Everybody's A Joker

It's rare for my father to be quiet, but that's exactly what he was on our drive back home from the hospital. We had just visited my uncle who was there for, well, for not very much longer, at least according to him. Cancer isn't quite the death sentence it used to be, but it's still pretty scary. Especially if you're the one who has it.

     As I drove, I would look over at my dad every now and then to make sure he was okay. Each time I'd see him looking out of his window. What he was thinking about, I couldn't tell you. Maybe he was contemplating losing his younger brother. Maybe he was seeing his own mortality in the distance. Only he, and perhaps The Amazing Kreskin, know for sure.

     Myself, I was thinking about the last time I took my father to see his doctor. He was there to get a flu shot. The doctor came in, gave him a quick once-over, and told him, "You'll live to make many more payments to me."

     Everybody's a joker.

     Meanwhile, a male nurse came in to give my father his injection. He was short, which made the needle look even larger in his hand. 

     My father's eyes grew wide.

     "Hey!" he said. "What's this all about?"

     Hmm... maybe I should have told my father what he was there for.

     "Come on," the doctor teased him. "It's just a little prick."

     "Yeah," my father answered, "but what's he gonna do with that needle?"

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
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My Dad Is Screwing With Me

I keep telling my wife that my father is screwing with me.
     Today is House Cleaner Day. Whenever the house cleaner comes to clean our house, my father pretends to sleep the entire time she is here. I say "pretend," because, any other day, he is up doing the two things he does best: complaining and eating.
     This morning, it was business as usual. He stayed in his bedroom and the house cleaner got paid for not being able to do her job, which includes the cleaning of my father's bedroom and bathroom. As God is my witness, no sooner did the door close on her on her way out, than my father's opened.
     "I'm hungry," he complained, jauntily making his way into the kitchen. 

     While my wife busily got started fixing my father something to fill that bottomless pit of a stomach he has, he saw a cup that was left on the table. Then he picked it up and started to carry it to who knows where.
     He stopped. Looked at the cup in his hand.
     "Who's cup is this?" he asked.
     "I don't know," I answered.
     "Then why am I carrying it?" he wanted to know.
     "I don't know," I wanted to know, too.

     It's cool today, but what's cool for us is cold for my father. While he was waiting for his food, he told no one in particular, "It's cold."
     I don't mind him making a statement, even if the statement is incorrect or an exaggeration. What I mind is all the complaining that seems to come after the initial statement is made. My wife, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind as much as me because she always makes the mistake of answering him.

     "Put on some warmer clothes," she told him.
     "What?"
     "Put on some warmer clothes."
     "Why?"
     "Because it's cold."
     "It's not that cold," my father said.
     "You just said it was cold," my wife told him.
     "Yeah," my father said, "but I can handle it."

     We have workmen coming to the house in the afternoon to finish a plumbing job they've already started in my father's bathroom.

     "How many days a week do you hire those characters?" my father wanted to know.

     To keep short and to not confuse him, I answered, "Two or three days a week."

     "That's good," my father said, nodding his head in approval.
     "They need to do some work in your bathroom," I told him, giving him a head's up.
     "That's fine," he assured me.

     The workmen finally showed up. As I walked past my father's room to answer the front door, I peeked into his room.
     He was asleep.
     How does he know? I griped to myself.
     "Honey," I asked my wife, sweetly, "would you please wake up my father?"
     "Is your name Jose?" she asked me.
     "No," I said.
     "Too bad," she told me, "because that would go so well with 'No Way.'"
     The workers charge too much for me to let them just hang around, so I made an executive decision and decided it was up to me to go into my father's room and nudge him awake.
     "Dad," I said.
     Nothing.
     "Dad."
     Still nothing.
     "You've got to get up, Dad. The plumbers are here and they need to work in your bathroom."
     "What," my Dad said, rubbing his eyes. I can almost swear he's stifling a laugh. "Did you say something?"
     "You need to get up, Dad. The plumbers are here."
     "Just how many days a week do you hire those characters?" he said, but this time it was a complaint.
     "You need to get up, Dad," I repeated, not wanting to engage him in a conversation that goes nowhere.
     "Oh, all right," he grumped.
     I went inside to tell the workmen that my father would be out in a minute.

