A Gold Star

So far today I've gone to church, baked Dad a pie, and mowed the grass.  "Where should we post your star?" Dad asked when I listed my accomplishments.  "I don't know, but I've definitely earned one," I replied.  "More like two or three," he agreed.  He does say the right thing sometimes.

Squash

Two weeks ago, a neighbor who gardens gifted me with a grocery bag full of yellow squash and zucchini.  The vegetable bin in my refrigerator was already full of produce, so I had to put it on a shelf.  I've been shifting that bag from one place to another in the refrigerator ever since because I keep running out of room. 

Squash are not Dad's favorite vegetable.  I've made squash casserole and squash pie, but still have squash left.  I'm tired of moving those stupid squash around.   Yesterday I cut up the remaining yellow squash and boiled them along with some onion in chicken broth.  When I put the pot on the table, I told Dad I was trying to get rid of them so I'd have some room in the refrigerator.

"I've noticed there's plenty of room in the trashcan," he said helpfully.  "Don't you think that would be wasting food?" I asked.  "I'm not sure I consider squash food," he replied.

Getting planted

Dad planted two honeysuckle bushes along the fence yesterday.  I really thought his planting days were about over.  Digging holes in our yard involves using a pick-axe, an axe, and a shovel.  The ground is hard and full of tree roots. It takes more strength than I have.  I try and keep an eye on Dad when he starts on projects like that.  I looked out yesterday and a couple of times he had dropped the tools and was holding on to the fence, looking down.  I always hope he's just examining the hole, not trying to hold himself up. 

A couple of weeks ago, Dad suddenly started telling me where he kept his insurance policies and his investment documents and his will.  I already had a general idea of where to look.  I know it's important that I know these things, but frankly, by the time he finished, I was really upset.  It was like he thought the end was near.  Physically he's getting more unsteady on his feet, but he continues to keep on keeping on as my Uncle Bud likes to say.

The next day, Dad went out to dig holes to plant 2 azaleas.  "Now I know why you were so eager to make me aware of what to do when you die.  You think that by the time you finish digging the holes to plant those azaleas, you'll be ready to be planted alongside them," I told him.  "It may surprise you to know that I'm not in any hurry to put you in the ground, so don't overdo it," I instructed.

He told me that he thought one of the honeysuckle plants was dead when he put it in the ground.  "Well, if it doesn't show any signs of life in a week or so, you can pull it up and plant something else in that hole you worked so hard to dig."  He agreed. 

I thought it was funny that he wanted more honeysuckle.  He spent years telling me that vines like that weren't good for the fence.  Last year he butchered my honeysuckle when he cut it back.  Now, he's suddenly decided that he likes it enough that he wants more planted where he can see it.  I can't keep up with how his mind works.

Stay tuned

Dad informed me a week or so ago that he wanted to add Sports View to our cable package.  He had it several years ago and gave it up because he said he didn't watch it.  Now that he's slowing down physically, he figures he won't be doing as much yard work so he needs something to watch on tv.

Adding Sports View meant adding a cable box and that meant a trip to the cable office.  I put it off for about a week, but finally went on Thursday.  I was surprised to see that they'd removed the plexiglass barrier between the customer service reps and the public.  Now I could actually get my hands around the neck of the rep if he irritated me too much. 

The young man was surprisingly pleasant.  He even told me that I was on their old pricing structure and that he'd switch me to their new pricing structure which would mean that even after adding the box and Sports View, I'd be paying less.  I found that confusing, but could never pin him down as to why their old pricing structure was more than their new pricing structure.  I did confirm that I was not committing to continuing the service for a specified period of time.  I've been with them for years, but I occasionally toy with the idea of switching to satellite.

Dad would love to switch to satellite, but I've resisted so far.  I know how cable works.  I have no desire to make television viewing a confusing experience, which is what will happen if I have to learn how to work a new remote.

I didn't hook up the cable box that night.  I was tired and that's a project best undertaken when I'm fresh and my brain and patience are still functioning at their top levels.  Dad assured me that there was no sporting event on that night that he couldn't live without seeing.  In fact, he said it would be okay if it took me a couple of days to get around to hooking up the box. 

