pre-Homecoming.

Mom's coming home.

Sort of.

Tomorrow.

For a day visit.

So the occupational therapist can assess Mom's needs when she finally does come home.

I pick Mom up at eleven.

With her old walker.

In my car.

The therapist follows us home.

Mom goes through all of the regular motions of a typical day at home.

The therapist observes.

We discuss.

Then we all go back to the nursing home.

yeah... THAT's the part I'm concerned about.

Stay tuned.

Again......the Poor Ole Horse....

A while back I wrote (uncharacteristically I might add, considering my acute disdain for poetry) a little poetic diddy about the Poor Ole Horse That Is Really A Cow (that grazes in the pasture in front of the big old yellow house on Old Olympic Highway) that Dad comments on whenever we drive by it.

Well, I have an update. This happened two days ago, on our way home from visiting Mom at the nursing home.

We were just coming up on the POHTIRAC and Dad goose-necked so suddenly I was afraid he was going to wrench his neck out of joint.

"HEY!" he hollered at me, breaking the ten minute silence that had filled the inside of the Jeep since our departure from the nursing home. I assumed the "HEY" meant I was supposed to stop.

I didn't.

You might wonder why.

Well I'll tell you.

Because Dad ALLways makes some kind of "Hey!" comment when we pass the POHTIRAC and usually, it's something along the lines of "Hey! Look at that! They got a new horse! Poor old horse....." or "Hey! When did they put that poor old horse in that pasture? Poor old horse...." You get my drift. Dad's memory is pretty porous. So it wasn't all that noteworthy that he suddenly blurted out a big old HEY! as we were passing the POHTIRAC.

But back to the other day...

So anyway..........

"HEYYY!" Dad hollered at me again. This time it was louder and, frankly, kind of annoying. so I answered back a little impatiently.

"WHAT?!"

I slowed the car down a little, but I did not stop.

"WAIT!" he kept on, kind of frantically now.

I still didn't stop.

"HOLD ON!" he pleaded, now waving the air with his left hand, desperately demonstrating what he wanted me to do (in case I didn't quite understand what "WAIT!" really meant).

I still didn't stop.

This is when he finally pulled out the Captain Fleener card (which, these days, he really only uses for the really critical moments in his life.......like wanting to stop the car so he can get a closer look at a horse.......that's really a cow) as he flat-out commanded me. "PULL OVER!!!"

Since I was born, NOBODY ignores the Captain Fleener card.

I pulled over.

We ended up almost directly in front of the pasture where the you-know-what was happily grazing along the opposite fence.

Now picture a pause of about 25 seconds as Dad turns and cocks his face this way and that, trying to take in all the visual data his macular degenerated eyes would allow. He finally turned back to look me straight in the face. His expression?.....Well, remember when you first found out that Santa Claus was really your parents? Yep. That's the expression. Then he said to me...

And you all know what he said, right?

Right. But I'm gonna tell ya anyway.

He looked me straight in the eyes and said, with a sort of Well-I'll-be-damned tone, "Is that a cow?"

And I nodded. "Yes, Dad," and still nodding, "yes it is."

Then he said, (of course) "Well, I'll be damned."

There was a short pause as he looked back at the cow-that-used-to-be-a-horse.

"I thought it was a horse."

I nodded again, "I know Dad."

And his parting words, as I pulled back onto Old Olympic Highway?

Again, you all know what's coming, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway.

Wait for it.........

"Poor old cow."

Let's Get Sloshed!

Dad: (around 3:30pm, hungry, sniffing the air, picking up the smell of sauteed mushrooms and peppers wafting its way in from the kitchen, where I'm whipping up a Father's Day meal) When are we eating?

Me: About 5:00. That okay?

Dad: Sure! t Boy, it sure smells good!

Me: Yep.

Then Dad gets up and wheels into the kitchen. He can't resist a good aroma. His eyes are bad, his hearing sucks, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with Dad's sniffer. He pokes his nose into the vegetables. Let's out some exclamation like, "Hmmmm! That smells good!" Then he strolls over to pour himself a glass of wine.

