If We Live Long Enough

My wife has been sick and in bed for the last few days. She thought she'd do the smart thing by getting her flu shot early this year, and, sure enough, she got the flu.
     Don't get me wrong, I'm not against inoculating yourself against the various bugs and viruses that will save the Earth when the space aliens come to conquer our planet. In fact, every year I get the flu shot, too. My wife makes sure I do.
     "I don't get sick," I tell her.
     "But what if you do?" she'll tell me.
     "I've never had the flu in my life."
     "What does that have to do with anything?"
     And she's right. I've never had the flu in my life, true, but maybe the shots had something to do with that. I've never had polio, either. Or whooping cough, or any number of childhood diseases, and I can thank my parents for taking me to the doctor to get my childhood vaccinations. The generation before mine wasn't so fortunate. Ask FDR.
     But don't tell my wife. Right now I'm having too much fun teasing her on her deathbed.
     My first wife used to drive me nuts when I was sick. I'd be in bed, sleeping, trying to heal, and she'd come in every hour on the hour.
     "Are you sleeping?" she would ask, as her head peeked around the used-to-be-closed bedroom door.
     "Not anymore."
     "How do you feel?"
     "Let me sleep. Please. I'm begging you."
     And she would. For an hour, at least. I'm not saying that was the reason we eventually got a divorce, but I'm not saying it isn't one of the reasons.
     Hmm... maybe I should rethink this whole teasing my wife when she's sick thing.
     My Dad, on the other hand, doesn't know what to do with himself when my wife is sick. He knows how to turn on the TV, how to work the remote, and how to fix his own tea, snacks, and food, but my wife has him extremely spoiled.
     He'll sit in his favorite chair in the great room, and my wife will turn on the TV for him.
     "What channel do you want it on, Dad?" she'll ask him. I don't know why she asks. He always wants it on the baseball channel. But she asks him anyway.
     Once my Dad's comfortable and watching a game, she'll ask him if he wants something to eat.
     "Some ice cream, Dad?" she'll ask him.
     "Ahhh... ice cream? I don't know. What flavor do you have?" I don't know why he asks. We always have the same three flavors. But he asks her anyway.
     "We have vanilla and chocolate, Dad."
     "Any strawberry?"
     "We have strawberry, too."
     "Ahhh... strawberry? I don't know."
     It takes him a few minutes to decide. My wife is a saint. She'll wait patiently for him to answer.
     "Oh, okay," he'll finally say. He never says no. I don't know why he takes so long to answer. "But not too much. You always serve me too much."
     I don't say anything, but what I'm thinking is, "Instead of complaining, how about just saying thank you." But, like I said, I don't say anything.
     So my wife will bring him a small bowl of strawberry ice cream, and she'll even add a few cookies on the side. My Dad likes cookies.
     When it's time to eat, I have no problem serving myself. My wife's a busy lady. She's just worked hard cooking everybody great meals, and serving myself is the least I can do. My Dad, on the other hand, just plops himself down at the kitchen table and waits to be served. He won't eat, unless he's served. But my dad's 93 years-old. I guess I shouldn't complain.
     When my wife's sick, however, it's another story. My Dad's a grown man. I don't baby him. I'll cook for us, but it's up to him to serve himself.
     Yesterday, when he got home from his walk, I was just about done making some steak and eggs. The steak was from the day before. I cut it up into pieces, heated it up in the frying pan, and scrambled some eggs to go with it.
     "You hungry, Dad?"
     "What?"
     "Are you hungry?"
     "What are you making?"
     "Steak and eggs."
     "Steak and what?"
     "Steak and eggs."
     "Ahhh... steak and eggs?" He'll think about it. "Well, I am hungry."
     By this time, the food is done, and I've served myself and am sitting down at the table.
     "Well, the food's ready, Dad. Help yourself."
     And he does.
     For dinner that night, my daughter brought him some gumbo soup. 
     "I brought you dinner, Grandpa."
     "You did? What'd you bring?"
     "I brought you some gumbo."
     "Oh, boy," he said. "I like gumbo."
     And, again, he just plopped himself down at the table, and waited to be served. No thank you for the gumbo. No thank you for serving him. No thank you at all. Later that night, she brought him some ice cream.
     "You served me too much," he told her. "I didn't want this much."
     "Sorry, Grandpa," she told him.
     It may have been too much, but that didn't keep him from enthusiastically eating all of it.
     This morning, my wife was still in bed. I told my Dad early, before he went on his walk.
     "I don't think she's coming downstairs, Dad," I told him.
     He mumbled something and left.
     While he was gone, I was busy feeding the dogs and cleaning up. I worked fast, because I wanted to get in an early workout, because I was supposed to pick up my grandson later. He spent the night with his auntie. She picks him up several times a month, wines and dines him, and I usually pick him up later in the day. Last night was the first night he had spent the night at her house, and I was anxious to see him.
     I go upstairs to see how my wife's doing.
     "How are you feeling, sweetie?" I ask her.
     "Better."
     "Really?"
     "No."
     "Can I get you something?"
     "Water, please."
     "Are you thirsty?"
     "No. I just want to water my plants."
    My wife. The smart ass.
     So I went downstairs to get her some water. I found my Dad sitting in the shadows, in front of a TV he hasn't bothered to turn on. I guess he was waiting for my wife to come downstairs to turn it on for him and fix him breakfast.
     Well, this time he's on his own. Today I'm just too busy, and I know he's capable of fending for himself. However, just so you know I'm not heartless, my conscience tugs at me. It's kind of sad seeing him sitting there, in a dark room, in front of a black TV. There was a time when my Dad was young and strong and he had the world in his hands. Now, he's an old man sitting by himself. We're all heading there, I guess.
     If we live long enough.
  
