Haircut

Dad called me Saturday night.  He wanted me to bring a turquoise book of papers that are his.  This was what I think he wanted as his speech was a bit mumbled.  Dad asked, "Are you coming before Thursday?  I want to go over some papers with you."

So I looked for the papers which I was pretty sure we didn't have.  I do have his burial suit here, but he took all of his records with him when he moved.

I went to visit this morning.  I told Dad I couldn't find the papers.  "They are on top of the bookshelf in my bedroom," he told me.  I said I would look again.  He went on about these papers for some time.  He said they were copies of statements that he used to have to send to headquarters [when he was working some years back] and he was a top earner.  It occurred to me to ask him what he was going to do with these papers.  "I'm going to take them with me when I apply for jobs," he said without missing a beat.

Dementia sucks.  

He is falling apart physically.  He does not walk.  He lurches.  His short-term memory is failing.  His brain is turning to mush.  And he still wants to work.

He can't work.  He is beyond working and has been medically incapable of working for quite some time now.  Not even volunteer work [which well-meaning people have suggested].

There is a new hair stylist who comes to the house now.  I don't know what happened to the old one.  Dad's haircut looks really nice.  Feathery and not the kind of haircut that is stereotypical of the demented.  So there is that.