I left the cable box sitting on the couch in the den.  Dad did request a new copy of the tv line-up, which I gave him.  Friday night he came into my study, tv line-up in hand and demanded to know, "How does this thing work?"  "How does what thing work?" I asked, confused.  "Well I've been trying to get all these channels and there's nothing there," he said with disgust.

"That's probably because the cable box is still sitting on the couch.  I haven't connected it yet," I told him.  "You said it was okay to wait a couple of days and it's on my list of things to do tomorrow."  He got a sheepish look on his face.  "I guess I'm getting a little senile in my old age.  Just forget I said anything."  Okay.

When I got ready to hook everything up, I discovered that I needed a power strip with at least an 8-ft. cord.  That required a trip to Lowes.  After I hooked everything up, I had to call the cable company's 800 number so that could send a signal to the box. 

First I had to go through an extended conversation with a woman who sounded like she was in India.  The box would only get 3 channels.  She wanted to reprogram the remote.  I pointed out that if I could only get 3 channesl whether I tried to tune the tv via the remote or the box, then obviously the problem wasn't with the remote.  She finally sent the signal to reset the box and everything was good.

That left me the job of explaining how everything worked to Dad.  He'll have to use the tv remote to turn the tv on and off and adjust the volume.  The cable remote will turn the channels.  If he accidentally tries to turn the channels with the tv remote, he'll wind up getting nothing.  The tv has to be set on channel 3.  If he hits any buttons other than the power button and the channel selection buttons on the remote, and there are many other buttons, I have no idea what will happen, but I'm sure it won't be anything good and will probably involve me having another extended conversation with someone else in India.

I explained all of this to Dad and left him to it.  Shortly thereafter, he appeared in my study.  "This remote won't work," he informed me.  "What do you mean it won't work?" I asked.  "You said I was supposed to use this remote to adjust the volume and turn the tv on and off, but it won't do that."  I went out to his room, pointed the remote at the tv, and adjusted the volume.  "It wouldn't do it for me," he said grumpily.  "Well where were you when you tried to use it?" I asked. 

He sat down in his chair, held the remote in his lap, and attempted to adjust the volume.  Nothing happened.  "You have to point the remote at the tv," I instructed.  "You can't just wave it in the general direction."  Apparently when I was hooking up the tv, I must not have positioned it back at exactly the same angle, so his aim was off.  I told him it would be good exercise to lift his arm and point the remote at the tv.  He didn't go for that idea, so I moved the tv a bit and that seemed to get things working again.

He came  into my room again later that evening.  I braced myself for the next operational error.  "I just wanted to let you know that I remembered everything you said and I was able to watch what I wanted," he informed me.  "Good.  I wondered if I needed to write it down," I answered. 

Last time we had a cable box, he had a habit of trying to use the tv remote to turn the channel and having to come and get me because he couldn't get anything after he turned the tv away from channel 3.  I'm waiting.  It's bound to happen again.  Which is precisely why I don't get satellite.  No point in both of us being incapable of operating the tv.

The donkey

This morning at church we had a special musical program.   It was the Easter version of Lessons and Carols.   The handbell choir didn't perform any solo numbers, but some of us accompanied the choir on a couple of pieces. We were in the choir loft where space is limited.  So to avoid mass confusion and potential disruption of the service, Jane decided only one person should be responsible for setting up the bells for each piece.  I'm not sure how she decided that one person should be me. 

I had a list of what was supposed to go where, but not where it was coming from.   I was terrified of screwing up and being responsible for someone playing the wrong note or not having a bell.  Jane assured me that I'd have plenty of time to move things into place while the choir was singing other hymns.  I told the choir members to be prepared to just ignore me when I panicked.  They thought I was kidding. 

I was furiously making notes right before the service.  Jane looked over in concern and asked if I was going to be okay.  I assured her that by the time I was finished diagramming everything, I'd be fine.   Apparently the other ringers felt sorry for me, or were afraid to leave their bells in my hands, so a couple of them organized their own bells.  Which made all my notes and diagramming worthless. 

Fortunately, all of the bells did get to the right places at the right time.  I didn't manage to ring mine at all of the right times, but everything worked out fine.  I even got listed in the bulletin as an assistant not just a ringer.   Which was especially generous of Jane since I skipped practice last Sunday in favor of watching  Carolina lose the Championship game in the ACC Tournament. 

