T-Shirt Ghost

Remember when you used to play ghost by putting on a big t-shirt only part way, so your head was still inside the shirt, and your arms were sort of stuck halfway inside the armholes, elbows suspended upward in mid-air? Then you'd walk around flailing your arms around and wailing, in a weird, ghostly voice, "wooooooooooh, woooooooh" trying to scare your little sister or brother, or the family dog? Remember that? You did that, right?

I wasn't the only one......was I?

Okay. So Mom just called me into her room. She generally retires pretty early, usually around 7pm. She goes to her room, sits in her chair, gets undressed, puts on her calf-length, long-sleeved, L. L. Bean cotton, nightgown, gets into bed, and watches television for a few hours before actually falling asleep.

She called me because she needed help with her shoes. Specifically, the velcro straps of her Rockports. So I dashed in. Ripped open the straps and removed her shoes and her socks (the one with little cows all over them). I noticed that she already had her nightgown on. "Well, looks like you're all set for the night!"

"yeeeees" she moaned. Mom moans her yes-es. It's kind of become her trademark. In fact, when I think about it, she hasn't answered a question with a normal, "Yes" in years. Since about 2005, it's been a long, drawn out, moany, somewhat forlorn--"yeeeeees."

Anyway, shoes and socks successfully removed, I went back to the office. Not two minutes later Mom called again, this time, a little more frantically, "Deniiiiiise!"

I jumped up and was at her door in seconds, expecting to find her trying to get to something just out of reach. Instead, there she was, still sitting in her chair, looking like the t-shirt ghost from my childhood.......except, of course, Mom's version was pink (cuz her nightgown is pink).

I just stood and stared. I couldn't figure out how she did it! Her head was completely hidden. Her arms were twisted up inside the nightgown, over and around her head. Basically, I couldn't see any part of my mother from the waist up. Just a bunch of pink, lobular shapes. It was kind of crazy.

I blurted out, "Whoa! Where'd you go???!" (It was a really, really good t-shirt ghost.)

"I......don't......knowwwww" she moaned back.

Then I remembered that she had her nightgown ON not two minutes before when I was in to take her shoes off. "Wait a minute......Are you taking your nightgown on or off?"

"I......don't.........knowwwww."

I mean, truly, you should've seen the Chinese knot she had her arms in inside that nightgown. It was amazing!

But seriously, I had to get her out of this mess. And that depended on whether I needed to try and pull the nightgown off, or put the nightgown back on. So I asked the obvious question, "Are you trying to put your nightgown on?"

"yeeeeeeeees."

And just for kicks (cuz she just sounded and looked so cute!) I had to ask again, "Do you want me to help you?"

"yeeeeeeees."

Thankfully, it wasn't as complicated as it looked. Somehow she had put her head AND one of her arms through the neck hole of the nightgown. Total mystery. I have no explanation.

Got everything back in order, arms and head where they were supposed to be. "Okay, that's better" I said to her before leaving. "You okay now?"

And, of course she answered, "yeeeeeeees."

Thank you Isaac Stern

"Isaac Stern!"

Dad burst into my office this morning singing (and doing a little Tevyah jig) "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match...." then suddenly interjected, with incredible gusto, right arm raised like the Statue of Liberty, "Isaac Stern!" It actually scared me a little.

"Wha.....!?" I started to say as I whirled around in my chair.

"Isaac Stern!" Dad shouted again. "The greatest violinist in the world!"

"Okay...." I said, hesitant to do anything else but agree.

Then Dad went on, "Fiddler on the Roof was on last night. GREAT movie! GREAT 'choragraphy', GREAT score, GREAT lyrics! GREAT movie!" Big ole' grin on his face (look at the new pic of Dad that I posted last night. It's the same grin.)

Then Dad turned around and Tevyah-ed out the door. "Yah-tah-tah-tah, dee-dee-dah-dah...."

So much for shortness of breath. Isaac Stern and Tevyah have apparently given Dad a second wind.

Sakura, Sakura....

