A Christmas Memory

I remember back when I was a kid, my parents got me a very expensive gift for Christmas that I absolutely could not live without. It cost them about a hundred dollars, and in those days a hundred dollars was a lot of money, especially on my father's paycheck. Being in the lower single-digits age-wise, I ended up just playing with the very big box the gift came in.

     The following Christmas, I overheard my father tell my mother, "Why don't we just buy him another box and get something for ourselves instead?"

 
  

Raising My Father

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Nothing Wrong With Hoping

I told you last week how my wife and I ran into an old buddy of mine at Costco. He was with his wife. And then I told you how that very same buddy had recently been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's.
     Well, my buddy and I sat down in the snack area to catch up on current events. I even bought him a slice of pizza and something to drink, because 1) I was hungry and don't like to eat in front of other people when they're not eating, and 2) if I waited for him to treat me to a pizza and something to drink I'd be waiting an awfully long time. I'm not saying he's cheap, but copper wire was invented when he and his dad fought over a penny. Meanwhile, my wife and his wandered off into the huge warehouse to see who could get to zero on their bank accounts first.
     In the privacy of the Costco aisles, my wife later told me that she asked my buddy's wife, “How is it having a husband with Alzheimer’s?”
     “It’s great,” she answered.
     “What do you mean it’s great?” my wife wanted to know, surprised at the answer.    
     “Whenever he wants sex, I always tell him, ‘We just had sex. Don’t you remember?’ Being the macho guy he is, he’ll say ‘Oh, yeah. That’s right. Never mind.’ I haven’t had to have sex in years.”
     All I can say is...
     ...I hope I never get Alzheimer’s.
 
 

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A Long Road To The Point

Sad news.
     Even sadder than usual.
     A friend of mine from work was recently diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's. He's retired and spends a lot of his time searching the internet for a cure. It gives him hope, I guess.
     When my lovely wife and I recently ran into him and his wife at Costco, the wife started explaining the sad situation to us.
      “But I’ve got a great doctor,” my friend cut in. There was never a conversation he didn't want to dominate.
     “You do?” my wife asked, being polite. “Maybe I know him. What’s his name?”
     “Aw, jeez,” my friend said, “his name. You know, with this Alzheimer’s, sometimes I forget things.”
     My wife and I nodded our heads in sympathy.
      “His name... his name...” he said, trying to remember. And then, out of the blue, he asked his wife, "What's that TV show I like to watch."
     "What TV show, dear?"
     "The one about nothing," he told her.
     "Seinfeld?" she asked.
     "Yeah, Seinfeld. Didn't he make a movie? A cartoon?"
     "Yeah," I said, wondering where he was going with all this.
     "What was it called?"
     "The Bee Movie," I answered.
     "That's right, The Bee Movie. What’s that thing that bees make that’s sweet?”
     “Honey,” my wife said, her eyes filling with tears.
      “That’s right,” my friend said, and then turned to his wife. “Honey, what’s my doctor’s name?”
 
 

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Taking Medication

My father and I have just returned home from an appointment with his doctor.
    He doesn’t drive any more. Since he now lives with me, I find myself chauffeuring him around to conduct his personal business. I always thought the older you got, the less you did. Apparently, that’s not the case. At least with my father. I’m always taking him here or there, doing this or that.

    He’s closer to the end of his century than the beginning and has been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer’s. You might think that Alzheimer’s is something that happens to someone else, but don’t fool yourself, we’re all pre-Alzheimer’s. We just need to live long enough for it to catch up with us.

    It's 11am. Still early. He's studying the medicine his doctor prescribed, and which we've just picked up from the pharmacy.

    "Can you believe the price of this medication?" he asks.

    Of course I can. I just paid for it.

    "Now remember,” I tell him, “the doctor said you have to take it in the morning when you first wake up, with lots of water. Or you can take it right before you go to bed, but you have to take it on an empty stomach."