I'm not sure if there was a lesson there or not.  After I told Jane that being in the vocal choir would interfere with watching my ice hockey in the winter, the NHL lockout happened and there was no ice hockey for half a season.  I'm beginning to think someone's trying to tell me I need to reorder my priorities.

At least I'm in church often enough that the preacher knows my name.  Dad still claims he can't hear and only goes when we're doing a full handbell concert.  He's been known to skip those if there's a game on tv that he wants to see.  Oh God, I'm becoming my father.

An apple a day....

Dad has started eating an apple every day for lunch.  Not a sandwich and an apple, just an apple.  He uses the new paring knife he bought to replace the one that he threw away disappeared and carefully cuts it into sections.  He and Dillon seem to enjoy it.  Dad always shares the scraps with Dillon and Dillon loves apples. 

I'm glad they're happy.  I'd prefer that Dad go back to eating sandwiches at lunch.  Sandwiches don't have pricing labels stuck on them like apples do.  When Dad is preparing his apple, he removes the label and sticks it to the kitchen sink.  Where he leaves it, forever. 

At first, I thought he'd simply forgotten that he'd left the label sticking to the sink.  So instead of getting mad every time I had to throw it away, I reminded him that he should throw the label away instead of just leaving it there for me to clean up.  He told me that it would be too bad if I didn't have something to complain about.  I assured him there was no danger of that happening.  Especially since he keeps leaving the apple label stuck to the sink.

It drives me crazy.  It's in the way of my wiping down the sink after I do the dishes.  And I'm not the maid.  I tried just leaving it there hoping he'd go back and throw it away after he finished eating.  When that didn't work, I just left it there when I cleaned up after lunch.  It was still there at supper and again I ignored it. 

It was still there the following morning, so when I put up the clean dishes, I put away everything.  I normally leave out a bowl since I know he's going to use one and the knife that he likes to use to cut his banana and a spoon for his cereal.  This time I put everything away.  First, because payback is hell.  Second, I hoped if the area was clear, he'd notice that stupid label and throw it away.

It didn't disappear before breakfast, but it was gone by lunch.  Of course, the next day there was another label stuck to the sink when I came home for lunch.  If he keeps it up, the old adage about an apple a day keeping the doctor away is definitely going to be put to the test because I'm liable to do him bodily harm.

Forks on the left, spoons on the right

Dad has a bad habit of keeping the serving spoon or fork when he fixes his plate of food.  When I go to dip my serving, there's no utensil with the dish because he's got it on his plate.  I pointed this out to him yet again the other day.  He told me he was sure there are worse sins in the world.  I thought a minute and informed him that he was probably guilty of those as well.

What's Up?

A few weeks ago, Dad woke up with an upset stomach.  I knew he was spending a lot longer getting ready than normal and I kept hearing the toilet flush.  Then I heard a huge "boom."  I knocked on his bedroom door and called.  No answer.  I pushed the door open and called again.  Still no answer. 

I finally stood outside his bathroom door and yelled.  I heard a faint sound.  I went in and discovered Dad on his hands and knees on the floor.  His pants were down around his knees, but his back was to me and his shirt tail mostly protected his modesty.  "I got dizzy," he finally managed to say.  I stood to the side, holding his arms, prepared to help him up when he was ready. 

Dillon had followed me into the bathroom.  Being a dog, he did what comes naturally and tried to sniff Dad's butt.  In doggie terms, Dad was practically issuing an engraved invitation.  Dad doesn't want his butt sniffed at the best of times and this was definitely not the best of times.  I pushed Dillon back.  Luckily, Dad was still so out of it than he didn't realize what was going on. 

I helped Dad up and back to bed.  I called in to work and told them Dad was sick and I'd be in later if he felt better.  He was okay by lunchtime.  Fortunately, he didn't hit anything on the way down, so other than sore knees, he was okay.  I told him if he was going to make a practice of falling like that (pretty much exactly like he fell on Christmas except this time he didn't hit his head) he was going to have to start wearing knee pads and maybe a helmet.