I mentioned a few blogs ago that Dad has been singing a Japanese song, "Sakura." I had no idea what it meant, or even if it was actually a song. But I looked it up just now and found the lyrics. Turns out, "Sakura" means "cherry blossoms" and the song is an old Japanese folk song. I've pasted the lyrics below because when I read them, the simple beauty of the words made me well up inside. My father can be stubborn and gruff and incredibly frustrating at times. But when he sings "Sakurahhh, Sakurahhh..." his voice is so delicate (a word I doubt anybody would use to describe my dad) and full of so much longing and tenderness.

.............anyway..........here are the lyrics.

Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,

On Meadow-hills and mountains

As far as you can see.

Is it a mist, or clouds?

Fragrant in the morning sun.

Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,

Flowers in full bloom.

Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms,

Across the Spring sky,

As far as you can see.

Is it a mist, or clouds?

Fragrant in the air.

Come now, come,

Let’s look, at last!

Breath...

I was going to write about my dad singing an entire verse of "Sakura..." as we passed by Pioneer Park in Sequim on our way home from QFC (a 'bananya' run).

I was going to write about the little banter Mom and Dad had when Mom announced last week that she wanted to recarpet the house, and Dad answered with a flat, "No!" and Mom kept pushing him to say yes, and then he very assertively barked, "NO!" again and added, "You can get new carpet after I'm dead!" and then chuckled deviously as he added again, "Except then, you won't be able to afford it, hah, hah, hah!"

I was going to write about the shouting match Dad and I got into last week because he refused to believe that the only thing wrong with Mom's halogen lamp was that it needed a new bulb. (You shoulda seen the wrenches and screwdrivers he had spread out all over the dining room table!)

I was going to write about Dad's latest "pet" plea--a nine-year-old chocolate lab female advertised in the PDN. "All she needs is some to love her!" he pleaded.

I was going to write about all of those. Until this morning.

Dad wanted to go to CostCo to get salmon. I groaned because I despise going to CostCo on Sunday. The crowds, the traffic, the noise. ugh. But....I figured, why not. So I said "Okay. We'll go in an hour."

An hour passed. I grabbed my bag and went into the living room to get Dad. He was lying back in his recliner, looking straight up at the ceiling. His color wasn't so good. His face was, well, I dunno, it was just different somehow.

I tapped his foot, like I usually do when I want his attention. He raised his head a little, "Is it time to go?" His voice was tired. His face was tired.

"Are you okay?"

And he didn't answer.

"Dad?"

And then he said, in a voice more tired than I had heard it since 2004 when he called me in Portland to tell me how drained he was from trying to take care of Mom after her first back surgery, "Hmmm.......yeahhhhh.......yeahh.....okay. Let's go."

I just stood there and looked at him. Assessed him.

He knew I was assessing him. He pointed to his chest, "I'm having some shortness of breath. "

And on the inside, my brain screamed, "SHORTNESS OF BREATH!!??? CALL 911! GET HIM TO THE ER STAT!"

But on the outside, I calmly asked him, "Really? How long?"

"Ohhhh, just this morning. I'll be okay. Maybe.....just another 15 minutes. Let me just sit here for another 15 minutes."

I did. And 15 minutes later I came back to assess him again. He was already on his feet, heading for the door. "Better now."

I said out loud, "I'm going to call the doc."

But he stopped me abruptly and decisively, "NO. I'm all right. Do NOT call the doctor." Then a pause. "If it happens again, you can call. I'll tell you."

So......all those initial topics I was going to write about? They sort of fell by the wayside because all I've been able to think about for the rest of today is 'breath.' Breath. Breath. Breath. That rhythmic barometer that indicates all possible levels of excitement, euphoria, anxiety, panic, shock, surprise, anticipation, exertion, exhilaration. First breath. Sustained breath. Shortness of breath.

Last breath.

Tonight I did a couple of things I have never done before. I reviewed my CPR technique. I went over the "What To Do When A Loved One Dies" list I have posted on the wall next to my desk in the office.

Dad said goodnight about half an hour ago. He came into the office where I was doing some odds and ends on the computer, and shared some news he read about in the paper today. Apparently there's a new vaccine for men who already have prostate cancer (which my dad has had for years but has been well under control for quite some time now). Dad was excited. He said, "It should be approved in a month or two so I want to ask the doc if I can get it."

"Good idea," I answered.