Dad:What time you putting the salmon on the grill?

Me: In about 15 minutes.

Dad's next comment took me a bit by surprise......though not entirely. Considering the week we've had with Mom's escapades into dementia-dom, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised at all.

Dad: Let's get sloshed!

Me: Excuse me?

Dad: Come on! (cheering me on) I'll pour you a glass of wine. I've got a really nice Cab. Let's get sloshed. We deserve it.

Okay.........so, short time-out here...........Let me just say that I am in no way condoning the use of alcohol to escape from one's woes. I'm not a drinker. Dad has a glass of wine about every other night. That's it. But.........truth be told, it was an hellacious week for us. The thought of sharing a little alcohol buzz with my dad had a certain.......shall we say.........alluring bouquet.

Me: Okay! Pour me a glass! (I said it with a classic fist pump, which cracked Dad up. Seriously. I don't drink. He's always trying to talk me into having a glass of wine with him. So the fact that I actually said "yes" for once, really tickled his funny bone.)

So.......he poured; I sauteed and grilled. We're about to sit down now to eat.......and drink.

Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there. Cheers!

Coming up empty.

I dunno.........Life really makes ya think about Life some times ya know?

In the past week, Dad has regaled me with some amazing stories. Like.....how he used to frequent The Hawaiian Hut in Los Angeles back in the 40's and play ukelele with Augie Goupil and the-then-undiscovered Carmen Miranda, who he described as a little pip-squeek. Like.......how he used to hang out with Candelas (the famous flamenco guitar maker), at his shop in east LA, eating goat tacos, and playing guitar all afternoon and into the evening. Like........how he always wanted to be able to sing opera when he was in his teens, but it wasn't considered "cool" so he never bothered even taking a voice lesson.

Yep. There's been some major Dad-daughter bonding going on lately. I actually get a kick out of just sitting next to Dad and talking about anything--the birds that consume incredible quantities of bird seed from the two bird feeders I have hanging outside the living room window; the mammoth sunflowers that I planted earlier in the year and which are now quickly living up to their name. It doesn't matter what we start talking about. Somehow it always evolves into some story that Dad pulls out of his cache memory. Remember how I used to dread driving in the car with Dad? I wrote about it a while back. He always brought up money, and in the most stressful way possible. It was exhausting.

But now, I actually look forward to driving in the car with Dad. For one thing, he hears better in the confined space. But also, he totally gets off on seeing the trees, and the horses, and the river. Anything. Whatever detail Dad is able to see, he savors. Yeah, I love hanging out with my dad.

But..........well, part of me feels guilty about that.

I mean, I can't even count how many times I've asked myself, "Why didn't I spend this time with Dad when Mom was at home?"

And then I answer myself with, "Because it wasn't the same with Mom here."

But then I think, "But that shouldn't matter."

To which I always respond, "But it does."

Today at the nursing home, Mom fell. On purpose. She keeps trying to get out of bed on her own, so that she'll fall, so that she'll die. She firmly believes that if she can just make herself fall, she will die and this will all be over. She tells us this when we visit. Over and over and over. But, and this is the really frustrating part, she is always quick to add, "Will you please stay here while I do it so I won't be alone?"

Yeahhhh..........Mom's in a weird place right now.

So I'm sitting here wondering what to call today's entry, and I keep coming up empty.

Hah! And there it is.

Tosca

Another visit to see Mom today. During our visit, she told me she hoped God would forgive me for what Dad and I were doing to her. Then, almost in the same breath, asked tearfully if she had ever been a burden to us, then told me she wanted booze in her juice, and followed that with a request for a hatchet.

Coming back from the nursing home, I turned into the gravel driveway, made the last swerve to the front of the garage, and took a moment to observe the old log house that has become my home. I thought about how the color on the logs was once new with the blush of fresh paint. I thought about how the carpet in the house, now loose and wrinkled, must have looked when it was new--plush, and tight, and newly installed. I thought about how the walls are all faded and stained with memories, and how the rubber seals around all the doors are stiff and torn and ripped here and there.

