Dad and Petey

So.........remember all that hub-bub about Dad wanting a puppy? You know, so he could have a pet that was bonded just to him? Over the last six months or so, the puppy/dog issue has quieted, in part because of the two cats that I brought over from my old house in Port Townsend--Peter and Rufus. In a very small nutshell, Peter and Rufus are big, fluffy, vapid felines. Not much personality in either one, nevertheless they are beautiful specimens as far as cats go and Dad has really taken to them. Especially Peter.

The morning ritual Dad used to have with Zeus, (his beloved german shepard who we put down a couple of years ago) in which Dad would lie on his bed just before getting dressed, right next to his canine best friend, and pet his ears while whispering, "Are you a good boy Zeusy? I think you're a good boy Zeusy" over and over again, has been replaced. Now, Peter jumps up on Dad's bed at precisely the same time every morning (9am), meows in his delicate choir-cat falsetto, while Dad strokes him and says over and over again, "meow-meow Petey? Is that the meow-meow Petey?" (yes that is a direct quote)

But the best part happened this morning, just now, when Dad wheeled into my office to say good morning, and I turned around to see this:

Poof.

So........Mom had an optometrist's appointment yesterday. I'll break down the day in numerical snippets.

1. First stop--optometrist in Port Angeles. Mom's left cataract is getting bigger. New prescription will hopefully be enough to stave off corrective surgery. Doc does that test where he blows a puff of air into the eye. He says, "Okay Patricia, you're going to feel a little air, like a little Poof!" I take a photo of Mom sitting in the chair with that big monstrosity they make you look into. She looks like a geriatric alien in a dress.

2. Next stop--Mom's favorite hairdresser in Sequim for a "real hairdo" (Not the one she gets at the ALF. For some reason, when the hairdresser at the ALF does Mom's hair, it doesn't last long. By the next day, she looks like she just woke up, all day. I think it's all about the hairspray.) I walk into the salon to retrieve Mom and she looks up at me, smiles a big grin and says, "Look, I'm poofy again!"

3. I take Mom to lunch in Sequim, to another one of her favorite places. Like last weeks' lunch excursion in Port Angeles, the waitresses here also recognize her, greet her warmly with embraces and warm smiles. They treat Mom like royalty. She eats it, and her beef barley, up.

4. After lunch, we start to head out of Sequim toward Poulsbo. Mom asks casually about the "kitty cats," the dogs, and Dad (not necessarily in that order). I assess Mom's unusual lucidity and consider that since we have extra time, perhaps this would be a good day to maybe take Mom home for a short visit. I keep assessing as Mom and I continue to chit-chat. She talks about the sunflowers that I planted last year in front of the house in Sequim. Am I going to plant them again, she asks.

I think, man! she seems unusually lucid and clear-headed today.

I think about how Dad keeps asking me, since Mom is doing so well, if I think she can possibly come home some day.

I reflect on my observation that she's really the only resident in the dementia wing at the ALF who can actually carry on a conversation.

I think about that tiny voice in my head that keeps nagging at me, "Mom doesn't belong there! Bring her home!"

I think, she seems to be in a really good place today. Maybe a visit home WOULD be a good idea for her. Today anyway.

I decide to bite the bullet.

I take a breath. Then I say to her, "Hey Mom, wanna stop by the house?"

And she stops. Probably a ten second pause here. The lucidity screeches to a halt.

"What house?"

And just like that, it was gone. Mom was there. And then she wasn't.

Poof.

Japanese Postscript

Addition to the list of ways Dad practices Japanese:

Along with counting back to the eye doctor when he holds up two or three or four fingers and asks,"How many fingers?"; along with blurting out random Japanese phrases at the dinner table to nobody; along with pronouncing Japanese words and sounds out loud for hours at a time from his recliner; along with these, I caught him this morning filling his weekly pill container and counting out his pills.....in Japanese.

I should be at least semi-fluent by now with the amount of Japanese that's spoken in this house.

Ahso.

Crazy-Good

So.........I went to see my therapist today.

It was my last appointment with him. Sort of a wrap up of the healing I've been doing for the last month and a half. A sort of final check of my emotional health before being completely released back into the world. I described to him all the positives in my life now and how great it feels to be, well, happy again. How great it feels to feel my brain "working" again. How great it feels to be constantly lit up from the inside by all of the seemingly insignificant everyday things around me.

I feel kinder. Less angry.

