I Like The Dark (Part Three)

Well, my Dad has been sick for several days now, but he doesn't listen. He continues on his walks. In the cold. In the wet. It doesn't matter. We ask him not to. We tell him not to. It doesn't matter. He knows better. He always knows better. He's determined to walk his illness away. When he comes back, he's tired. And not feeling well. He thinks walking will help him live forever, but it just might be the death of him.
     At this particular time, I'm in sitting in the great room. All the lights are off. The drapes are closed. I like the cold. I like the dark. I guess that makes me Team Edward. I swear, my Dad must have a camera somewhere inside the house, with the receiver in his room, because he'll stay in his little father-in-law house until one of us, mainly me, enters the kitchen or the great room, and then, seconds later, he'll walk right through the kitchen door. My theory is that he is constantly monitoring us on his receiver, and as soon as he sees us moving, he gets moving as well. Out of his house and into ours.
     I'm drinking a cup of hot chocolate (Why not coffee? you ask. Good question. Well, sometimes life is more than the status quo. But, I'll admit, I add a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee to add some kick to my cocoa.
     "Why don't you just have coffee?" my wife will ask me.
     "Because I don't want coffee," I'll tell her. "I want chocolate."
     She just doesn't understand. For the record, sometimes I'll even put a spoonful of instant coffee on my vanilla ice cream, and mix it up.
     "Why don't you just buy coffee ice cream?" she'll inquire.
     "Dad doesn't like coffee ice cream," I'll explain.
     "What does that have to do with anything?"
     "Only everything."), and peacefully watching the History Channel. Is life good, or what?
     No sooner do I get relaxed, than I hear the door in the kitchen open, and see my dad walking in. How did he know I was there? I rest my case.
     As he enters, I can hear him breathing audibly through a runny and congested nose. How is it even possible to have both at the same time? Well, my Dad does.
     Sniffle, sniffle! Cough, cough, cough!
     He walks right by me...
     Achoo! Cough, cough, cough!
     ...before he makes it to his favorite chair a few feet away. I sit still, trying to hold my breath until the germs settle on the floor and furniture, but within seconds of him sitting--Achoo! Achoo!--barely covering his nose with his filthy handkerchief. Then it's cough, cough, cough with no attempt to cover up. Is it just getting old? Is that what it is? You get old, and you forget to cover your mouth? Or do you no longer care?
     I don't want to be rude by getting up and leaving, so I start praying for a distraction. It was a long fifteen minutes of his coughing and sneezing and sniffing.
     Cough, cough! Achoo! Sniffle, sniffle!
     Finally, there is salvation. My wife shows up.
     "Hi, honey," I tell her, get up, give her a kiss, and use my momentum to exit the room. I take my cup to the kitchen sink.
     My wife tells my Dad good morning, and I continue to use my momentum to exit the room, go up the stairs, and into the bathroom in the master bedroom to wash my face and hands. I can't afford to get sick. I have hiking to do, and road trips to take.
     When my wife is sick, she stays in her room. When I'm sick, I stay in my room. But not my Dad. He loves to spread his joy around. When he's sick, he likes to be in the middle of a room full of people, and tell everybody to quit making so much noise.
     "Why don't you go rest in your room, Dad?" we tell him.
     "Why would I want to do that?" he tells us.
     "Because it's quiet."
     "It's quiet here."
     "You just told us to quit making so much noise."
     "Well, it's quiet now."
     "You can rest."
     "I'm resting now."
     "You can lay down and rest."
     "I don't want to lay down."
     It's no use. I'd better go take some vitamin C. For prevention.
     Cough!

Raising My Father 

@JimDuchene

JimDuchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com