  

Raising My Father 

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

  

Smack! Smack! Smack!

My father hates to admit it, but the walks he takes every day are taking their toll.
     He no longer walks as far, he no longer walks as long, but he's still determined to get out there and worry me.
     "I really don't feel like going," he'll sometimes say, but before I can encourage him to stay, he's out the door. He's so stubborn, he even aggravates himself.
     If it's hot, I'll tell him to wait until it's cooler. He'll refuse. Sometimes he'll even put on a light jacket. I'm positive it's just to irritate me. And then, when it's cool, he'll head out the door in shorts and a t-shirt.
     "At least put on a jacket," I'll tell him.
     "It's not cold," he'll argue.
     "Yes, it is," I'll plead.
     "It feels warm to me," he'll comment.
     "That's because we're indoors," I'll point out.
     "I'll be all right," he'll insist.
     "Take your jacket," I'll beg.
     "I'll be back," he'll say, but what he really means is,"Nobody tells me what to do."
     So off he'll go.
     And when he comes back his cheeks will be a bright pink, his nose will be running, and he'll rub his hands together briskly trying to warm them up and say, "Man, it's cold outside."
     On the days when it's hot, he'll come back looking as if he's just had a stroke.
     "Why didn't you tell me how hot it was?" he'll say, gulping down a glass of water that my wife always makes sure is waiting for him at the end of his walk.
     I don't know if he's serious, or if he's just kidding me.
     Two nights ago he was sitting in his favorite chair watching his favorite sport on his favorite TV. His favorite team was playing. The score was tied. It was a good game. Even I was interested. Out of the blue, Dad called it a day, and went to bed. My wife and I had been talking quietly in the kitchen. We just looked at each other.
     "Good night, Dad," we told him as he tiredly ambled off.
     Sooner or later, Father Time catches up with all of us. No matter how hard we work out. No matter how healthy we eat.
     For example...
     I've noticed that the older I get, the more noises I make. I sometimes grunt when I sit down, and I sometimes grunt when I get up. When I lay down to go to bed, before I put on the mask of my CPAP machine, I clear my throat and cough up phlegm about a dozen times. I don't know how my wife still sleeps with me, because I probably drive her nuts.
     My Dad, on the other hand, drives me nuts. With all of his lip smacking, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and front teeth cleaning with his tongue. I've tried to sit down with him and watch TV, but, after awhile, the only sounds I hear are the ones he's making with his mouth. Sofia Vergara, from Modern Family, can be jiggling around in one of her tight outfits, but I can't enjoy it. I have to get up, and go someplace else. Someplace where I can't hear the never ending smack, smack, smack!
     Yesterday, the ah, ah, aahhh... and oohhh... and hee, hee, heeeee... and ooo weeeee...  were so loud I could hear him all the way upstairs and in my bedroom. "Sorry, Sofia," I thought to myself as I turned off the TV, "I just can't give you the attention you deserve."
     The noises were so loud, my wife even asked if my Dad was all right.
     "He really likes baseball," I told her, not really explaining anything.
     The other day, my daughter asked me why I never sat with Grandpa when he watched TV. She couldn't help but notice that I  was watching the same program upstairs in my bedroom that my Dad was watching downstairs in the great room.
     She shouldn't have asked.
     I told her the whole story.
     She thought I was being mean, and went downstairs to join her grandpa in front of the TV. A while later, she came back and told me I never should have told her about Grandpa smacking his lips.
     "That's all I hear now," she complained. She had a bowl of cereal in her hands. "I can't even eat in the kitchen, because all I hear is the smacking."
     She shook her head sadly.
     "Poor Grandpa," she said, as she walked off to her room.
     Poor Grandpa, indeed. True, it's sad, but life as a very elderly person is sad. And it's a road we'll all have to travel one day.
     If we're lucky.
    

Raising My Father 

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

  

"Is There A Game Today?"

I'm in the kitchen sitting at the island. Reading the morning newspaper, disagreeing with everything Dear Abby has to say (her answers are a little too politically correct for my taste), and enjoying my noon coffee. I have the dimmer switch to the lights set on low.
     As usual, I'm listening to the blues on the TV in the great room. I love the blues. Right now they're playing Mean Old World, one of my favorite songs. Maybe I like the song so much because I like the title so much. It is a mean old world. You only have to read the paper or watch the news to realize it. This version is by Little Walter and His Night Cats. I prefer the song by T-Bone Walker. Maybe I just like the name T-Bone. There may be a dozen other songs called Mean Old World, but those are the only two I know of.
     In a way, the blues have ruined my appreciation for the music I grew up listening to in the sixties and seventies. When I first began listening to Eric Clapton or Led Zeppelin I thought they were geniuses. Forty years later, when I widened my taste in music to include the likes of Buddy Guy or Z.Z. Hill*, I realized that everything I loved about rock-n-roll was stolen from these guys. I have a CD box set of all the Led Zeppelin albums. I haven't listened to it since.
     But that's neither here nor there. The point is that I'm enjoying my early afternoon. The song changes, and it's a song I don't recognize. The singer sounds like he's drunk, as if Richard Pryor's old wino character was given a guitar and microphone and told to earn his next bottle of Thunderbird.
     I go from Dear Abby to the comics section of the newspaper. That's when my Dad walks into the kitchen.
     "Hey, Dad," I say, but I keep my head down. I've already said hello to him this morning, not that I'm counting how many times I say hello to him in any given day. I can understand when people like Hilary Clinton and Sylvester Stallone tell their employees not to look at them, talk to them, or make eye contact with them when they pass each other. Otherwise they'd be spending the whole day acknowledging people they feel are beneath them, and they wouldn't have time to do important stuff like sell fiction to the general public.
     My Dad mumbles something, but I pay him no mind. I know that sounds mean, but I've learned that when he wants to say something he wants me to acknowledge, he'll speak up.
     He mumbles again, this time louder. And then he walks over to the TV set, stands in front, and looks at it. I still don't look up. He knows I'm listening to music on the TV. And I know that he has a TV in his room. He can watch whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but what he usually wants is to watch TV on the big TV in the great room. It drives me nuts, because it means I can't watch what I want to watch, or listen to what I want to listen to.
     "Isn't there a game today?" my Dad finally speaks up.
     Quite clearly, I might add.
     I ignore him, but not in a mean way. More like a Clint-Eastwood-when-he's-not-busy-talking-to-a-chair kind of way. I know there's a game today. HE knows there's a game today. Even Clint Eastwood's chair knows there's a game today. We have a dozen or so baseball channels. Even if there wasn't a game, there would still be a game.
     "Isn't there a game today?" my Dad asks again.