    We walk into the kitchen, and seat ourselves at the table. My wife comes up to say hello.

    "How did it go with the doctor?" she asks. "You guys hungry?"

    I look over at my wife. It's been a long day, and it's not even noon. She can see it in my eyes.

    "I'm not hungry, sweetie," I tell her.

    "Well, I am!" my father pipes up, so she starts to serve him.

    My father and I continue our conversation.

    "So I take it when I get up," he tells me.

    "That's right, or before you go to bed. The important thing is that you don't eat anything before you take it."

    "But I take it in the morning."

    "Yes," I repeat, "as soon as you get up, but before you eat anything."

    "I can't eat anything?"

    "That's right."

    He looks at the food in front of him.

    "But I'm hungry."

    "You can eat now, dad, but just not before taking your medicine."

    He starts to dig in on the feast my wife just served him. She's a good cook. My father's a good eater. It’s a match made in Heaven.

    Speaking of my wife, she knows the direction this conversation is taking, so she gives me a little wave and makes her escape. I give her a little smile. A very little smile.

    Chomp, chomp!

    "Are you sure that's what the doctor said?" my father says between bites. "I've always heard you have to eat before you take your medication."

    "That's true, but with this medicine you have to take it on an empty stomach.”

    "I don't know about these pills. I don't think they'll do me any good."

    "They might."

    "And you're telling me I can take it in the morning or at night?"

    "That's right. Take it as soon as you get up, or right before you go to bed. It just has to be on an empty stomach."

    "But I'm hungry in the morning. Does this mean I can't eat all day?"

    He takes another big bite of food.

    "No, it means that you take it as soon as you get up. You can have breakfast after that. Or you can take it at night before you go to bed. It just has to be on an empty stomach."

    "But I always have ice cream before I go to bed."

    I'm too tired to answer.

    "Well, I guess your wife can serve me less," he says.

    Chomp, chomp!

    And then continues.

    "She always serves me too much."

    He thinks, and then he thinks a little more.

    "Why can't I just take it now?" he says. "What difference does it make?"

    "I don’t know, dad, that’s just what the doctor said."

    "Doctors," he sniffs, and rubs his nose in disgust. "They don't know everything."

    "Just do it, dad."

    "Okay, okay. So you're saying that I take the medication as soon as I wake up."

    "You've got it. As soon as you get up, take your medicine. You can have your breakfast after that."

    "But sometimes I go for a walk with my dog before I have breakfast."

    "That's fine, dad. Just take your medicine when you wake up, go on your walk, and when you get back you can eat."

    "I don't know about those characters. I tell you, sometimes doctors don't know what they're doing."

    CHOMP!

    "So I'll take this medication right after I wake up but before I eat. After I brush my teeth and take my shower."

    "That's right," I say, happy he’s finally gotten it.

    "Hmmm..." he says, checking out the bottle. The pills are small, and the directions are right there on the label. "...ahh... well."

    He's continued eating throughout this whole conversation, but he's finally done. He then gets up, grabs his medicine, and tells me on his way out:

    "I guess I'll go take my medication now.

     

Full or empty, your stomach can visit me at RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene.

 

