Mirror

     Yes you can save it to somewhere on your computer and use it on the internet at will. Credit and link back not necessary. Oh, and copyright troll monopolists, bugger off.

     Headlights flash by on the front window. I cannot sleep. It is a cop car going after who or what I do not know. I shush the two year old cat whose name is Sirius Black the Cat, with apologies to J.K. Rowling. Although if she were to meet him, she would understand and nod in approval. Sirius continues to play with the free-form cement like object I found on a construction site under a bridge near some train tracks. It hangs from the curtain rod on a red string. He finds it irresistible.

     The housemate snores. The bedroom is too hot. Sirius has shifted to a pillow at the bottom of the bed. I stretch my legs. He bites one of my feet. Yeah, that hurts.

     I toss the blankets away. Still too hot. Aspirin substitute I think. I stagger out of the bed and through the living room. The vertigo is moderate. Whenever I first start walking after sleeping or not sleeping, my body is awkward. I am used to it by now. The world spins and bobs to the left. When I do fall, I fall to the right. A swallow of soda from a half-emptied can in the fridge. And so here I am.

     I am glad that the housemate buys cheap light bulbs. That used to infuriate me. Now with the increased light sensitivity-- pure photophobia the t.b.i. eye doc called it-- I celebrate dimness. And quiet. But there is hardly any quiet. I can hear people farting from a block away. Go figure.

     It does not take extraordinary sense to know that my father is dying. I'd gone to see him before dinner. He was slouched in his easy chair in the bedroom. Even on his death chair, he was plotting how he could go back to work. "The partial plate didn't cost me any money," he said. [It did. But his rep payee takes care of his bills now]. "I want to go back to work. Part-time. I think full-time would be too much for me to handle." I nod. A concession made to his deteriorating physical and cognitive condition. Part-time will have to do. I hate it when he does these things. He worries about money. All the time.

     "What would you do with the extra money?" I asked. He wants better quality clothing. He is a stick figure now. His shirt and pants hang off him like rags. I want to run away. Dad was always such a sharp dresser. Damn.

     After the visit, I drove to the gym. Burned up seven hundred calories on the treadmill. Punished my muscles for his pain.

     Before the visit, the hospice social worker called me to check in. "Are you wanting a visit?" she asked tentatively. She is young. New. I've only met her once. "I appreciate the phone calls," I told her. I am exhausted. I don't think I can show up for one more thing. It is too much.

     Everything is too much. Not sleeping. Dad dying. The noise. The lights. The irregular sleeping and not sleeping. Sirius playing and banging around. It is all too much.

                           ~ sapphoq on life

Loss

     In his younger days, back before I was thought of, Dad was into motorcycles and motocross. He liked riding around with some buddies. He liked racing and he was good at it. I don't remember him ever riding a motorcycle. I knew he had no problems on the little mopeds in Bermuda. And I knew that he had gotten an International Driver's License. So I was surprised to find out [when watching motocross on television together one day] that he was into motocross. He was also in an organization of motorcyclists. The club had its own tracks to ride around on [in preparation for motocross races? I don't really know]. And the guys did go ramming around together on weekends to various dances and things. 

    I knew that Dad was good at dancing. He had been a dance studio instructor [before I was born I think] at one time for Arthur Murray Studios. Dad taught me how to dance some waltzes and swings in a large room in a club. I don't remember the name of the place now-- just that it was on the second floor of a very large building with big windows overlooking some water. Dad kept telling me that the guy was supposed to lead. That was something that I finally learned with difficulty. But dancing with Dad was great fun. I had and have a natural rhythm at it and am good enough for someone who is not a professional. I pick up dances easily. One of my most treasured memories was dancing with my father at my wedding.

     Dad and his wives entered and won dance contests at various clubs and cruises. He was that good. I was proud of that. I would have liked to have known Dad in his motorcycle days but I didn't. He did take me to some car races as a kid. I prefer things like tractor pulls and cars smashing into each other on a track to a straight race.

      Shortly after arriving at assisted living, Dad did teach a few of the old folks living with him some dance steps. His most successful pupil was a woman who had a bum leg. With his encouragement, she was soon dancing in spite of her leg.

     All of those things are gone now. Dad cannot drive. And the Lewey Body Dementia has now progressed to the point where ambulation is difficult and dancing is impossible.

sapphoq on life says: Appreciate what you and others can do today. None of us know when those abilities will be gone.