Thursday, November 06, 2014
This morning, I took my old dog and her young companion who lives around the corner to the park by the river. They frolicked together in the fallen leaves as I picked up beer cans. (Fifty cents is fifty cents). The sky was cloudy but the air was fresh. I was comfortable in a sweatshirt and sweatpants. The grass was dry, not dewy.
I took pictures of them. I got annoyed later because I could not locate the mini-storage card holder I needed to copy the new pictures to the computer.
This afternoon, I went to my mother-in-law's. She is old. She is moving to a daughter's house. She is having a difficult time letting go of stuff. I feel bad. It's like watching people divide up your possessions before you die.
I helped pack a few boxes. Two for housemate and three for his sister. I got annoyed because they were shouting at their mother in order to be heard. She is quite deaf and has never gotten used to her hearing aids. So she doesn't wear them. She is also losing her memory and repeats herself. I don't like the new color of the front door. Did you take the Homer? It's a chorus of repetition.
This afternoon after leaving my mother-in-law's, I went to visit Dad. It was raining by then. But it still wasn't cold out. I was comfortable in my sweatshirt and sweatpants. I was thinking about how many words I had to write for NaNoWriMo later. The pumpkins at the adult assisted living had faces drawn on them with markers. One had pipe cleaners sticking out of the top, like stray wild hairs on an almost bald man or a scarecrow.
"My voice is getting better," Dad said. I know he is thinking once again about finding a job and regaining his independence.
"I want you and your sister to get to know each other," Dad said. I swallowed hard. "I want that too," I said.
"I know that guy took my wallet," Dad said. "I almost had it back." I gently remind him that his wallet is downstairs in the safe. He ignores this.
Dad goes into coughing fits in-between the bits of news I offer him about the dog and my mother-in-law. He waves at me to stop talking until he can catch his breath. He sounds like he is almost choking. But it is not choking. It is the effects of the Lewy Body Dementia on his throat.
We talk a bit more.
"It's time for you to go," Dad said.
I do. I forgot why I'd been annoyed earlier.