     Five minutes later, and he still wasn't out. I know five minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but it is when you're waiting. Especially when you're being charged by the hour while you're waiting. Still don't believe me? Try holding your breath for five minutes.
     Yeah, I thought so.
     I went back to my father's room. True to his word, he got up, but, instead of making his way out of his room, he instead went into the bathroom where the plumbers needed to do their expensive magic. Maybe he'll be quick, I thought to myself.
     Half an hour passed.
     Still no Dad.
     I looked at the worker and the workers looked at me. I could almost see dollar signs multiplying in their eyes.
     I swear my Dad is screwing with me.

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Ghosts

We have ghosts in our house.
     At least, that's what my Dad tells me, my wife, and anybody else who will listen.
     "When I'm watching TV late at night, the set will turn off all by itself."
     That's his proof? A temperamental television set.
     "Really, Dad?" I'll say, hoping the conversation will end there.
     "Really," he'll say.
     "Why does it turn off?" my wife will make the mistake of asking him.
     And in case you don't know why it's a mistake...
     "Why?" my Dad will start to rant. "WHY? I don't know why, it just does!"
     By then, my wife realizes she should have just mumbled something in the affirmative and let that particular sleeping dog lie.
     "Maybe the TV is faulty," she'll suggest.
     "No," my father will explain to her, since she's the only one paying attention. "It doesn't happen during the day. It only happens at night."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Sure?" my Dad will continue his rant. "Am I SURE? Of course I'm sure. What do you think I am, stupid?"
     By this time, my wife will give me a look. Not THE look, but A look, and that look will say, "How about some help here?" I'll just shrug my shoulders in a Hey,-You-Started-It kind of way. You see, my father has gotten into the habit of getting upset whenever we suggest he could do something differently or question something he's just said. "What do you think I am, stupid?" is his go-to line.
     Before I retired, when I was at work, any time someone would make a recommendation that would make my job easier or the job I was doing better, I took that recommendation to heart. It didn't matter if it came from my boss or the janitor. Who am I to purposely ignore good advice?
     My father, on the other hand, absolutely REFUSES to be wrong, and never more especially than when he is. It doesn't matter what it is. If I'm telling him about a place and point in the general direction of where that place is, he'll point a fraction to the left and say, "It's not there, it's THERE," with a tone of voice that says, "What are you, stupid?"
     I used to argue with him. I'd say, "Dad, I can see it from here, it's over there," and point in the correct direction. He'd just insist I was wrong and continue to point in any direction that was different than my own.
     The worst example of this was when we had to take his car keys away from him and suspend his driving privileges. At that time, my mother was still alive. He wanted to go visit his eldest daughter, which was odd in itself. When he was younger, the only person he wanted to visit was Marshall Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. As he got older, his priorities changed. At least that's what everybody thought. Me? I thought that he just wanted to get out of the house, and visiting someone gave him a reason to go.
     My mother, however, had already come to realize that her husband's driving skills had diminished. Quite considerably, in fact. She no longer felt safe traveling in a car with him behind the wheel. This made my father angry, and determined to drive even MORE.
     On this particular day, my father pulled out of the driveway, went down the street to an intersection where he had the stop sign, but the driver driving on the cross-street didn't, and immediately got T-boned when he pulled into the other lane.
     "Why did you go, Dad?" I asked him, referring to him running that stop sign.
     "I had to turn right," he answered from his hospital bed.
     "But you had the stop sign."
     "So did the other driver."
     "No, he didn't. There's no stop sign on that crossroad.."
     "Yes, there is."
     "No, there's not."
     "Yes, there is."
     "No, there's not."
     "Yes, there IS!"
     "Dad, you've only lived in that neighborhood for fifty years. There's NEVER been a stop sign on that street."
     "Well, there should be."
     "But there isn't."
     "Well, it doesn't matter," my father said. "The other driver was wrong."
     "HOW is the other driver wrong?"
     "Because, he should have known I was going to pull out."
     There's just no arguing with my Dad.
     In a side note, there's a question about just what exactly DID happen that caused that accident. My brother remembers one of our brother-in-laws telling him that our father told him (our brother-in-law) that he (our Dad) was stopped at the stop sign and waved the other driver through. The other driver then waved my Dad through. My Dad went, so did the other driver, whereupon one car (the other driver's) immediately collided with the other (my Dad's).
     It was our brother-in-law's opinion that our father waved the other driver through, the other driver waved a thank-you back to my Dad, which he (my Dad) misinterpreted for a no,-you-go wave, causing them to both accelerate at the same time, with my Dad getting the worst of it, because the force of the T-bone was so great, my father was trapped behind the steering wheel of his car. The emergency personnel that showed up had to remove the steering wheel however it is that emergency personnel do that kind of stuff. Let me just tell you, it was a very painful procedure for my Dad, but the amazing thing is he didn't get hurt. Not one bone was broken.
     As a family, we didn't want to wait until he (my Dad) DID end up with broken bones or killed some other innocent driver, so we took his car keys away. He fussed and he fought, but, deep down, I think he knew it was time.
     To this day, he keeps telling us, "I can drive."
     "I know, Dad," I'll tell him.
     "You CAN'T drive," my mother used to remind him.
     "Talk to your son," my wife will say, this time wisely staying out of it.
     So, my Dad's not stupid, he's stubborn, and he stubbornly keeps accusing us of accusing him of being stupid. And, if you can figure out that last sentence, then you're not stupid either.
     "It has to be ghosts," my Dad will say, getting back to the original point of my story. "Your house is haunted."
     "Our house is haunted?" my wife will ask, encouraging him even further.
     'How can our house be haunted?" I'll ask him, because he's finally said something that's caused me to react. "We're the only ones who've lived here. We bought it brand-new."
     "I don't know how it is," he'll reply, "but it is."
     In better times, my Dad was a pretty bright cookie, but because my father now has Alzheimer's, he still hasn't figure out why the TV downstairs keeps going off. I know, but I'm keeping the secret to myself.