Then he asked me, "When you think of the entire time you've spent taking care of your parents, what's the best part?"

Okay. Get ready. Here's where the big OMG moment came for me. I didn't really think of what my answer was going to be. I listened to his question, then I just..........answered it.

"The craziness."

And then.....I wanted to cry. I didn't, but I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. Because the revelation of what my answer meant to me..........well, it kind of blew me away. The words came out of MY mouth, but I couldn't believe I had just said what I heard myself say.

My therapist raised one eyebrow. I guess he was surprised too. "Really? Explain."

So I did. Again, without thinking. I just opened my mouth, and started to talk. "Well, because, as crazy as some days were, when I think of them now, I think, I've experienced a part of my parents' lives that few people are ever able to experience."

And I went on, "Right now, I can't believe how crazy-bad my life had gotten. I mean, the day when I finally hit rock-bottom and became fully aware that I was trying to juggle as many balls as I was, while simultaneously dangling from the few, very frayed emotional threads I had left........it was frightening. I truly thought I was going to die and it scared the crap out of me. That was when I made my first appointment to see you. But now when I think about how crazy-bad it was,.......I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.

Every day was full of battles. I woke up every morning thinking about which battles would be fought that day--Mom's meds, Mom's moods, Dad's mood, the bills, the dogs, the cats, my work, doctor appointments, the house, the yard. Then there were the unexpected battles--Mom falls, the dog gets sick, the computer isn't working, a work deadline gets moved up, Mom falls again, Mom has diarrhea, Mom starts wailing.

Crazy-bad.

But because I was at such a low point,.......in such a pit of despair.......it makes the fact that I feel as good as I do right now, a hundred times better."

We both sat in silence with smiles on our faces.

I spoke first, "Life was crazy-bad. And now it's crazy-good."

Tabasco

I swear to god this story is true.

So.........I picked up Mom today at the ALF to take her to a dentist appointment in Port Angeles. On the way back, we went out to lunch. I took her to the place where she and Dad used to always go (when Dad was still driving and both of them didn't throw a fit if they were away from their own bathroom for more than a half hour). I had forgotten about my last experience there (at the restaurant, not the bathroom) until Mom and I walked in and sat down at our table. Then it all came back to me--that horrific lunch. Dad and his chowder.

This happened at least a few years ago. Mom, Dad, and I decided to stop and have lunch. I don't remember the circumstances. Maybe we were coming back from somebody's doctor appointment. I dunno. I remember feeling a little dicey about going out with them. You never know with Dad. Because of his hearing loss, he talks really loud. Because of his Dad-ness, he says some pretty off the wall stuff. Like the time, at the same restaurant, he asked Mom, out loud, if she was wearing a bra, and if she wasn't she should continue not wearing one because he liked her better "free and liberated." Yeah. That was a fun breakfast.

But that was a different story. This one happened, as I said, at least a few years ago. We were sitting at our table eating. Dad had ordered a bowl of clam chowder. Don't remember what Mom and I ordered. Not important. What is important is that Dad was eating his clam chowder, and we were sort of chatting our way through the meal when I glanced over and saw that Dad had put tabasco sauce in his chowder. But......there was a LOT of tabasco! And......there was no tabasco sauce on the table! I was just lifting my gaze to say something like, "Whoa Dad, have some chowder with your tabasco!" when I noticed he was stuffing pieces of napkin into his nostril.

Yep. It was blood.

The tabasco. It was blood. In his chowder. Bright, red (Tabasco Red?) sprinkled liberally and surprisingly artistically, all over the top of his fresh bowl of hot, steamy chowder.

I have to point out here that, this was one of those experiences where you somehow remain amazingly cool as the experience is taking place.

Then you totally freak out later. At least that's what I did.

So I was very cool when I realized Dad's nose had drained blood all over his bowl of chowder. I remember how I calmly raised my right index finger to signal the waitress. She bounced over to the table, completely unaware of what she was about to witness. I pointed to the "tabasco" chowder and asked quietly, "I think we'll be needing a fresh bowl, and a towel." It took that poor waitress under a millisecond to process the evidence--Dad with napkins stuffed up his nostrils; chowder with bright red "tabasco" sauce sprinkled all over it--to figure out what was really happening. And when she did, boy, she moved like lightning. Towels, ice, fresh chowder--it all came quickly and with incredible efficiency.

Anyway...........that's my story. Dad and his chowder. I've never been able to use tabasco since.