Then he smiled, said goodnight and went in to brush his teeth.

So I've been sitting here thinking about the day today.

About five minutes ago, I don't know why, but some little voice in my head said I should take a photo of Dad. Now. Right now. Like...... Right Now! Go! Do it!

So I did. It's the one that's posted. I told him to smile and look happy because the first three looked so gruff and stern. He asked why I wanted to take his picture. Why I wanted him to smile. I told him it just seemed like a good idea.

Falling...

Returned from Sequim lab again today. This time for Mom. Also a check for Dad's hearing aid which has been whistling incessantly for the last several days. He, of course, doesn't hear it, but it's driving the rest of us crazy. Turns out, his ears need cleaning. (Seriously.) But that's all unimportant for the purpose of today's blog.

We arrive back at the house. Park the car. I get Mom's walker out. I get Mom out. She's wheeling her way back into the house.

Dad gets out of the car. This takes a good half minute, by the time he maneuvers out of the car, stands up, gets his bearings, closes the door, breathes, and starts going again. I wait for him, like I usually do, because if Dad's hip or knee gives out, I figure it'll probably be in the first few steps he takes.

So I'm standing there, next to him, waiting for him to successfully begin his forward momentum. He starts to go, then looks at me (because he always gets a kick out of the fact that I hover around him until I know he's going to be okay) and smiles and says, "I'm okay. Proceed" he adds with a little flourish. And so I turn to go ahead into the house, to help Mom off with her jacket. But just as I turn around toward the kitchen/garage door....he speaks again.

"CRASH."

I turn immediately.

And Dad stands there, twinkly little smile on his face, chuckling at me.

"Just kidding," he says.

Wicked, wicked, wicked sense of humor.

Sahkurahhhh....

My family is not a demonstratively affectionate one. We're not even very good at verbally expressing our affections, though we've gotten better with age, like a fine wine. I know this may sound like bullshit, but what we DO do really well is silently connect with each other. My brothers and I do it really well. My kids and I do it really well. My dad and I do it constantly, between the phrases we have to repeat to each other until Dad finally hears what is being said, during or at the end of a crisis with Mom, as a kind of punctuation to whatever drama she has just created. Some times, Dad and I have these moments when he and I have this completely non-verbal exchange that happens underneath whatever is going on around us. Some times, like today, I don't like what he doesn't say to me.

Something's wrong with the way Dad's body uptakes calcium. He takes daily calcium, and his blood calcium levels are normal, but his bones are getting little, if any, of it. And so, his bones continue to become more and more porous. His bones are so osteoporotic now that his bone density numbers are off the chart. The osteo doc can't believe he hasn't fallen, or just crumbled. (I don't dare tell her Dad still hobbles out to the barn once a week, gets on the mower-tractor and mows the entire half-acre.)

In an effort to find out why the calcium isn't getting to his bones, Dad had to do a 24 hr urine collection starting yesterday and then give a blood sample. The doc's checking for creatinine levels now because she apparently is thinking Dad's kidneys are misbehaving. So Dad and I packed up his urine container, chilled in a cooler, and headed into the Sequim lab this afternoon.

But some things were different today. The leaving was the same. I said, "Time to go!" Dad said, "Okay!", put down the newspaper, got out of his recliner, wheeled his walker into the dining room, exchanged it for his cane, put on his jacket, slowly exited the dining room, walked through the garage, and then got into the car. But then....... as we headed out the driveway, Dad pulled out a tiny little brown bottle and said, "Do you know what this is?"

I looked at the label, "Dad that's nitroglycerin! Why do you have that?"

He explained very carefully, seriously, instructively, "If I have a heart attack, put one of these on my tongue three times."

Pause as I process.

"Okay."

Then he continued. "The doc gave me these about ten years ago........I just found them in my drawer this morning...........I'd forgotten about them. So.......Just so ya know....."

"Okay."

Another pause as I process.

Then I say, "Are they still good?"

Dad chuckles. "I guess we'll find out."

Then I chuckle back. "Yeah.......I'll let you know." (as I make a mental note to find out the shelf-life of nitroglycerin)

That was the first thing that happened.