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Like AA, Only Different

The thing about getting older is that you find yourself going to the doctor more often. Blood tests, mammograms if you’re female, colonoscopies.
     Can’t I just take a pill?
     The thing I hate most is referrals. Whatever little complaint I might mention, my doctor is quick to refer me to ANOTHER doctor.
     Heck, even I can do that!
     Now that I think about it, when I was starting out in the business world, I should have legally changed my first name to “Doctor.” That way, I could have just rented out an office and made my living referring patients to real doctors.
    You know, the ones who didn’t have the intelligence to avoid medical school.
     Well, the good news is I’m in good health, but my bad cholesterol levels are high, so, in addition to losing weight, I have to change my diet. More fish, less fried foods, cut out sugar and fast food. You know, the things that make life worth living.
     I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs, so I consider this God’s cruel joke.
     “What did the doctor say?” my father asked me when I walked back into the waiting area where he was waiting for me.
     It’s funny, but we spent my growing up years avoiding each other. My father was of the Children-Should-Be-Seen-Not-Heard generation. Me? I saw enough police procedurals on TV to know not to incriminate myself.
     Having said all that, the funny part I’m referring to (See? I AM good at referrals.) is that we now spend a lot of our time together. I take him to HIS doctor appointments, and he comes with me to mine. We have lunch afterward, or at least we try to have lunch together. After my father vetoes every one of my suggestions, sometimes the only suggestion left is to go home.
     “I have to go on a diet,” I told him. “My cholesterol’s too high.”
     My father snorted in disgust, enthusiastically rubbing his nose in contempt. He’s familiar with such nonsense. Fortunately, my lovely wife is an excellent cook and can accommodate our culinary requirements, AND make it taste delicious as well.
     “I guess we can be diet buddies,” I continued. “You can be my sponsor, like in AA. Whenever I’m in the mood to go out for some fried chicken, I’ll give you a call.”
     “That’s right,” he agreed. “And I’ll go with you.”
 
 

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I Wish I Hadn't Heard That

When kids ride in the back seat of a car with their friends, they forget a parent is sitting behind the wheel listening to everything they say.
     I was taking my daughter and her friend to school one day when I overheard the friend say she had walked in on her parents in the middle of doing, well, um... you know. The thing that horrified her the most was seeing that her father was wearing his CPAP mask.
     “It was like watching Darth Vader having sex,” she said.
 
 

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Ordering Enchiladas

It's funny about the restaurant I used to buy my mother’s gourmet enchiladas at.
     What am I talking about?
     I'm talking about back when my beloved mother was still alive, I used to go over every Saturday morning for breakfast. When my schedule at work changed, so did the time I was able to go over and visit. It became lunch, and, I'm not quit sure how, but the routine also changed from my going over there to eat, to my going over there to take her lunch. I always asked her in advance what she would like, but her order never changed.
     What about your father?
     You sure do ask a lot of questions, my friend.
     Well, my father preferred home-cooked meals, so my mother would still have to fix him something to eat. I think he would have preferred the enchiladas I was bringing over, but to him it was a matter of pride.
     The reason I tell you all this is because I was remembering the lady who, week after week, would take my order every Saturday afternoon. She was an older lady with a bad case of arthritis in one hand. Why she was working as the cashier, I don't know. I always thought she might have been the owner of the restaurant, but she could have been a former waitress whose waitressing days were long behind her.
     "Welcome to La Chancla," she would greet me. "You can seat yourself."
     I was only there EVERY Saturday, rain or shine (just like the post office), and she would treat me as if I had never been there before.
     "Maybe she's one of your old high school girlfriends," my older and less attractive brother once told me. "Assuming you had any."
     Well, I had plenty. Girlfriends, I mean, and she wasn't one of them. Believe me, if she had been one of my old girlfriends, she would have certainly remembered me. In fact, I would have probably gotten my food for free.
     There was a separate To Go section of the cashier’s station, and that's where I would stand, just under their "Order Here" sign. Why she would always assume I wanted a sit-down meal, I don't know.
     "No, thank you," I would politely tell her. "I'm here to order out."
     If there was already an order there that had previously been called in, she’d ask me, “Did you order the burritos?” Or, “Here are your chile rellenos.”
     "Those aren't mine," I would tell her.
     "Are you sure?" she would respond.
     Of course I was sure.
     You see, I never ever called in and only ordered the red chile enchilada plate with extra onions EVERY time I went there. Remember how I just wrote “with extra onions”?
     “Did you want onions with that?” she’d always want to know.
     "Extra onions," I'd repeat.
     My mother didn’t care for their salad, so I’d also tell the lady, “No salad, please.”
     “No salad?” she’d say, like not wanting shredded lettuce with your meal was beyond her comprehension.
     “That's right.”
     “You don’t want any salad.”
     “No salad.”
     Sometimes, when I was feeling especially frustrated, I’d point out, “I’m only in here EVERY week,” but, mostly, I kept my temper, because the ladies were nice and the food was good and I didn’t want them--thinking the  enchilada plate was for me--to do anything to my mother’s food.
     Sometimes, after I gave her my order, she’d incorrectly clarify, “CHICKEN enchiladas?”
     “No,” I’d correct her. “Cheese.”
     Once, this waitress who was especially nice to me, saw the lady write down "chicken enchiladas" on her ordering pad, and, knowing it was me, double-checked, “Did you want cheese or chicken?”
     “I ordered cheese.”
     And the nice waitress made sure I got my usual.
     Now that I think about it, I should have given her a tip.
     Too bad I'm cheap.
     (I jest, of course.)
     I write all this, because I was thinking about the time the older lady handed me my order and said, “Here’s your green enchiladas.”
     Green enchiladas?
     I checked, and they were red, so all was good.
     Except for the salad it came with.
 