     One second the TV is on blasting away at 11pm and the next second it's a blank screen. All I hear is my father going, "Hunh? What the...?".
     Then I'll hear the TV turn back on. After a few seconds it turns back off.
     "Hunh? What the...?"
     On. Off.
     "Hunh? What the...?"
     My father will finally get so frustrated that he won't bother turning the TV back on, and he'll go to his room, stomping all the way.
     Can I be honest with you?
     Promise you won't tell anybody?
     It's not ghosts.
     It's me.
     I got the idea from an old Bowelry Boys movie.

     What happens is, my father is not quick enough to turn his head around and see me behind him with the extra remote. To tell the truth, right now he's not quick enough for anything but his meals. The guy sleeps all day and then wants to stay up all night watching TV.
     So, like a baby, I have to decide what's best for him and "encourage" him to go to bed the easiest way I know how. Why do I have to be so devious? Because, if I told him to go to bed, he'd just get angry and stay up out of spite. This way, it's a lot easier.
     Trust me.
     A LOT easier.

   

   

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

A Naughty Joke

It's sad to see friend and relatives grow old, especially when some of them end up in a nursing home.
     I'm talking about my aunt.
     My aunt was a woman who loved life. She loved it so much, she might have been mistaken for a Kennedy. She loved to go out, she loved to dance, and she loved to... well, let's just say she loved that third thing so much she ended up getting married five times.
     I went to visit her the other day, and, let me assure you, she's still as feisty as ever.
     "What do you do all day?" I asked her.
     "I'll show you," she answered me, whereupon she showed a closed fist to the old man sleeping in the wheelchair next to her.
     "If you can guess what's in my hand, you can have sex with me," she told him.
     He achieved consciousness just long enough to tell her, "An elephant," and then slumped back into snoresville.
     Undeterred, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her room, his tires squeaking in protest.
     "Close enough," she said.
    
 

Raising My Father

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@JimDuchene

 

How Are YOU Feeling?

My elderly father and I were visiting his younger brother in the hospital, and, like my uncle's residency here on earth, we were ready to go. I could tell my father wanted to leave by the way he kept inching closer to the door. My uncle, however, is just as oblivious to visual and verbal clues as my father is.

     "So," he asked his older brother, "how are you feeling?"

     This got my father's attention, because if there's one thing my father likes to talk about, it's himself.

     "Well," my father answered, shaking his head sadly. "I'm pretty sick myself."

     This came as something of a surprise to me. I only go with him to all of his doctor appointments, of which there are many, and he is always given a clean bill of health. For his age, that is.

     "You're not sick, dad," I corrected him.

     "Yes, I am," he corrected me back.

     "No, you're not."

     My poor uncle laid there looking at us point and counter-point, his head swiveling from side to side to side to side as if he was watching a Ping-Pong tournament.

     "Well, I'd better be sick," my father finally said in his I'm-Tired-Of-This tone of voice.

     "Why the heck do you want to be sick?" I asked, enquiring minds wanted to know.

     "Because," he explained, "I'd hate to be well and feel this crappy."

   

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine