Son and daughter are both flying in to San Diego in order to see their grandpa. Mom thinks he’ll remember Claire, but probably not Corey. I spoke to him on the phone this morning. He was telling me about the wonderful time Mom went for a walk on the marina with him. He’s been wanting her to walk with him for years, so it meant a lot to him.
She’s always, and even now, even with this, refuses to drive for the five minutes it would take to let him walk with her. I am afraid I’ll never forgive her for that.
I wanted to say to dad, “I was there too! Don’t you remember?” But what would that do to help anyone in this situation? I would have made him feel confused and maybe even ashamed.
“I have problems with my memory,” he confides in me.
“I know, Dad. It’s okay,” I reply.
He tells me about the young girl (his granddaughter Jordan) who took such beautiful pictures of the walk. I don’t tell him I’m in the photographs, but I am.
“That young girl takes the nicest pictures,” he says.
I keep my voice light, almost too cheerful, like a waitress who is trying too hard, but I don’t want to cry because It would confuse him. I’m almost sure he didn’t know he was talking to me, but that’s all right. I want him to have a nice conversation with someone who seems interested in him. I want him to know someone loves him, even if he can’t put his finger on who that someone is. Love is love.
“I love you Dad,” I say.
“I love you too,” he replies, but he’s clever. He says it because he knows he should know who I am, and that’s okay too. He’s still a nice man, still trying to make me, the stranger, comfortable. I have always loved that about him.
I hung up the phone and didn’t cry (for once) because he was happy. I just want him happy for as long as the happiness can last. Before long he’ll forget how to chew his food. He’ll forget to swallow next. He’ll go into a coma after that. The hospice people warn us that it will take us by surprise. We won’t believe how quickly, just like that.
I can barely handle the anger I feel and I strike out at the enemy. “Sporadic” is a lie and I’m meeting people who can (almost) prove it. I know this for absolutely certain: I’m steering clear of beef (like my pun, e’beth?) and don’t even think about venison, are you crazy? Organophosphates are the devil. Quit spraying pesticides on everything! You’re killing all of us.
My anger is displaced (a little). I’m mad at the world. Yesterday I left a shopping cart in the parking lot. I let my dog poop in the off-leash park and didn’t pick it up. That’ll show the Universe! What’s next? Should I hold up a liquor store? I don’t know what to do with this rage, with this sorrow.
I flunked that test, by the way. I’m getting A’s in everything else, but that class requires huge amounts of memorization and I can’t concentrate. I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying (she says while beating her chest like she did as a little girl/Catholic).
Daughter in law and grandkids Sunday.
A list:
pick dog poop out of the lawn
clean the kitchen
clean the bathroom
sweep and wash the floors
shampoo the carpeting
dust the guestroom and get all your folded laundry out of there
do some laundry because you’re out of underwear
get the sand out of the couch
sweep the crap (not dog poop, just stuff) off the patio.
Eat something for dinner.
Start now, you don’t have much time.
Go!