Art Imitating Life

The place that has been my home for the last seven years is slowly being packed up, spackeled, cleaned, painted, rearranged, and transformed for its "New Listing" debut September 1.

My father leaves Thursday with my brother and sister-in-law via U-Haul and car for San Diego.

I drive my mother to SeaTac on September 4 where my brother will meet us, then fly with her down to San Diego, to join my Dad at the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility.

The walls are all bare and ready for paint. The kitchen cabinets have all been scrubbed clean of the grime and dirt I had apparently become all too used to over the past several years.

I'm rehearsing all week for Chekhov's Ivanov--to be performed Saturday in the park in Chimacum.

An actor friend called me the other day and asked how I was dealing with the move and my parents' leaving, etc., "How do you feel? Do you need to cry?" they asked.

I had no answer......at the time. Until we rehearsed Act 3 night before last.

Ivanov, end of Act 3--that's when I finally have time to cry. Every time we rehearse it, and probably for the performance too. Very blurry line right now between my life and my art.

Peaches and Hummus

Dad and I broke the big news to Mom--that she and Dad are going to move to San Diego, live together in the same facility, right down the road from my brother and his wife, and be closer to my two sons and their families. Her reaction? She kept saying how happy the news made her feel.

"I'm very happy" she kept repeating.

That was four days ago.

Day before yesterday my mother calls me while I'm at Sunny Farms. I answer the phone while perusing the peaches.

"Hello?"

"Dennnnnise......?"

"Hey Mom, how are you?"

"Dennnnnise......I want to commit suicide. I can't take this anymore. They're all witches here. I'm going to commit suicide."

"Well Mom, here's the deal. You can't commit suicide because you're moving to San Diego with Dad. "

"Oh?"

"Yes, remember? Dad and I came and told you?"

"Wellll, they keep telling me that Dad is a resident of San Marcos."

"No Mom. Dad is here in Sequim. Honest."

"Oh."

Suddenly the peaches didn't look so appetizing. I grabbed a container of hummus instead.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes....

My brain is mush. The whirlpool of change has sucked me in, pulled me under, and I am swimming like a crazy person to keep my head above water. Notice the lapse between now and my last post. There's a reason for that.

Thursday August 25 in my planner is marked--Dad --> San Diego.

Thursday September 1 in my planner is marked--Day 1 House Listed.

Sunday September 4 in my planner is marked--Take Mom to SeaTac--11:20am to San Diego.

Yup. Mom and Dad are relocating to SoCal. A more central location, closer to the bulk of the family, a break for me, less strain on Dad's pension, the opportunity for Mom and Dad to live together--all remarkably sensible and logical reasons.

I have a ToDo list that is longer than I am tall. I'm numb. I don't know how to feel. I wonder when I will.

Dad gives me big hug at least once a day and tells me how much he's going to miss me, and the mountains, and the trees, and the dogs. I tell him he'll be able to get great Mexican food whenever he wants. A feeble attempt to bolster his enthusiasm.

Bleeding Heart

I swear to all that's holy in the universe. This really happened. Today.

Premise: Dad has to go to the lab in Sequim for a fasting blood panel. He does this every six months. Standard. At around 10am I go into the living room, where he's in his recliner, head-deep in The Seattle Times.

Me: "Hey, let's go, I'm ready."

Dad: "OH! OKAY!" The paper is hastily folded, the halogen lamp turned off, and the recliner un-reclined in a matter of seconds. (Curious how much faster Dad is when he's not on his feet.) He grabs his walker, assumes the standing position, waits for the blood flow to return to his legs, and off he wheels toward the kitchen to put on his L.L. Bean jacket (even though it was 70 degrees today) and head outside to the Jeep.

Me: "I'll go get the Jeep and meet you in the driveway."

Dad: "YUP."

Note: We keep the Jeep in the barn now. After cleaning multiple rat nests from under the hood, we decided it was probably smarter to keep the Cherokee inside rather than outside, as it has been for the last couple of years.

I head to the barn just as Dad coming into the kitchen. The barn is twenty yards away from the garage. By the time I open the barn, get in the Jeep, back it out, and pull up to the garage, Dad will likely just be rolling out of the garage. No, I do not drive like a maniac. Yes, he is that slow.

Except.......when I pull up to the garage, he's not there, not in the driveway, not standing there with his walker, not waiting for me.

I park the Jeep, leave the engine running, get out of the car, thinking Dad is still in the kitchen trying to get his jacket on. I'm heading toward the garage when I spot Dad over by the shrubbery next to the front door, where the beautiful Hellebore and white Bleeding Heart bushes are.

Actually, I heard him before I saw him. He was singing, at the top of his 95 year old lungs, "Bess You Is My Woman" from Porgy and Bess, and as he was singing his heart out--"BESS.......YOU IS.........MAH WOMANNNNN............"--he was...........oh gawd I can't even believe I'm writing this............he was.........well, he was..........peeing..........urinating in the.......no, scratch that.....he was peeing ON the Bleeding Heart. One hand on his.......well, you know........the other hand sawing the air with song.

So there it is--Do you HAVE a mental picture of this? Do you have any idea how monumentally bizarre and equally.........just.......WRONG this picture was???? Do you? Huh?

ewwww.