This morning, I heard the toilet in his bathroom flush several times in quick succession.  He stayed in his bedroom for a long time.  I was afraid we were in for a repeat performance.  He finally came out.  "Are you okay?" I asked.  "Yes, why?" he wanted to know.  "You were in there for a long time.  I was waiting for the crash," I said.  "I was trying to figure out which socks I was going to give away," he replied.

He's been gathering things to take to Angel's Closet for a while now.  Since he generally wears his socks until the elastic gives out and they won't stay up or until they have holes in the heels and toes, I can't imagine how he found any socks to donate.  I just shook my head and went to work.

Oops!

When Dad got up on Valentine's Day, he found a box of his favorite candy and cards from me and Dillon at his place at the table.  He came into the kitchen where I was fixing my coffee.  "You can just go ahead and put my name on the black list now," he began.  "I didn't do anything for you for Valentine's Day."  "You'll pay for it later," I assured him.

Apparently, he took my threat seriously.  When I got home for lunch, there was a beautifully wrapped box of candy and a very sweet card at my place at the table.  "That was very nice of you," I thanked him.  "I thought I did a particularly good job on the bow," Dad replied.  It was a gorgeous bow and obviously made by a professional.

"You did such a good job on the bow that you can be in charge of making all the bows for our wreaths from now on," I played along.  "You can only achieve perfection once," he answered.  "Practice makes perfect," I assured him.

I baked him a simple version of a black forest cake that weekend.  I used a sugar-free Pillsbury chocolate cake mix and topped it with Cool Whip and sugar-free cherry pie filling.  It makes a pretty cake.  Last year's cake was too dry, so I doctored it up this year adding sour cream and pudding mix.  I told Dad the cake was for him.

"Last year, you told me it looked better than it tasted," I said pointedly.  "I guess that wasn't too smart of me," he said.  "Not if you want me to keep baking for you," I agreed.  There's a time and place to let someone know you'd rather they not make a particular dish for you again.  He didn't choose his wisely last year.

Where is my hat?

I had a special bell practice last night, so instead of cooking supper, we had stuffed hot dogs, slaw and baked beans for lunch.  I fixed everything on Sunday before I realized there was a screw in my tire that necessitated a trip to the tire shop on Monday.  That completely screwed up my schedule.

I wrote down the cooking instructions for Dad, complete with notations to take the lid off the casserole dish the baked beans were in and to remove the foil covering the hot dogs.  You can't take anything for granted when Dad is doing the cooking.  Or heating in this case.

I gave Dad the news while he was eating his breakfast.  "You're cooking lunch today," I began and then went on to review his instructions and timetable. He scowled.  "Does this mean I have to find my chef's hat?" he quipped.  "I think we can dispense with the hat," I assured him.  I had to give him credit, that was a pretty funny line to come up with first thing in the morning.

It was nice to come home to a hot meal in the oven.  Asking him to put it on the table would have been asking too much.  I told him he'd done such a good job we might have to see about expanding his repertoire.  "I'm not so sure about that," he groused.  Still, I'm thinking that putting chicken pot pies in the oven shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.

What do you mean I can't eat that?

When I came home for lunch today Dad was in the kitchen.  He'd just finished making his sandwich.  The scent of toasted bread filled the air.  He was in the act of getting his soda out of the refrigerator.  I took one look at his sandwich, told him, "You can't eat that," picked it up off his plate and dumped it in the trash.  The look on his face was priceless.

"What do you mean I can't eat that?" he protested, outraged.  "That turkey salad is too old.  If you eat it now, you risk another upset stomach."  I'd made the turkey salad Sunday night so he could have it on Monday.  Monday morning he woke up with an upset stomach, so turkey salad was not on the menu.  Tuesday we had hot dogs and baked beans.  Today was garbage day and I was planning to throw out the turkey salad. 

It was made from scraps of the Christmas turkey that I'd almost waited too long to freeze, so it had a limited shelf life.  Three days was too long.  I'd intentionally hidden the container in the meat bin underneath a couple of other things.  Dad usually gives the contents of the refrigerator a cursory look and if whatever he's looking for isn't eye level on the front of the shelf, he claims he can't find it.  I didn't know he even went into the meat bin.

