My wife tries to make it as enjoyable as she can for him. She fluffs his pillows. She makes him snacks. She even sits him down and turns on the TV for him. The only problem is, he won't stay sitting down. He gets up and goes to his room constantly.
And when he does, after ten or fifteen minutes, we'll change the channel. But my Dad must have some kind of radar, because, when we do, that's exactly the time he decides to come back. He'll walk into the family room, stand on one side of the TV, look at it, at us, at it, at us, and ask no one in particular, "Is the game over?"
He knows the game isn't over. I have a sneaking suspicion that he's secretly been watching it in his room, on his TV, laughing to himself--"Heh, heh, heh."--and when he thinks enough time has passed for us to have changed the channel, he comes back.
"No," I'll tell him, "but you went to your room, so we thought you were watching it there." I give him hints that are so big, they could be rolling down a cave at Indiana Jones.
So we'll change the TV back for him. After awhile, my wife will get up and fiddle around in the kitchen. She'll clean something, or make us some popcorn. I'll pick up a magazine, and go thumbing through it. You know I'm bored, when reading what Martha Stewart has to say is the more entertaining alternative.
Dad then gets up, and goes to his room. He doesn't say, "I'll be back." He doesn't say, "Goodnight." He doesn't say, "Excuse me, but I've got to go see a man about a horse." He just leaves, without a word.
My wife eventually makes her way back, and sits besides me. I'll put the magazine down. And we'll talk for a bit. After another ten to fifteen minutes have passed, we'll look at each other. I'll pick up the remote, and change the channel. With any lucks there will be a rerun of Wings, an old TV show we both like. That, or Third Rock From The Sun.
"Hey," I'll say, "I haven't seen this episode."
And right on cue, my Dad will walk in. He'll look at the TV, at us, at the TV, and back at us.
"Is the game over?"
'When you left, Dad," I tell him, "I thought that meant you didn't want to watch the game."
"No, I want to watch the game."
So we change the television back to baseball. Dad continues standing, watching the game for a few minutes, before he walks off again.
Ten minutes later, no Dad.
Twenty minutes later, no Dad.
"What do you think?" my wife will ask me.
"I think he's not coming back," I'll say, but I know better.
"Should we change it?"
"He'll only come back, and we'll have to change it again."
"How does he know?"
"I don't know. He just does."
"Do you think he has us bugged?" I know my wife is kidding. She has that wry smile she gets when she's being facetious. My wife is funny, but she has a very dry sense of humor. If you miss the visual cues, you'll think she was serious. She pretends to look around. She points. "Did that mirror used to be there?"
So I change the TV. Again. Wow, Homicide: Life On The Streets. That's one of my all-time favorite shows. The only thing better would be St. Elsewhere. Yeah, I'm old.
At the thirty minute mark my Dad comes back, right on schedule. He has papers in his hands, and tells me he wants me to help him with his bank statements.
My wife gives me that wry smile again. Then, without a word, she gets up and goes upstairs. She gives me a little salute on her way out. She knows better than to stay.
"What's the problem, Dad?"
Dad sits himself down at the kitchen table. So I have to get up, go over, and see what's bothering him.
"I don't know about my bank," he tells me. "Those characters, they'll cheat you blind if you don't watch them."
"What do you mean, Dad?"
He shows me his statement. I look it over. It looks fine to me.
"Those characters are after my money," he tells me. "You have to watch them."
He asks about this deposit, and that one. They are the same deposits that are made every month, and in the same amounts. He asks me about a few of the deductions. I tell him, well, Dad, on this day you did this, and on that day you paid for that. Everything checks out, and thirty minutes after we began, we're done.
My Dad gets up, he takes a step toward his room, then stops. Looks at the TV. He picks up the remote, changes the channel back to the baseball game he keeps not watching, and then leaves. Back to his room. To finish not watching the game, I suppose.
I sit down. Turn off the TV. There's nothing I really want to watch, anyway. After awhile, when she feels there's no longer a disturbance in The Force, my wife comes back down, and sits beside me.
"Is the game over?" she asks.
Raising My Father
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