We stay at a pretty nice place. For my Dad, it's nothing but the best. As long as I'm paying.
Kiddingly, before we left, I told him, "I got us a pretty good deal at the Motel 6, Dad."
"What?"
"The Motel 6."
"What about the Motel 6?"
"That's where we're staying. At the Motel 6. I got us a pretty good deal."
"We're not staying at the Motel 6."
"Why not? It's a perfectly good motel."
"We're not staying at the Motel 6."
"It's clean. It's cheap. And the guy from those Motel 6 commercials will personally leave the light on for us."
I laugh at my own bad joke.
"Well," my Dad says, his eyes starting to bulge out from the anxiety of having to stay at a sub-standard motel. I'm so evil sometimes, it makes me laugh. "YOU can stay at the Motel 6, if you want, but I'm not."
"You're not what?"
"What?"
"You're not what, Dad?"
"I'M not staying at the Motel 6."
He says that very forcefully. Determined to get his way. HIS way, or the highway, as the saying goes.
"Then where are you going to stay?"
There's a pause that goes on for so long I actually start to hear crickets. And then he says: "What?"
"If you're not staying at the Motel 6 with us, then where are you going to stay?"
His eyes start to bulge out a little more. He hadn't thought about this part of the equation. He wants to tell me something, but he doesn't know what. His eyes bulge out in direct proportion with his desire to tell me something.
"I... I..." he stammers, and then starts looking around for my wife.
Well, to make a long story short, my wife had already made a nice reservation for us at a very nice four-star hotel. I'd tell you where we stayed, but since they didn't give me the Senior Citizen Discount, I won't. They told me that, even though my almost hundred-year-old father is STAYING with us, since he's not PAYING for us, we didn't qualify.
"You hear that, Dad?" I asked him in front of the clerk. "You don't want to pay for the room, so we can get the Senior Citizen Discount?"
"What?" my Dad said, and then started fiddling with his hearing aid.
Like I said, nothing but the best for my Dad, as long as I'm paying.
Meanwhile, I go ahead and pay THE FULL AMOUNT, and we go to our room. That's right, you heard me correctly. Room. Singular. With double-beds. We have to get a single room, because we need to keep an eye on my Dad. We don't want him to wander off for a soda at the end of the hall and not find his way back.
There's a comedian, Mike Birbiglia, and he suffers from a sleeping disorder. His body doesn't produce the enzyme or hormone or chemical that keeps you immobile when you sleep, so, when he dreams, he gets up and acts out his dreams. He has to sleep in a sleeping bag that's zipped up from the inside, and he wears cooking mittens on his hands so he doesn't unzip it. It keeps him from killing himself in his sleep. It must be horrible to live that way, but it gives him great material for his comedy act.
The reason I mention him is, I think, when you get older, your body stops producing that enzyme, hormone, or chemical and you find yourself off and doing things you shouldn't do--like going down the hall for a soda--only you're awake when you do it. That's because, when you get older, your body also stops producing the enzyme, hormone, or chemical that helps you to fall asleep. That's why...
In the hotel room, my Dad gets up at 2300 hours (that's 11pm, for all you non-military types). I say "gets" up and not "wakes" up, because the only time I'm sure he's asleep is when he's sitting in front of the TV in his--my--favorite chair in the great room and there's something else I really want to see besides the baseball channel he's so fond of. He gets up, goes into the bathroom, and he stays in there for two hours making all kinds of racket. I don't know what he's doing, and I don't want to know what he's doing. I'm just hoping he's done doing it some time soon.
Of course, I could ask him what he's doing, but I don't want to spend the rest of the night listening to him explaining it to me. I need my beauty sleep. Or so my wife tells me. Speaking of my wife...
She also doesn't want to know what he's doing. Since we can clearly hear him, she doesn't get up to check up on him, and, more importantly, she doesn't try to get me to get up and check on him.
Eventually--and I mean e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y--he finds his way back to bed.
Kiddingly, before we left, I told him, "I got us a pretty good deal at the Motel 6, Dad."
"What?"
"The Motel 6."
"What about the Motel 6?"
"That's where we're staying. At the Motel 6. I got us a pretty good deal."
"We're not staying at the Motel 6."
"Why not? It's a perfectly good motel."
"We're not staying at the Motel 6."
"It's clean. It's cheap. And the guy from those Motel 6 commercials will personally leave the light on for us."
I laugh at my own bad joke.
"Well," my Dad says, his eyes starting to bulge out from the anxiety of having to stay at a sub-standard motel. I'm so evil sometimes, it makes me laugh. "YOU can stay at the Motel 6, if you want, but I'm not."
"You're not what?"
"What?"
"You're not what, Dad?"
"I'M not staying at the Motel 6."
He says that very forcefully. Determined to get his way. HIS way, or the highway, as the saying goes.
"Then where are you going to stay?"
There's a pause that goes on for so long I actually start to hear crickets. And then he says: "What?"
"If you're not staying at the Motel 6 with us, then where are you going to stay?"
His eyes start to bulge out a little more. He hadn't thought about this part of the equation. He wants to tell me something, but he doesn't know what. His eyes bulge out in direct proportion with his desire to tell me something.
"I... I..." he stammers, and then starts looking around for my wife.
Well, to make a long story short, my wife had already made a nice reservation for us at a very nice four-star hotel. I'd tell you where we stayed, but since they didn't give me the Senior Citizen Discount, I won't. They told me that, even though my almost hundred-year-old father is STAYING with us, since he's not PAYING for us, we didn't qualify.
"You hear that, Dad?" I asked him in front of the clerk. "You don't want to pay for the room, so we can get the Senior Citizen Discount?"
"What?" my Dad said, and then started fiddling with his hearing aid.
Like I said, nothing but the best for my Dad, as long as I'm paying.
Meanwhile, I go ahead and pay THE FULL AMOUNT, and we go to our room. That's right, you heard me correctly. Room. Singular. With double-beds. We have to get a single room, because we need to keep an eye on my Dad. We don't want him to wander off for a soda at the end of the hall and not find his way back.
There's a comedian, Mike Birbiglia, and he suffers from a sleeping disorder. His body doesn't produce the enzyme or hormone or chemical that keeps you immobile when you sleep, so, when he dreams, he gets up and acts out his dreams. He has to sleep in a sleeping bag that's zipped up from the inside, and he wears cooking mittens on his hands so he doesn't unzip it. It keeps him from killing himself in his sleep. It must be horrible to live that way, but it gives him great material for his comedy act.
The reason I mention him is, I think, when you get older, your body stops producing that enzyme, hormone, or chemical and you find yourself off and doing things you shouldn't do--like going down the hall for a soda--only you're awake when you do it. That's because, when you get older, your body also stops producing the enzyme, hormone, or chemical that helps you to fall asleep. That's why...
In the hotel room, my Dad gets up at 2300 hours (that's 11pm, for all you non-military types). I say "gets" up and not "wakes" up, because the only time I'm sure he's asleep is when he's sitting in front of the TV in his--my--favorite chair in the great room and there's something else I really want to see besides the baseball channel he's so fond of. He gets up, goes into the bathroom, and he stays in there for two hours making all kinds of racket. I don't know what he's doing, and I don't want to know what he's doing. I'm just hoping he's done doing it some time soon.
Of course, I could ask him what he's doing, but I don't want to spend the rest of the night listening to him explaining it to me. I need my beauty sleep. Or so my wife tells me. Speaking of my wife...
She also doesn't want to know what he's doing. Since we can clearly hear him, she doesn't get up to check up on him, and, more importantly, she doesn't try to get me to get up and check on him.
Eventually--and I mean e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y--he finds his way back to bed.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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