"Well what am I supposed to eat?" he demanded.  "I don't care, but you can't eat that.  Don't you have any more cans of soup in the garage?"  He keeps his stash of soup separate from the soup I store in the pantry.  Don't ask me why.  "Yes, but I had my mouth set for turkey salad," he said.  "Too bad," I said as I went in search of the peanut butter.

He rummaged in the refrigerator and came out with 1 slice of American cheese.  "We don't have another package," he announced with disgust.  "I didn't know you ate that.  You could always use a knife and slice yourself some real cheese," I told him.  He looked even more disgusted.  Clearly the thought of having to slice his own cheese was too much work.

He went to get the plate his sandwich had been on.  "You can't use that plate," I told him, taking it away from him and putting it back on the counter with the dirty dishes left from breakfast.  "Why?" he demanded.  "It has some of the turkey salad on it.  You're risking contaminating your cheese and crackers and winding up with another upset stomach or food poisoning."  Muttering and shaking his head, he got another plate out of the cabinet.

I was doing a NC Bar Association continuing education webcast during my lunch, so I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich back to my study.  Dad poked his head in the door a few minutes later.  "The jar of peanut butter in the cabinet that you dated 9/12, can I eat that?"  "Yes, you can eat that."  "Well since you don't want me to eat anything else, I figured I'd better check."  You'd think I was trying to starve him to death instead of prevent him from getting food poisoning.  "You should be thanking me, not complaining," I called after him.

When I was doing the dishes tonight, I noticed that the turkey salad container wasn't on the counter to be washed.  I looked in the meat bin.  There it was.  With just enough turkey salad left for one more half a sandwich.  Obviously Dad had been planning on having another turkey salad sandwich tomorrow.  I threw it out, laughing all over again when I remembered the look on his face when I dumped his sandwich in the trash.

I had one more package of frozen turkey scraps in the freezer.  I mixed up another batch of turkey salad so he can have a turkey salad sandwich tomorrow.  He can pretend it's a box of chocolates.  Happy Valentine's Day.

Snow Day

We got about 3 inches of snow today.  Our office closed around 1:30.  It's so nice to have someone tell me to go home instead of the old days at the mall when I had to answer the phone and tell the store employees that no, we weren't closing when the first flake fell.

I called Marvin because I know he feels the same.  Bless his heart, the first thing he asked was if I needed a ride.  I could always count on Marvin to pick me up when it snowed.  He had a sports utility vehicle with 4-wheel drive and loved an excuse to put it through its paces.  Plus, he knew if he picked me up, I was stuck in the office until he was ready to take me home.

The only thing I really like about snow is watching it fall.  It's a rare treat to have it come down in the daytime when I can enjoy it.  And since it's Friday, and I have plenty of groceries, there's no need to battle icy roads tomorrow.  I can stay home until it all melts.

The most dangerous thing I'll have to do is bring in Dad's newspaper tomorrow morning.  I made sure I was the one who went out and picked up his Herald this evening.  He looked pleasantly surprised when I handed it to him.

"You went out there and got my paper?" he asked with a big smile. Well of course I did.  I'd much rather go out in the cold myself than risk having him fall.  That would be a huge pain for both of us.

I put towels on the back porch steps to try and prevent Dillon from breaking a leg.  He doesn't slow up for bad weather and those steps get slippery when wet and/or frozen.  He raced up them last week, lost his grip, and crashed into the boards with both front and back legs.  He limped for a few minutes, but then shook it off.

I first put the towel in the middle of the steps.  Dillon politely walked to the side so he wouldn't step on the towel.  I moved the towel to the side.  He looked confused, but walked up the opposite side.  Apparently he thought he shouldn't walk on the towel.

I finally got a second towel and covered the entire width of the steps.  I hoped he wouldn't go so far as to attempt to leap up both steps to avoid the towels.  He finally got the message and used them as I intended.  No slipping and sliding so far.

After supper, Dad looked out the front window at the snow covering the road.  "The road looks like a mess," he commented.  "I'm pretty sure there won't be any yard sales tomorrow morning," I assured him.  Hopefully he'll just stay home until things thaw out.  I did sweep the snow off his car so it should thaw out when the sun hits it without him having to do much scraping.

