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?