sunday newspapers were delivered this morning; and the synapses that connect my mother's brain to the hand that operates the TV remote were apparently all firing just fine.

Yep. A rare uneventful day.

Nuking the Ice Cream

You know that part of the brain that let's us know when stuff make sense or not? The part that kicks in when, for example, we start to put the cranberry juice away in the linen closet instead of in the refrigerator, and it screams at us, "Stop you fool! The juice goes in the fridge!"? The part that stops us before we pour the GrapeNuts into the juice glass instead of into the cereal bowl? You know that part? Okay, well I've concluded that this part of the brain is pretty much fried by the time most people reach the age of 90. And I'm pretty sure the frying process starts at around the age of 55 because those two examples I just shared with you? I did those. No, wait, correction. I DO those........more frequently than I'm going to admit today.

Here's the evidence for my fully-fried-by-90 theory. This happened today. This morning. Well, actually it must've started last night, since I didn't discover it until this morning.

First of all, you have to know that my father only eats his ice cream if it's soft. In fact, he's so adamant about having his ice cream soft that he puts his ice cream in the microwave to get it really, really soft. It's more like the consistency of pudding by the time he gets it the way he likes it. ew. Personally I prefer my ice cream hard enough that I have to carve it out of the carton and chew it, but that's just me. Nothing wrong with wanting your ice cream soft, and nuking it to get it that way, but........

This morning (now we're back to the alleged evidence) I walked into the kitchen to do mycoffee-cereal-juice-newspaper routine. I opened the fridge door and lo and behold, there was an ice cream sandwich that had been placed in the meat drawer. (See, and this is how the blog thing works for me--stuff like this happens and when it does, I think instantly to myself, "Oh this is DEFinitely going on the blog!") I surmised that the ice cream sandwich had to have been in the fridge since last night since nobody gets up before I do. Anyway, I took it out and, well it was.......basically mush......so I tossed it in the trash (refrozen ice cream just isn't very appetizing).

Of course I had to get the full story from Dad so I asked him when I got up.

Me: "Dad, did you put the ice cream sandwich in the fridge last night?"

Dad: "Yeah! I wanted it to get soft so I could have it tonight!"

Me: "Okay, well that doesn't really work because ice cream won't stay frozen in the fridge."

Dad: "Oh. Really?"

(yep, it's fried. I rest my case.)

Friday morning

Me

Working and thinking about my daughter going back to NYC tomorrow morning and how much I'll miss her.

Mom

Worrying about the Peninsula Daily News headline on today's paper about the two guys they caught who are allegedly responsible for a recent string of burglaries in Sequim.

Dad

Singing La Vie En Rose in the shower.

And now a little diddy from Daddy....

I'm not sure what's come over my father over the last year or so. He's become increasingly creative--composing songs, dancing randomly in the kitchen, singing arias in the shower. And now he has apparently taken to poetry.

Let me say first that I don't mean to beat the Depends/diaper/urination issue into the ground. On the other hand, it IS, afterall what's currently going on here (at least with my dad). And since that IS, afterall, the purpose of this blog, I would be unfaithful to my original goal (which is to document my daily life with my parents). For the record, I never know what I'm going to blog about. I go through the day and wait until something just sort of speaks to me. I always know when it happens. It's helped my attitude about living here. I'm more of an observer, which helps me from feeling like I'm 93.

This begins with last night, after Dad and Mom had retired for the night (and after I had to demonstrate to Dad how to put on the Maximum Protection Depends--see yesterday's blog). I was in the east end of the house. Mom and Dad were in the north end. It was about a half hour after they had gone to bed when I heard Dad hollering for me, "Denise!"

Obediently I got out of bed to go see what was the matter (assuming something was the matter since it's unusual for Dad to call me post-"going to bed."

We met in the living room. Oh did we meet. There was my father, standing nearly naked in the middle of the room. He had two Depends on--his Maximum Protection Depends and his regular Depends. That's right, two, count 'em, two Depends. He was afraid of leakage so he put on both Depends, one on top of the other, to be sure.

So there he was, standing there in front of me, in all his glory, and he says to me, "Take a picture of me and send it to your two brothers." And then he strikes a pose. And not just any old pose. It was like one of those Betty Grable poses from back in the forties, you know with one hand behind the head, one knee bent just so, the hips turned just so? And I'm an obedient daughter so, yes, I pulled out my cell phone and took his photo. But........I did not send it to my brothers. I just couldn't. It seemed...........I dunno.........undignified, disrespectful. Don't get me wrong, the photo is hysterical. But I just felt funny sending a photo of my 93 year old father, naked except for a double layer of Depends, to my two brothers, or to anybody else in the family for that matter. I still have the photo. You'll notice I haven't posted it here either. It just doesn't seem right. Having said that, I'd love to post the photo because it's so classically DAD. Priceless. Spontaneously priceless.