Speechless

When Dad does something to make me mad, I usually shut up instead of trying to discuss the matter with him.  He's not going to change and arguing isn't going to improve the situation.  Instead, I stop talking to him.  We have a lot of silent days because he insists on acting as though I'm the unpaid household help and I just can't reconcile myself to cheerfully accept the situation.  When he does something particularly egregious I do make my opinion known, but mostly I just shut up.

Since the help is supposed be seen and not heard, I don't consider this out of character.  Until you factor in that I'm also supposed to be informative and his link to the outside world.  He likes to know what's going on even if he isn't willing to make the effort to talk to anyone himself.

He still thinks I should make his telephone calls for him.  Like Goldilocks, he's expects things to be not too loud, not too soft, but just right.  It's easier to spare himself potential frustration and rely on me to take care of his communications with the outside world.  Regardless of the fact that I'm usually pushed for time and he has nothing but time.

Citigroup has contracted with an outside company to coordinate matching their retirees with new private health care plans.  Naturally this will all be handled over the phone.  To avoid having to take time off from work to handle that little chore, I suggested Saturday morning that Dad gather all of his information and we'd try and call on Monday, which is a holiday for my office.  Not the way I wanted to spend my day off, but he's made it quite clear that he expects me to help him through the process.  He made a face.  Apparently he's not ready yet.

Sunday he informed me that you can call and schedule an appointment with Extend Health.  They're open from 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. on weekdays.  "So you can do it without taking time off from work."  Then he said he'd probably check with the local insurance company that handles BCBS.  That's who I have my health insurance with.

"Are they nice people?" he asked.  "Most of the people in the office are, but the woman who handles the health insurance is a real bitch," I informed him.  "Well you won't have to go talk to her, and I can get along with just about anybody.  I manage to live with you," he said with a laugh.

EXCUSE ME?!  I still can't believe he said that.  I was momentarily speechless.  Instead of insulting him in return, I simply informed him that if he was looking for my help, he was going about it in the wrong way.  He just laughed. 

He may think he's funny, but he's going to be paying for that crack for a long time to come.  We had Chicken Divan today.  The ingredients for Butternut Squash and Kale Quesadillas are in the fridge.  He may not recognize anything I serve for dinner for weeks to come.

Dishpan hands

Friday morning it was raining so Dillon and I couldn't go for our morning walk.  I decided to put the time to good use and made a pot of soup.  I don't generally cook on Fridays, but I thought homemade soup sounded good and if I fixed it before work, it would be simple enough to heat up when I got home.

Since I was cooking, and I dislike coming home to a counter full of dirty dishes, I tried to wash up as I went along.  I left the sink full of hot, soapy water so that I could wash my breakfast dishes as well.  I left the kitchen and went to eat breakfast in front of the computer while reading my morning blogs.

When I got back to the kitchen, I discovered that Dad had decided to take advantage of the situation.  He had gone back and fetched the glass he uses in his bathroom.  He'd generously left the glass and the knife he'd used to cut his banana on the counter beside the sink for me to wash.  Heaven forbid that he should actually wash anything himself.

It would be one thing if I'd been standing at the sink in the act of washing dishes.  But given that I wasn't even in the room, and there was a sink full of hot, soapy water, you'd think that for once he could have washed up after himself.  Instead he was sitting at the table eating his breakfast which would leave me yet more dirty dishes to wash.

I do the dishes every day when I come home from work for lunch while he goes back and sits in his chair.  I do the dishes after I cook supper every night while he goes back and sits in his chair.  I think every once in a while he needs to get his ass out of the chair and pull his share of the load.

I washed the glass and the knife.  Then I went to the table and said, very politely, "I guarantee you that your hands will not melt if you put them in dishwater.  So I would appreciate it if you would wash your breakfast dishes when you get through."  He looked startled, but laughed.  I left the room to dress for work.  When I came back, he'd washed his dishes.  Needless to say those were the only dishes he washed that day or any day since.  The message obviously didn't stick.

All's well that ends well?

Dad has claimed that his hearing aids were too loud since the first day he got them.  Then the right one started hurting his ear so he stopped wearing it.  He used his new phone yesterday to call for an appointment to see about getting the right one replaced and both of them turned down.  He claimed it was an incredibly frustrating experience.  Apparently he spent 15 minutes trying to understand what the woman on the other end of the line was saying.

She wouldn't give him an appointment, but told him to come to the walk-in clinic between 1-3 p.m.  The lady we'd seen the day we picked up the hearing aids told him to insist on an appointment because the walk-in clinic would take hours and he'd wind up leaving around rush hour.  Dad tried telling the woman on the phone that, but she insisted he had to come to the walk-in clinic. 

It was supposed to rain all day today and then turn to snow this evening, so I was not happy about him going to Richmond.  I pointed out that since he didn't have an appointment, he could just postpone the visit to a day when the weather would be better.  He refused to even consider the idea.  He hasn't been able to hear for years, what difference would another few days make?

I was really mad at him this morning when he insisted that he was going.  When I got to work, I vented to my coworkers.  They all agreed that it wasn't a good day to be on the road.  I said that if he had an accident, he'd better hope he was killed outright because otherwise I'd kill him when he got home. 

This afternoon, they asked if I'd heard from my father.  "No and I won't because he won't use the phone," I said with disgust.  "He'll either turn back up or the Highway Patrol will call me at some point."  So I was amazed when Dianna came back to tell me that my Dad called and asked her to tell me that he'd gotten back in one piece. 

He earned major brownie points for that.  I fixed him shrimp for supper.  I'll go back to feeding him things he doesn't like tomorrow.  He admitted that the drive back had been difficult.  It was raining hard and the cars in front were throwing the water up off the road and making it difficult to see.  "I wouldn't want to do that again," he finished.

 I paused a minute, considered, and then just couldn't resist.  "I told you so," I reminded him.  "Well, it would just have been worse tomorrow," he replied. "There's supposed to be snow then."  So who said he had to go tomorrow?  It's not like there was a deadline involved here.  He could have waited until next week when it's supposed to be dry and sunny.

He wound up getting to see the tech at 1 p.m.  They're ordering him a new pair of hearing aids that will be mailed to the house.  The machine that can read the hearing aids' computer and adjust the loudness isn't hooked up yet, so they didn't make any changes to the volume.   Fingers crossed that the next pair will work better for him.

I don't like worrying and I don't appreciate Dad doing things that make me have to worry unnecessarily.  I guess all's well that ends well.  He made it there and back, just like he said he would.  He admitted that the drive was rough, just like I said it would be.  So we were both right.  But I was righter.

Honey, I'm Home

I look forward to Friday nights.  I love my job, but it can be hard work and by the time Friday rolls around, I'm looking forward to a couple of days off.  Friday nights are the best because the whole weekend stretches in front of me ready to fill however I choose.  This past Friday had the additional bonus of a college hockey doubleheader on tv and the prospect of an end to the months long NHL lockout.  I was going to fix spaghetti for supper and then put on pj's and settle in front of the tv.

I walked in the door feeling really good.  That lasted until I hit the den.  When Dad informed me grumpily that Citigroup was cancelling retiree participation in their health plan effective March 31.  "You and I have a lot of work ahead of us," he said.  "You have a lot of work ahead, not me," I replied.  "Well I'm going to need your help," he said firmly.

It's not that I don't think this is going to be a headache.  It's not that I'm not sympathetic.  But Dad's way too quick to try and dump things in my lap that he's capable of handling for himself.  And why did he have to lie in wait and hit me with it as soon as I walked in the door?  We've got some lead time.  He could have waited until we sat down to eat, or even better, until Saturday.  He didn't have to ruin my weekend before it even began.

You remember the old I Love Lucy show?  Lucy didn't hit Ricky with bad news as soon as he got home.  She smoothed the way first, asked how his day was, offered him a drink or dinner.  Then she gradually, gently presented the bad news.

I try not to share bad news with my father at all.  No point in both of us being worried and upset.  If I have no choice, I try to work up to the subject and present it in the best possible light.  I don't act like the world is coming to an end and dump it on him as soon as humanly possible.

He made me so mad I immediately decided that I was definitely going to try the new recipe I saw on The Pioneer Woman Cooks website for butternut squash and kale quesadillas.  He earned them.

But I want you forever

This is the 6th anniversary of Mom's death.  I recently read an article written by another woman who lost her mother to breast cancer.  She said that her young son had recently told her one night when he was protesting her leaving the room after putting him to bed, "But I want you forever."  That summed up her feelings about the loss of her mother. 