Then, when we got to the lab and were walking in (at the same place where Dad, last week, smugly challenged Mom to a race), something else happened. Dad had to stop. Three times. I asked him if he was okay. He said, "Oh sure....Just tired." We continued on into the lab. Handed over the urine container. He gave blood. We were done in less then 15 minutes, heading back out toward the car again...

And Dad had to stop again. Three times. Again. I asked him, "You okay?"

He said, "Yeahhhh.....But I think in a couple of years........... I should use the walker all the time." (YEARS! He actually said, "...a couple of YEARS")

I said, "Dad, I think maybe TODAY would be a good time to start using the walker all the time."

"Yeah," he agreed. He sounded so tired.

Then we got into the car and headed home, past the "Poor Ole' Horse" that Dad, today, noticed and said, "Oh they got a new horse!" and I just chuckled to myself.

And I couldn't stop thinking that Dad seemed.....different today. Like he was.......well, like he was sort of......giving up. Or at least thinking of giving up. Then I couldn't stop picturing Dad in my head......... in his prime, getting up every morning, swimming laps in the pool, working all day in the avocado grove, flying 747s for American Airlines, riding horses with me, always robust, always fit, always the picture of optimum health. And then I had one of those reality-check moments when my eyes-well up as my brain battles briefly with the sadness of inevitable ends. I hate reality checks. They piss me off.

We sat in silence the rest of the drive home. Dad softly sang a Japanese melody, "Sahkurah...Sahkurahhhh..."

We pulled back into the driveway, parked, and Dad got out, shuffled back through the garage and into the house, took off his jacket, exchanged his cane for his walker, wheeled back into the living room where Mom was waiting, sat back in his recliner, and resumed reading the newspaper.

If not a dog, then....?

Scene: My office at home. I'm working. This morning. Mom and Dad are just getting up.

Dad wheels into the office, for his usual morning greeting. We exchange "good mornings" then I catch him up on various odds and ends. He tells me that he's been thinking a lot about his dermatologist, whom he saw yesterday for a checkup, who is from Poland and who speaks with a very heavy Polish accent. So heavy in fact, that Dad cannot understand anything she says. I act as translator. He just sits there, amazed as she talks a blue streak and waves her hands around energetically.

Anyway, so Dad says he's decided, after careful consideration, that the dermatologist has "an affliction" and that this is why she constantly gestures (except he pronounces it with a hard 'g' sound--"ghestures." I decide to let that "gho.")

So I'm listening to him as he plays amateur psychologist when the screen-saver on my computer comes on. My screen-saver is a slideshow of different animal images. An extreme close-up of a cheetah pops up. Dad instantly sees it.

"OH! What's that?! Look at that big ole' putty cat! GEEZ isn't that beautiful? Look at that!"

Then the image is gone. But Dad's wheels are still turning. Like, I can practically SEE them turning, churning, spinning what was a simple headshot of a cheetah into all of the possible animals on the planet that my father would like to adopt and make his very own. And then he begins.....

"HEY! HOW ABOUT A TURTLE?!" he asks with so much enthusiasm it takes my breath away. His eyes are big. He's smiling. He's 'ghesturing.' Wildly.

I got nothing. I'm laughing too hard.

I guess he takes my uncontrolled laughter as a rejection. He gives up and turns to leave, but then stops himself, turns back, and says, with a brand new revelation, "Or a PARROT!! How about a parrot! They don't need a lot of care, it can sit on my shoulder..."

My laughter is waning. This pet thing that Dad has.....it's kind of bordering on an obsession. On the other hand, he seems pretty amused with himself. He tries one last stab......

"A CANARY!"

I'm dying. My dad is actually killing me with humor. For just a fleeting second I think about how much I will miss him when he's gone.

I catch my breath to say something, though I have no idea what comeback I can possibly produce. It doesn't matter. Dad is in total control of this conversation.

"All right." he waves me off as he turns to leave. "Goodbye. I'm getting breakfast." And he's gone.

Seriously. A turtle?

For Those Who Keep Score: That's One for Mom...

Don't get me wrong. We all love Dad and his..uh...idiosyncracies. But when any one of use can dish it back to him, give him a taste of his own medicine, it's pretty darned sweet. Mom had her day the other day.