 

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Words Of Wisdom

Daisy, a friend of mine, recently asked if my father still offers me words of wisdom.
     I had to think about that.
     I came to the conclusion that any words of wisdom my father offers me are usually in the form of hindsight.
     In other words, if I were to bump my head on a low-hanging bar, my father would then tell me, "Watch out for that bar."
     If I stepped on something sharp and painful on the floor, he'd caution, "I forgot to tell you, I put that there."
     Just the other day, when I complained that my stomach was upset, he told me, "You shouldn't eat like a pig."
     For the record, I don't eat like pig.
     My father's not much of a talker, but one thing I've noticed as he's gotten older is that he's more concerned over what his legacy is going to be, how he's going to be remembered.
     "Remember when I..." he'll tell me.
     "You were a good dad, dad," I'll tell him back.
     And he still is.
 
 

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Rambunctious Kids

My brother and I were pretty rambunctious kids.
     How rambunctious?
     Well, in the Bible, I’ve heard it says, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
     Let’s just say that the two of us gave our parents plenty of reason not to spoil us.
     Let me give you an example. When I was still in single digits age-wise, I saw a movie about time travel and decided to build a time machine. This consisted of my getting an oven rack that, for some reason, was discarded in our backyard. I took it, then went into the kitchen to get my mother’s roll of Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil. I covered each metal wire with the aluminum foil, including the thicker wire frame. I found an extension cord, also discarded in the backyard, and cut off the female end, exposing the copper wiring. I attached the exposed wiring of the extension cord to one corner of the rack.
      I placed the rejiggered oven rack on the ground, plug the extension cord in the outside electrical socket, and talked one of my friends into becoming the first time-naut.
      My theory was this: the electricity flowing through the rejiggered oven rack would create a time warp, and, when my friend jumped onto it, he would fall through the portal and find himself in another time-stream.
      Let’s just say the experiment didn’t go so well.
      Cut to my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary.
      My brother and I were celebrating the special occasion by taking our parents out to a fancy dinner. Our father didn’t want to go, but that’s another story.
     “Bring me back something,” he initially told us.
      He changed his mind and came with us after our beloved mother sent us to another room so she could talk to our father “in private.”
     At dinner, I asked what their secret was to a long, successful marriage.
     “Well,” my mother said, “your father and I agreed that, if we ever split up, whoever left would have to take you and your brother.”
 

 
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McThis, McThat

I had a headache and thought it might be because I hadn’t had my morning coffee.

     “Maybe it’s a tumor,” my father helpfully suggested.

     “It’s not a tumor,” I told him, wondering where I had heard that exchange before. When it came to me, I couldn’t help but think, “This is what my life’s become: a bad scene from a bad movie.”

