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.
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.
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.
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
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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