     This time he even turns to look at me. He wants to make sure I heard.
     I make the mistake of quickly glancing up.
     Our eyes meet.
     I can't pretend I didn't hear him.
     "Did you say something, Dad?" I pretend anyway.
     "Isn't there a game today?"
     "A game?"
     "Yes."
     "Today?"
     "Yes."
     "I don't think so," I tell him.
     He doesn't buy it.
     "I'm sure there's a game today."
     "You sure?"
     "Yeah, I'm sure. Cleveland's playing."
     Cleveland's his favorite team.
     "Then I guess there's a game."
     "I knew it, I knew there was a game."
     I'm thinking to myself, if he knew there was a game, then what was he asking me for? We're at a stalemate, of sorts. He's not asking me if he can change the channel to the game, and I'm not offering to let him change the channel to the game. If my wife were there, he'd already be sitting down in front of the TV, feet up, and being served champagne and caviar.
     Unfortunately for him, my wife's not there.
     Mumble, mumble.
     I ignore him.
     Mumble, mumble.
     Dang! I briefly looked up, and our eyes meet again.
     "Did you say something, Dad?"
     "I think Cleveland's playing today."
     "Cleveland?"
     "Oh, yeah. Cleveland's my favorite team."
     "You sure it's today?"
     "Sure, I'm sure."
     We're at a stalemate again. He stands there, looking at me. Tampa Red is singing When Things Go Wrong With You (It Hurts Me, Too).
     I no longer have the heart to keep it up.
     "Sit down, Dad," I tell him. "Let's see if the game's on."
     He sits down. Doesn't even tell me thank you. Instead he says, not quite mumbling but not quite clearly, "Of course the game's on. I told you  that already." And then he says "I know when the game's on." to the chair next to him.
     My Dad.
     The new Clint Eastwood.
     I change the channel and put on the Cleveland game. His favorite team is 100 games out of the playoffs, losing 20 out of the last 22 games. There's no hope for them this year. The only hope is next year, or the year after that. Or the year after that.
     My Dad settles down in his favorite chair watching his favorite team on his favorite TV set. I go back to drinking my luke-warm coffee, and finishing up the comics. Then it starts...
     Smack!
     I lift my eyes.
     Smack, smack, SMACK!
     My Dad has the nasty habit of smacking his lips whenever he watches TV. He smacks, he moans, he yawns, he sighs, he oohs and aaahs, but what he mainly does is annoy me. I've tried, but I can't sit down with him to watch anything on TV, because his constant noises are so distracting.
     "You should try," my wife will sometimes admonish me.
     "Why don't YOU try?"
     "He's not MY father
     "Yeah, but he's YOUR father-in-law."
     "What does THAT have to do with anything?"
     "Nothing, but he's still YOUR father-in-law."
     "Why are you trying to drag ME into it?"
     "Because YOU brought it up."
     "What have I ever done to you?"
     It was worth a shot.
     Oh, well. Back to the present...
     "Ahhh... ohhh..." Big sigh. Followed by an even bigger SMACK! "Ohhh... ahhh..." Smack, smack, smack. Mumble, mumble.
     Shoot me. Please.
     I grab my coffee and leave the kitchen. I walk upstairs to watch the TV in my bedroom. That TV doesn't have a converter to play music.
     It's a mean old world, indeed.

RaisingDad

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

*Z.Z. Hill. ZZ Top. See the connection?