My mother is noted more for the characteristics she doesn't have than the ones she has. Like standing up to my Dad about practically anything. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember my mother ever having a difference of opinion with Dad. Mom is a quiet, well-organized, college-educated woman of 89. She knows stuff. I'm sure she has an opinion or two. But, let's face it, disagreeing with my father was not the territory any of us wanted to enter, and that included my mother.

Remember the blog "Ah-So"? If you haven't read it, you might want to look it up in the archives here. In a nutshell it tackles the scenario in which my very-hard-of-hearing father does this thing when he: 1. Can't hear what you just said; 2. Doesn't care about what you just said. He looks at you blankly for a few seconds, then simply says, "Ah-so" then turns around and walks away, ignoring you completely. Of course, the "ah-so" is his way of dealing with the frustration of not being able to hear practically anything, with a little Japanese flair thrown in for good measure.

When Dad and Mom have their little "conversations"......correction......when Dad and Mom try to have a conversation.......the "ah-so" gets used a lot. Mom will say something, which usually comes out pretty garbled and mumbled. Dad barks back at her with a "WHAT?!" and then she tries to repeat what she just said (if she can remember.....which is rare), and then Dad will repeat what HE thinks she just said (which is usually wayyyyy different), and then Mom will say something else, and then Dad just gives up and says, "Ah-so" and goes back to reading his newspaper. Yeah. That's the typical scenario.

Except...........the other day.

Dad got a bee in his bonnet about something he read in the newspaper. He started rattling off something to Mom. And just he kept going. It was probably something political, or something having to do with dogs who need to be adopted. In any case, he just kept going, loudly, straight at Mom, who seemed to be listening. My brother and I were in the next room, eavesdropping. Dad finally brought his little tirade to a close with "Don't you agree with that Patreesha?" (Mom's name is Patricia but Dad frequently pronounces it Patreesha.)

Mom didn't answer him. Not sure why not. She was probably still processing.

Dad barked at her this time, "Patreesha! Don't you agree with that?"

A pause. Then........

"Ah-SO!" Mom blurted it out as loud and a clear as a bell. As if to say, "I didn't here what you said and I don't care!"

My brother and I immediately looked at each other, eyes wide with surprise, and proceeded to simultaneously lick our respective index fingers and make an invisible tally in the air.

That's one for Mom.

On Your Marks, Get Set,........

Mom and Dad both had to have lab work done the other day. From the moment we start walking out the door to go to the lab, to the moment we finally got there, a good hour passes. But it isn't the process of getting my parents to the lab that's important here. You simply need to picture it in your head so the Dad-ism that occurs at the end of the story can be fully appreciated.

Okay. So, first I load Mom into the car--her walker goes in the far back, then I move the front passenger seat UP so Mom can get her body and HER legs into the back seat. It's important that Mom gets into the car first because the front passenger seat, where Dad insists on sitting (I think I've mentioned that Dad's a retired airline captain? He may not be able to drive anymore but doggonit if he doesn't still demand that he sits in [controls] the "cockpit" of the car. Even if it means that Mom has to scrunch her little legs up into her chest. Have I talked about that nasty stubborn streak that my father has?)

Anyway.......I get the walker loaded, then I get Mom loaded and strapped into her seat. The next step is that Dad moves the front seat BACK because that's the only way he can get his body and HIS legs into the car. Note: Dad doesn't take his walker out in public (This is a combination of pride and stubbornness. Have I.....mentioned.......the stubborn thing?....). Instead he sports a cane, which makes absolutely no sense, which he knows, because with a cane, which he also knows, if he loses his balance he's, well, he's basically toast. And what I've tried and tried to explain to him is that at least with a walker, he would have stability in front of him and at each hand. But, as I said, he refuses, flat refuses, to be seen in public with a walker (I'll restrain making the obvious comment here again.)

The drive to the lab is particularly quiet, I notice. The orthopedic doc had called that morning with the results of Dad's bone density test. Not good. Dad's bones are off-the-charts osteoporotic. She'd like a new blood panel done. Hence, the trip to the lab. The doc is very blunt to say to both Dad and to me, "If he falls again, it will probably end up killing him. " (And yet still......the cane! I'm just saying.) The car is quiet because Dad isn't talking. I'm thinking that Dad's probably mulling over his bone density report.

