Leakage

Scene: Waiting room at the local ophthalmologist's office. Dad's hour-long appointment. I had dropped Dad off earlier, then gone home briefly to check on Mom, then returned to pick him up. Four other people in the waiting room, along with three receptionists behind the front desk. All is quiet and calm, save for the soft sounds of the Sequim radio station purring some old Sinatra tune into the background. Then.......

Dad: (at full volume...as always) I THINK I'M ON THE VERGE OF INCONTINENCE.

I look around to see if anyone in the waiting room, or behind the reception desk reacts. They don't. All heads are down, engrossed in magazines or work.

Me: Really?

Dad: WHAT?!

Me: I said,.... Really? (Checking the downcast heads in my periphery. They're either just being polite, or they're all completely absorbed in their respective magazines. I think, what are the chances of the latter being true? I decide it's gotta be the former.)

Dad: Well, YEAH!

Me: That's uh......(searching for something to say just so Dad won't say anything else...)...well......that's uh.....

Dad: I'VE GOT LEAKAGE!

Up come the heads. Great.

I make some kind of semi-panicked epiglottal vocalization.

Dad: WHAT?! (He thinks I said something to him.)

Me: Nothing I.....

Dad: LEAKAGE!!

And now we have eye contact. From every person in the waiting room. And I just sit there, shaking my head in here-we-go-again disbelief. And, of course, Dad doesn't stop. He continues with....

Dad: THOSE PILLS THE DOC GAVE ME AREN'T HELPING. AND THEY'RE GIVING ME CONSTIPATION TOO!

And here's the really good part....

Me: (I lean into his good ear cuz I don't want to have to repeat this.) That's great Dad. And it's really nice of you to share all of that with everyone here in the waiting room.

Cue nervous laughter from the waiting room and receptionists.

Dad: (Who momentarily cracks up.) WELL WHAT THE HELL! IT'S A DOCTOR'S OFFICE!

Cue legitimate laughter from waiting room and receptionists.

Cue eye-roll from me.

BlogClogSkinMowCockaNuts

You're probably wondering about the title. Don't worry. It'll all make sense. Trust me.

OK. I'm just going to come right out say it. I'm having trouble writing the blogs.

It's not writer's block.

It's not apathy.

It's not a matter of having the time to do it.

And it's certainly not a matter of having enough material.

I can't tell you how many times I've found myself driving in the car and saying to myself (out loud.....I talk to myself a lot when I'm driving), "That thing that Dad did this morning.....I should write about that!" Or, "That conversation Mom and Dad had yesterday....I should write about that!"

Then I get home. And it never happens. It's not that I forget what I was going to write about. It's more about the motivation. I WANT to write. I just don't do it. I start to sort of dread the energy it takes to sit down and actually hammer out something on the keyboard. It reminds me of that lazy lumpy feeling I sometimes get before I workout. Like whining little kid who moans and groans because they have to take the trash out....I really don't want to do it, but I know I need to.

And the thing is......I always feel so much better after I've written a new post (again.....much like the workout). There's a certain exhilaration to it. I think, "Great! Another little chunk of this adventure recorded for posterity!" I even recognize, on some level, the multiple reasons I have for writing (again....like the workout). But for the last three weeks.........I have voluntarily avoided, purposely self-distracted, consciously re-directed myself from doing exactly that--from doing, in fact, what I am doing right now.

So.....woohoo. Yay me!..... I guess. But now that I'm here, rather than churn out all of those "great" ideas by writing one blog after the other, I think I'll present a nutshell version of each one. You'll get the idea, right?

There was the idea I had to write a piece called "Skin" that would somehow connect my recent observations of Dad's 94 year old skin (that I decided looks like a wadded up, flesh-colored sheet of ancient plastic wrap that was discovered in a tomb somewhere, unearthed, spread out, and then wrapped around my father's body) with the near-virgin skin of my 4 1/2 month old granddaughter (that feels like finely polished glass, if glass were soft and billowy, and smelled like.......well, like babies).

There was the one I was going to call "To Mow..." which would have described how Dad suddenly decided one day that he felt good enough to mow again (He had announced to me about two months ago that he was officially handing over the task of mowing to me, since he was feeling too much pain in his back and hips.), and how I watched him from my office, carving tracks out of the grass, back and forth, around and around, and then suddenly stopping in the middle of the 1/2 acre and just sitting there motionless, which caused me to jump up (fearing he was feeling dizzy or faint or worse, having a heart attack) and go out to see what was wrong, and walking up to Dad-On-Stopped-Tractor and asking, "Everything ok?" he replying with only, "Oh yeah! I'm just sitting here enjoying the beautiful day."

And finally, there's the one I was going to write called "CockaNuts" about Dad's recent craving for donuts which coincidentally started when my brother and I discovered a new local donut shop, CockaDoodleDonuts, and brought home a sampling. Let me be clear. Nobody, I repeat, NObody, knows the nutritionally vapid nature of donuts more than I. But Dad's philosophy is, "I'm 94. I've lived a great life. Now I'm going to do whatever I want." So now, he's decided he wants donuts. A lot of donuts. Fritters. Apple fritters. Regularly. It's crazy. I set out a plate of fresh donuts in the morning. And by the next morning, there is only one gnawed off half of a donut left.

Get the title now?

A Bird Better Than Vicodin

So...........Dad sprained his ankle last week and has been complaining of the pain every day since. He moans at almost every step. Groans whenever he puts weight on it. Winces at every turn. Retires earlier than normal so he can simply go to sleep rather than think about the pain. All of that being the everyday SOP (standard operating procedure) for nearly a week now.........until today. Specifically, until this afternoon.

Some people take pain killers. Some people drink. Some people use drugs. Some people eat chocolate. My father watches the Seattle Storm play (and defeat) Phoenix in the WNBA playoff game and magically, he is pain-free. Infused with the narcotic of professional women's sports, he lies on his bed, Sennheiser earphones firmly in place over his left hearing-aided-ear and right non-functional ear, LCD TV displaying in glorious flat-panel color, Dad focused intently (and ONLY) on the thrill of watching competitive women's basketball. From the living room we can hear Dad cheer Sue Bird and her teammates on after each Seattle score. We stroll down the hall to his bedroom to sneak a peak at him from time to time. Like a schoolboy screaming enthusiastically at his favorite team, Dad pumps his fists (yes, BOTH fists) every time the Storm takes the lead.

"SHOOT!" he shouts.

"Three points! Shoot it! Shoot it!!" he shouts louder.

The real "high" comes when the Storm finally proves victorious "with 23 seconds to go!" Dad is on his feet and not (I repeat, NOT, holding on to his walker at all) and filling the entire house with the euphoric pride of a devoted fan.

"Did you see that Sue Bird?! What a player!!" Then a short pause, and then......."Terr-IF-ic!" Grinning from ear to ear. The biggest smile I've seen on Dad's face in......well, in at least a week.

For those of you who have kept track, I have, from time to time, thanked several seemingly obscure entities for unknowingly contributing to my parents' ongoing welfare and sanity--Horsey's political cartoons in the Seattle PI; Maureen Dowd's editorial in the Seattle Times; Julia Roberts and her....well, whatever; cottage cheese with chives; CostCo; MochaMix. (A while back, I made a point of thanking the Chilean blueberry farmers so that Mom can enjoy blueberries on her Grape-Nuts even in the dead of the PNW winter.)

And now I can add one more simple pleasure to that list.

Today, Sue Bird and her team made an ailing 94 year old man very, VERY, happy. Thank you Sue Bird. Looking forward to the next game.