     When I was still working, I used to look forward to retiring. Little did I know back then I’d be spending it chauffeuring my father back and forth from his many doctor visits, most of which are unnecessary.

     “You’re perfectly healthy,” one doctor even told him.

     “That could change,” my father replied.

     We were on our way back home from one such visit and I thought I’d pull in to the first fast food place I’d see and get myself a cup of something hot and black. Angela Bassett came to mind, but she wouldn’t fit in the cup.

     Coffee isn’t the only thing I hadn’t had recently.

     “You hungry, dad?” I asked my father.

     “Hungry for what?” He wanted to know.

     “Hungry for food,” I told him.

     He’s ALWAYS hungry.

     “No,” he said.

     Well... he’s always hungry at home, but, then, he likes how my wife serves him. She serves him like a king, and that's why he wasn’t hungry at this particular time. Once we got home, he’d be consuming calories like King Henry the 8th, with my wife as his serving wench.

     Hmm... serving wench.

     Move over, Angela Bassett. I have a new image to occupy my mind.

     Unfortunately, this morning I slept in, so I didn’t have time to make myself a cup of the gourmet coffee I enjoy. My wife has offered to make me a cup every morning, but I prefer doing it myself. It’s one of several things I prefer doing myself, habits I picked up the twelve years between my first and current marriage. Vacuuming’s another, as is doing my own laundry.

     “I do a better job washing my clothes,” I tell my wife. “You should let me do my own laundry.”

     “Maybe I should,” she sniffs, but she never does.

     “What are we pulling in here for?” my father complained at the disruption of his routine, not making a connection between my asking him if he was hungry and then pulling up to the squawk-box of a burger joint.

     I thought I’d be funny.

     “Because,” I answered him, “I have a McHeadache and want to get a McAspirin.”

     My father looked around.

     “This is a McBurger King,” he said.

     

 

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The Joke Man

Living with my father has never been easy.

    When it came to communicating, he went by the same motto as Clinton’s Army: Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell. He didn’t ask me anything, so I didn’t tell him anything. He was of the belief that children (especially his) should be seen, not heard. And, preferably, not even seen. It was enough for him to know we were around.

    It was a different time. Let’s leave it at that.

    And then my parents grew old, my mother passed away, and my father was diagnosed pre-Alzheimer’s. When my family and I asked him to move in with us, I thought maybe things would be different. They weren’t. His first words when I tried to engage him in conversation were practically, “Don’t bother.”

    Not too long ago, I walked into the great room and sat down. Not in my favorite chair, because my father claimed it the day he moved into my house, but in the sofa next to it. He was watching baseball on the MLB channel we got him. Sometimes I’ll watch baseball, too. Usually when I’m in the mood for a nap. He didn’t seem interested in conversation, so I pulled out my phone and went to @jackiemartling. It’s the Twitter account of Jackie “The Joke Man” Martling.

    That’s where something caught my eye.

    “Hey, dad,” I said, “did you hear about the cannibal’s son?”

    My father reluctantly turned my way.

    “The cannibal’s son?” he repeated, probably wondering if I was nuts.

    “Yeah, he got kicked out of school for buttering up the teacher.”

    My father let out a chuckle.

    “That’s a good one,” he said. “Now let me finish watching the game.” Only he didn’t say that last part. What he said was, “Tell me another one.”

    That caught me by surprise, so I quickly looked for another joke I could tell him.

    “How is marriage like a hot bath? Once you get used to it, it ain’t so hot.”

    My father chuckled again. Heck, this time he outright laughed. Since I had his attention, I thought I’d push my luck.

    “What does it mean when a tombstone reads: ‘Here lies a lawyer and an honest man’? It means they buried two people in the same grave.”

    Laughing, my father told me, “You’re a pretty funny guy.”