Dad started his morning today singing an aria from Tosca. A special program on tv last night on Pavarotti had inspired him. He asked me to find his book on Italian arias so he could brush up. This afternoon he got a new hearing aid that improved his hearing so much that he kept counting to himself in Japanese all afternoon just so he could hear himself hear better.

For the first time today, when we left the nursing home, Dad didn't say goodbye to Mom.

Flower Power

Mom has a little solar-powered flower that sets on her window at the nursing home. My sister-in-law sent it to her as a gift. I also have one in my office at home. When the sun shines on it, it charges up and the flower wags back and forth. If you haven't seen these things, check 'em out. Google "solar powered toys" to see the plethora of dancing, wiggling, wagging, bouncing gizmos--all powered clean and free by our almighty sun. Seriously. Hours and hours of nonstop entertainment. Kinda (emphasis on the "kinda") like watching an aquarium...

Anyway, Mom loves her solar flower. Dad too. Within 30 seconds of our visit, she always makes some comment about her flower. Either it IS moving, or it ISN'T moving, or it's ABOUT to move, or it was JUST moving a minute ago... she always points it out. If it is moving, Dad always laughs. I'm not sure why. People in their eighties and nineties (like little kids) are easily amused by simple things. The simpler, the better. I guess it's what the saying "the simple pleasures of life" might be referring to. I dunno. Probably part of that whole circle of life thing.

Some days, like today, Mom tells me she wants to sit facing out the window just so she can watch that ridiculous little plastic flower wagging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

Mom asked today, "How does it do that?"

I explained that the sun charges a solar cell inside the flower, and that makes the flower move.

"Oh, " she said blankly. I could've said anything. All she cares about is that it moves.

The high point of today's visit was when Dad and I walked into the building, only to discover a special event being set up for residents and visitors--three or four tables in the lobby with baked items and whole line of Italian syrup bottles. Of course............my father thought they were liquor bottles.

"GREAT! Is it happy hour???!!!" he announced out loud. One of the staffers quickly explained that, no, the bottles were not liquor bottles, only different flavored syrups for italian sodas.

"Oh." Supreme disappointment.

Altogether, a better visit today. Let's hope the flower keeps wagging.

Wanted: Sunshine

Meltdown at the nursing home. And my mom's not doing so well either.

Mom's in a slump. A big slump. And this is the third day of it. Today, the nurse ordered a mental health evaluation.

It's a real lesson in perspective to sit and listen to somebody in the throes of dementia when they're having a really, really bad day. Or three days. Our natural inclination is to want to fix them. Un-break what is broken in their minds. Figure out the magic comment that will suddenly snap them back to reality. But dementia doesn't work that way. Or at least my mother doesn't work that way.

So Dad and I sit, and we listen, and we listen some more. And she tells us how "they" are all plotting against her. How "they" don't care about her. How there's a "faction" that is going to take her away.

I come up with a possible magical comment. "Mom look! There's a goldfinch on the fence!" (Mom loves goldfinches.)

She actually smiles and the paranoia and the fear and the sadness all disappear for a few wonderful minutes as she searches the sky for more goldfinches. We chat about the difference between female and male goldfinches. Mom actually chuckles a little when Dad challenges my "so-called" knowledge about the sexual dimorphism of goldfinches. Then there's a short pause. And then it starts again--the plots, the faction, the They.

About half way through the visit Dad gives up. I can tell because all of a sudden he just lowers his head into his hands and says to himself, "She's lost it." And his head just stays there.

I excuse myself and go out into the hall for a break. I talk to Crazy Alice who, today, doesn't seem so crazy. I even say hi to Eleanore, Mom's former roommate-from-hell who, I observe, still doesn't have a new roommate. Eleanore is just plain mean. Mom is just plain depressed. Hmmm.....weighing the options in my head....mean or depressed?...........depressed or mean?.......I dunno.......that's a tough one.

It's gray outside. And it's pretty gloomy inside too.