Mom also has reason to be introspective. She had toddled into my room at 5am that morning mildly agitated because she claimed that: 1. Her diaper had overflowed and the bed needed to be changed. 2. She needed her nightgown changed and Dad tried to help her but ended up yelling at her, gave up in a huff, and went back to bed.

Yeah. Neither of those things was true. Bed was dry. Dad was sound asleep. I tucked Mom back in and went back to my room to contemplate the weirdness of dementia. Anyway, when Mom finally woke up later in the morning, she was convinced, adamant even, that she had a urinary tract infection. I called her doc, who ordered a urine sample. Hence the visit to the lab for her.

Okay now here comes the important part. So I pull into the parking lot. I unload the walker. I unload Mom. She starts wheeling toward the sidewalk. Then Dad gets out. I help him navigate up the curb to the sidewalk. By that time Mom is already there and toddling toward the lab. Keep in mind, none of us has exchanged more than two words in the last hour. Everything you just read happens in silence. Like a very well-rehearsed dance.

Before Dad sets off to walking, he kind of straightens up to loosen his "bad" hip. Then he yells, really YELLS, out to Mom, "DO YOU WANNA RACE?!"

My belly popped out a laugh or two not so much because the mental picture of Mom and Dad "sprinting" to the front of the lab, Cane vs Walker, was really hilarious, but more-so because, as any of you who know my father will attest, he was actually pretty serious. If Mom had turned around and said, "Sure!" he would've jumped at the chance to prove his prowess at something. He's a pretty competitive guy, even at 94. But the even funnier thing is that, dollars to donuts, Mom would've totally dusted Dad. Lemme tell ya, when that woman gets revved up, she toddles like a Weeble out of control.

Thankfully, she didn't hear him, or maybe she just chose to ignore him. In either case, it was a good thing for everyone.

But wait there's more. So, we get the lab work done. We're walking out of the lab. Mom, again, is ahead of us. I'm walking with Dad and he says thoughtfully, "You know.........it won't be too long before I'll need to use a walker. "

(Oh, by the way, there's a woman getting out of her car and she's within earshot of this whole conversation.)

I look at Dad, a little confused and say, "Uh........you already use a walker Dad."

And he corrects me, without missing a single beat, "Not in public I don't!"

I just smile, say nothing, inch him along. We're taking baby steps.

He adds, "I mean when I go out. I think I'm going to be needing to use a walker cuz.....you know....... the cane just isn't very stable for me."

Subtext: No shit Sherlock!

Real text: "Dad........you should be using the walker whenever you go anywhere!"

The woman getting out of her car is listening by this time. I can hear her chuckling.

Then Dad interjects with his infinite wisdom, "Well.......I haven't fallen yet!"

Yeah. Seriously. That's his comeback.

I just stare at him. The woman is cracking up out loud now. I can hear her laughing. I look over at her and shake my head in frustration. I observe that she uses a walker.

Parents loaded, we drive home in silence. I try to figure out how I'm going to fit both walkers into the car....

Gastrici-fication

My father is (my brother and I unanimously and wholeheartedly concluded this morning as we watched Dad almost literally inhale his birthday breakfast of a fried egg, chow mein, and egg rolls) totally driven by one thing and one thing only--food. Clearly, his sole objective these days is what I am now going to term "gastrici-fication."

My brother is visiting for a couple of weeks. Partly to celebrate Dad's 94th birthday (which is today) and partly to just visit. It's always interesting for me to hear my brother's observations when he visits. Usually it runs along the lines of, "Gee, Mom seems worse," or "Wow, Mom seems a little better," or "Yup, Dad's pretty much just the same." That last one? That's kind of the normal assessment. It can be two, three, six months between visits, but at some point during my brother's stay, he almost always makes the comment, "Gee, Dad hasn't really changed at all."

He's right.
Sure, Dad takes a little longer to get around. But he's just as headstrong and as ornery as ever, and his brain is as sharp as a tack. Whatever part of the brain it is that is responsible for creativity? That part in my dad's brain operates at full tilt.