    Now, how did I manage to squeeze such an unexpected compliment out of my father? Is it because I’m a natural-born comedian? Is it because I keep my funnybone where my backbone should be? No, I couldn’t tell a joke to save my ex-wife’s life, even if I wanted to, but I can read, and I can listen. Although, if you were to ask that very same ex-wife, she’d tell you otherwise. About my listening, I mean. Toward the end of our marriage, her conversations with me usually began, “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

    No, I’m not a comedian, but Jackie Martling is. Not only that, but he’s a mighty fine actor, too. If you’ve seen him in Elias Plagianos’ award-winning TV show “Shoot Me Nicely,” then you know what I mean. And if you’ve listened to any one of his comedy CDs, then you’ve probably busted a gut laughing. I know I have.

    Before I retired, when I was at work pretending to be productive on my computer, I was often at his jokeland.com website instead because I’m a sucker for a good joke. I’m also lazy. I’m so lazy I stick my face out the window and let the wind blow my nose. That’s why I got on his mailing list, where every month he sends out an email stuffed with jokes. It was easy to get on. I just sent him an email at jokeland@aol.com. That’s right, AOL. It’s right there, next to the dodo bird. Best of all, it’s free, and free just happens to be my favorite price-point.

    Don’t look at me that way. What do you want me to do, pay for my entertainment? Ha! Besides being lazy, I’m cheap. I'm so cheap, I go to Kentucky Fried Chicken and lick other people's fingers.

    On October 24th, Jackie is coming out with his autobiography. It’s called “The Joke Man: Bow To Stern.” I can’t wait to get my hands on a copy. I don’t usually pre-order books because, like I’ve already told you, I’m cheap, but I went to jackiethejokeman.com and did just that, because I see the book as a good investment in building a relationship with my father.

    Just today, I walked into the great room. I guess I do a lot of walking into the great room. As always, my father was watching baseball. Personally, I’m not into baseball. There might be someone with even less interest in baseball than me. If there is, I haven’t met him. I sat down in my usual spot.

    “Hey, son,” my father said before I could pull out my phone.

    “Yeah, dad?” I answered, thinking he was going to tell me I was being quiet too loud.

    “Why do gorillas have such big nostrils?”

    “I don’t know. Why?”

    “Because their fingers are HUGE.”

    He laughed, and so did I.

    “Good one, dad,” I said.

    And it was.

   

A man walks into a bar. “Ouch!” he says. Don’t make the same mistake. Go to JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene, where there are no low-hanging bars.

     

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Listen Up, Ladies!

Listen up, ladies.
     The way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach, it's with the remote control. Let a man have control of the television set, and you'll have a very sedate beast.
     At least that's the way it is with my father, and that's how I usually find myself sitting in the great room watching the premium baseball channel with him, instead of something more interesting, like Championship Knitting.
     The cable company calls the MLB channel "premium," which is another word for expensive. It's not something I would purchase on my own, but my wife and I get it for my father because it makes him happy.
     And keeps him out of trouble.
     Speaking of trouble, my father has developed a bit of it when it comes to reading and understanding his bank and financial statements.  He's been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's, and one of the symptoms is having a problem with numbers.
     Occasionally, he'll pester us into taking him to the bank so he can complain to someone in charge, then he'll come home satisfied, but still unable to make sense of the statement, so he'll get upset all over again.
     "Those characters," he'll rant. "They're nothing but a bunch of thieves. Take me to the bank!"
     "Here's the remote, dad."
     And all is right with the world.
     When the phone rang (yes, we still have a landline), I wasn't surprised. We get a ton of calls from people trying to sell us something, no matter how many Do Not Call lists we put our names on.
     This one was for my father, so I handed the phone over to him. It was a broker making what's referred to as a cold sales call, but, since we have veto power over his finances, he can't get into too much trouble.
     "Hello?" my father said into the receiver, and then listened politely to the sales pitch. "No, thank you," he finally said, "but I'll keep you in mind in case I ever want to hand all my money over to a stranger on the phone."
     My father.
     He's not so dumb.
 
 

Raising My Father

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