So anyway.........you have all the background. Now cut to this afternoon, about two hours ago. I walk into the living room where Dad is busy absorbing today's newspaper. He stops me and says, "I made it through the night without wetting the bed!" Big smile on his face, totally pleased with himself.

"That's great!" I say.

Then he stops me again. And the following poem is what he proceeded to share with me: (Because clearly Dad has been preoccupied with thoughts of Depends, and his bladder problems, and this new episode in his elderly life, and he was apparently inspired by it all.)

On my father's behalf, I've entitled this Deep Into My Diaper

I'm deep into my diaper

Cuz I can't hold my pee.

But this is what happens

When you're ninety-three.

My life's been a blast

With my finger up my ass.

But now I'm deep into my diaper

Unfortunately.

by Stanley Fleener 14January2010

Diaper Demo

First the background.

Dad is still having "flow" problems.

Consequently, he's been having "accidents" during the night.

As a result, he's been wearing Depends--a reality that he accepts with incredible good humor.

However, the Depends don't seem to be doing the job for overnight protection.

So.....today the caregiver suggested picking up some Maximum Protection style Depends--the bulky ones with straps that wrap around and attach to the front....kind of like a regular diaper does (which is what Dad calls them......Diapers.....and which I correct him on constantly because, unlike my father, I'm in complete denial over the fact that my father, who, to me, has always been the closest clone to John Wayne possible, now has to wear diapers because he keeps wetting his bed. I mean, my god, you try picturing John Wayne wearing a diaper! See what I'm talking about?!)

Anyway, so I bought some Maximum Protection Depends, brought them home, and presented the package to Dad. He studied the package for several minutes before becoming completely confused, "How the hell do these work? Where are the instructions?" (Dad has to use an owner's manual to open a tube of toothpaste.)

And I'm like, "Instructions? No. What? Dad, look here at the package, it shows you how to put them on."

I showed him the picture.

Still confused.

I explained that he just needs to wrap the three adhesive straps on each side of the back part around his hips and attach them to the front part.

Confused.

So.............(Do you know what's coming? You do, right?)

Yup. There was only one option left. I was going to have to demonstrate. Which I did. I went through the whole process just as naturally as if I was explaining mitosis to my middle schoolers back when I was a classroom teacher.

And you know, the funny thing is that I didn't think twice about doing the Diaper Demo until long after the fact, when I suddenly realized, "I just demo-ed to my father how to put on a Maximum Protection disposable diaper!"

The blessing is that neither of my brothers was here to see it, because if they had been here, trust me, there would have been at least photos, and more likely, a full length video.

Morning Routines

Me

Make coffee.

Pour cranberry juice for Mom.

Fix Grape-Nuts/Maple Pecan Crunch for Mom.

Feed dogs.

Take out yesterday's newspaper to the recycle bin.

Bring in today's newspaper.

Check Mom and Dad to make sure.....well, you know.

Empty dishwasher.

Check clean dishes in dish drainer to see if Dad really cleaned them.

Check Mocha Mix supply.

Check banana supply.

Go to home office to work.

Dad

Bring up phlegm.

Stretch and yawn.

Empty bladder.

Go back to sleep.

Mom

Go to bathroom.

Change Depends.

Turn on CNN.

Go back to sleep.

Dogs

Go outside to go potty.

Eat breakfast.

Go back to sleep.

A New Pee-er

It never ceases to amaze and entertain me how light-hearted my father remains in spite of practically anything. As far back as I can remember, if he bumps his head, bangs his hand, or drops something on a toe, whatever he says is always preceded by a chuckle. So it goes something like this:

Dad, upon closing the door on his finger, first chuckles, then, with a smile on his face, says, "Ya know, that hurt," then chuckles again. It's like he's amazed at the pain. I've always been impressed with that.

I remember the day Dad accidentally nailed his knee into the brick planter he was building in the backyard. By chance, I was watching from the upstairs window. Dad was down on one knee, bracing the brick wall with the knee, and hammering from the other side of the wall (yes, toward his knee). Then Dad went to get up, and nothing happened. Then, and this is the part I'll never forget, he laughed out loud. The beauty of this observation is that nobody was around! So it's not like he was trying to be tough for an audience. Nope. He's just hard-wired that way.

So anyway, Dad's back from the hospital with his freshly-reemed urethra. He slept in this morning and only got up around 11am or so. I was coming out of the kitchen as he was coming in. The first thing I noticed was that he was in only his underwear. The second thing I noticed was that his walker seat was piled high with clothes. I looked at the clothes, then I looked up at him. He was smiling. He said, "I pee-ed my pants. Twice." Then he sort of laughed.

