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
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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
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