But back to the food thing. Let it be said--my father has always loved food. Any food. All food. I suppose that's where I get my own adventurous gastric tastes. It was Dad who introduced me, before I was in school, to escargot, oysters, abalone, and stilton cheese. I still love them all.

Not only does Dad take great pleasure in eating his food, he is also a master forager. I'm not kidding about this. Let me say right here and now that, regardless of his age, his crumbling bones, his failing vision, and his all-but-nonexistent hearing, if I had to be stranded in the wilderness with no food on hand, my dad is the only person I would want to be stranded with, because I am certain that within the first 24 hrs of being stranded in the wilderness, my father would find food. Lots and lots of food.

So this morning, today, is my dad's birthday. My brother surprised him by making a special breakfast--fried egg in a bed of fresh chow mein and a couple of little egg rolls thrown in. This is Dad's kind of meal--mixtures of things; mixtures of textures; mixtures of color; mixtures of flavors. And, of course, the chow mein and egg rolls give it an Asian twist. Big points for anything Asian.

Dad came rolling into the dining room as he always does--full of smiles, robust greetings, arms raised victoriously at making it through to another day (Seriously. He really does this every morning, not just on his birthday.).

"Happy Birthday!" we all greeted back to him. Then he sang the birthday song, out loud, "Happy Birthday to me...." and so on, to entertain us. What a ham.

My brother tells Dad, "Now go sit down cuz I'm making you a special breakfast."

Dad sits. He admires the daffodils and tulips I bought yesterday and have placed on the table for color and to add a festive touch. He sees the birthday cards setting on his placemat.

"Oh look, I have birthday cards! Oh, I have to open those!" He reaches for the letter opener. (Not so many years ago, this would have been when Dad whipped out his eight-inch Bowie knife from his back pocket. He used to be so amused at peoples' faces when he produced that enormous blade in one swift movement. Now, he settles for a letter opener. I guess some things HAVE changed...thank god. I mean....macular degeneration and bowie knives do not mix.) He starts to open the first card when my brother sets down the danburi bowl with Dad's b'day b'fast in it. Suddenly, all sensory input, all reality other than the steamy bowl of food setting in front of my father, disappears.

"Oh LOOK at that!" He bends down to the level of the bowl, using his hands to waft the steam toward his nostrils. "Ahhhhh, smell that!"
Then he reaches for his fork.

My brother and I stand, watching him, our jaws open, glancing back and forth in disbelief at Dad, then to each other. My brother is the first to comment, "Oh my...... Total oral gratification. Look at that!"

We keep watching Dad. He is about to put.....no, correction..... he's about to stuff, an entire egg roll in his mouth.

Dad looked like a half-starved lion who'd just been thrown a raw steak.

My brother was still beside himself in amazement, "I can't believe that. He's completely unaware of everything except that bowl of food!" Then he says it again, "It's just Total Oral Gratification."

We're watching. We're processing. We're still incredulous. Then something occurs to me, "It's a coping mechanism."

"Huh?" my brother says.

"Think about it" I explain, "He can't really see. He can barely hear. He can't move around like he used to. But he CAN taste food. He CAN eat. He CAN enjoy food. It's something he can still do just as well as he always has. So he uses food to cope with the fact that he can't see, hear, or get around the way he used to."

"Oh right!" my brother concurs enthusiastically. Then he looks back to Dad, "Wow, look at him!" Dad is nearly done now. He hasn't even stopped to breathe. Then, finally, after the last morsel is gone, Dad comes up for air and to proclaim triumphantly with a flourish of his hand, "O-ishi-des-kah!" According to Dad, this means That Was Really Good! or something like that. We assume he's correct, but who knows.

Dad finally gets back to his birthday cards. I take some photos. I composed a little limerick this morning and enclosed it in Dad's birthday card from me. I knew Dad would get a kick out of it. Sometimes his humor is a bit crass, so I apologize to any sensitive souls out there. Here it is (Oh something you need to know--my dad's middle name is Milton.):

There once was a man named Milton.

Who feasted on pears and stilton.

In his day he was studly.

But now, well, sorta dud-ly,

Cuz his “pair” down below is a’wiltin’.

(On the event of my father’s 94^th birthday. D.Fleener 4Apr2010)

Happy Birthday Dad!