I grabbed the clothes and threw them in the washing machine, then went back to Dad and we began a discussion about his, uh, predicament. I suggested wearing a Depends. He agreed except that that would mean he'd have to completely disrobe to put on a new Depends (which he figures would happen several times a day since he's urinating pretty frequently right now). I told him that was a good point, but pointed out that it doesn't really make any difference--he'll have to change his clothes several times a day anyway withOUT the Depends.

He paused, thought for a moment, then smiled (like he does), chuckled (a little) then said, "I think I need a new pee-er."

Zeus

Zeus was Dad's beloved canine companion of 13 years. The two were inseparable. While Dad was still driving, he would take Zeus to selected spots where they could explore and meander together. Dad loved that dog. I can't tell you how many times I saw Dad come out from his shower and promptly go to lie down on his bed, where Zeus was lying, and the two of them would be there, arm in leg, silent, for several minutes, Dad whispering "sweet nothings" into Zeus's captive ear.

We had to put Zeus down the beginning of last year. It was the first time I had seen my father cry at all, let alone weep. And weep he did. For days at first, and then sporadically for weeks, and then randomly for months. Lately Dad's grieving has been resigned to a somber mention of Zeus and how much he is missed.

Cut to last night, when I was visiting Dad in the hospital. He was telling me about the surgery, describing what he knew about the procedure, the "going under", and the waking up. Then he told me something I didn't see coming at all--That the nurses told him that as he was coming out of the anesthesia, he was crying and mumbling, and crying and mumbling. And the only word they could make out was the name Zeus.

Moments like that just squeeze at my heart.

Sounds of Silence

It's a strange thing, living with your elderly parents. Your life changes, obviously. Your routine changes, again obviously. But maybe not so obvious to most people is the way your mind changes. The way you think. The way I think.
Like this morning when I was just barely out of bed and had the thought that someday I would get up in the morning and not hear the sound of Mom's walker bumping into the bathroom door sometime between 8am and 8:30am, not hear dad coughing up phlegm sometime around 9am, not hear Mom groan as she settles into her chair for breakfast, not hear Dad rustling the newspaper ALL DAY LONG as he absorbs every word of every page, not hear Mom coughing on her morning pills, not hear CNN or TMC or eWST coming from either or both the living room and Mom's bedroom television.
I stood in my bedroom looking out at the stillness of the morning and imagined the inside of the house being still, and quiet. I tried to imagine how I will feel when that inevitable day comes. Will I feel relief? Sorrow? Grief? Will I miss all of those sounds and noises that I've come to expect every day? I complain and whine about those noises now. When those noises are gone, will I miss them? Will I want to stay in this house WITHOUT those noises and sounds? Could I?

Hospital Talk

Dad's still in the hospital. He's chipper. He knows every nurse's name. He feels great. He loves the food. (No, that's not why he's still there.) But.......the doc hasn't given the official discharge yet. Probably tomorrow. Meanwhile, Dad's flirting with the nurses, studying the menu, and sleeping whenever he wants.
Only person I know who loves being in the hospital.

The house is unusually quiet. I'm amazed at how quiet it is. I guess I never realized how many noises my dad makes. But.......it's really, really quiet in the house right now.

I woke him this morning at 5:45am for his 7am checkin at the hospital. Short Stay procedure to improve his "flow." I don't that anybody is at their best at 5:45am, but my father is especially contrary at any hour before 11am. He grumbled, he barked, he hocked up at least two "loogies" then grumbled some more, shared a stream of obscenities, then hoisted himself into a standing position and finally relented with, "Okay let's go." Lovely.

On the way to the hospital he sang. He sings every morning. Lately he's been singing a little love song he's been composing. It goes something like this:

Tell me pretty girl,

Are you ready for love,

Tell me pretty girl,

Who will you choose...

Or something like that. It's cute, sometimes. My dad can't really sing, so only cute sometimes.

Took Dad into the Short Stay section of the hospital. Got him into his hospital duds, settled onto a bed, covered him with warm blankets, slipped on his hospital-issue sockies, then he started singing again. The nurses are entertained. He acts like he can't hear or see them react, but I know darn well he can. That's why he does it afterall.

I left shortly before he was taken to pre-op. He's supposed to be in overnight. Somebody will call me, I a told. Came home to find Mom still sleeping. Nestled into my home office to work, then stopped to notice, how, quiet, the, house, was. Nice. Quiet. Peaceful. But.......

I miss the singing.

Poor Ole Horse

Every time I drive my dad,
Who is 93 and half-blind,
And in constant denial over his age,
Into town,
We drive by the big green pasture
That sets in front of the big yellow house,
And Dad always turns to look
At the same hoofed beast
Grazing alone in the pasture.

And Dad sort of sighs,
And says, with a tinge of empathy,
"Poor old horse."

And I always laugh.

Because it's a cow.