When Mom died, at first it was a relief in a way.  Her days of pain and suffering the indignities of illness were over.  So was the constant fear and worry for me.  Then Dad moved in and there was the period of adjustment.  While the pain of loss has diminished, I still miss her presence, her laughter, her solution to most any problem, the sharing of the day's events.  I can only echo that young boy's cry, "But I want you forever."

A true gentleman

Mr. Al, our former next door neighbor for over 40 years in Baltimore, died this weekend. My mother once told me that Mr. Al was a true gentleman. If he happened to be out front in the morning when she was going out to get the newspaper in her robe, he'd gallantly pretend that he didn't see her. Any other time, he always called a greeting or waved, but not then. Mom appreciated that small courtesy.

 In memory of Mr. Al and with sympathy to Sidney-Anne, the daughter he left behind.

SHIFTING THE SUN

When your father dies, say the Irish
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
 May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

 When your father dies, say the Indians
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the British,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever
and you walk in his light.

 ~ Diana Der-Hovanessian ~

Blinded by the white

On the way to breakfast this morning, I noticed that Dad was wearing white socks.  They were quite obvious because his jeans only come to his ankles.  All he needed was a piece of rope around his waist for a belt to complete the look.

"Don't you have any blue socks?" I asked.  "Why?" he asked.  "Because I don't like your white socks with those jeans," I replied.  "I wondered how long before you'd notice," he laughed.  "It's hard not to notice when your pants only come to your ankles," I said. 

Apparently he's wearing white socks because he has a sore spot on one of his heels.  "What does color have to do with having a sore spot on your heel?"  "The white socks are softer," he answered.  "Then you need to wear a longer pair of pants," I suggested.  "Just don't look below my knees," he instructed.  "It's hard not to when I'm being blinded by flashes of white socks," I responded.

He has an appointment with the foot doctor tomorrow morning.  Hopefully his foot will heal quickly and he'll go back to his normal black socks.  His pants will still be too short, but at least it won't be quite as obvious.

Dad should run for Congress

Just like our elected officials, he has the ability to put off something until it becomes a crisis.  Dad uses a mail-order pharmacy.  He got the doctor to write him new prescriptions for all of his medications at his last appointment in September.  He didn't send them off to be filled until two weeks ago.  During the height of the Christmas rush.  In which they apparently got lost.

The first I knew of this was last night when he mentioned that it was unusual for Express Scripts to take so long to fill a prescription.  He'd mailed his off two weeks ago and they weren't here yet.  "I had the prescriptions since September, but I didn't need them then," he told me.  "I'll wait a few more days and see if they turn up."

Why he insists on waiting until the last minute to fill a prescription is beyond me.  It's not like the medicine is going to cost less later on or go bad sitting on the counter for a couple of weeks or even a month or more.  It's better to have it on hand than cut it too close and risk running out.  I called Express Scripts and their automated system said there were no orders in progress or filled within the last two weeks.

So, Dad went to his doctor's office this morning to get them to fax the prescriptions to Express Scripts.  Last time they were supposed to send them directly to the company, it never got done.  In addition, it seems like everyone in town has some version of the flu, bronchitis, strep throat, or other walking crud.  So the last place I wanted him to be was at a doctor's office surrounded by sick people. 

All of this could have been avoided if he'd mailed off the prescriptions back in September instead of waiting until December.  Yep, he's definitely ready to run for Congress.

Can you hear me now?

Dad got his new hearing aids today.  Before, he couldn't hear a thing.  I had to shout and repeat myself a minimum of 4 times whenever I tried to talk to him.  Now, he's complaining that he hears everything and I'm talking too loud.  The tv, set at a normal volume, sounds as though it's blaring.  Gee, given that's what I've been living with for years, I don't feel a lot of sympathy.

The new hearing aids are digital and far advanced from the 5-year old hearing aids they replaced.  The technician told him she was afraid they might be set too loud given that Dad immediately adjusted them down quite a bit.  They were set according to his hearing test, so she wants him to give them a try for a couple of weeks.  Apparently, the hearing aids' internal computer captures information from how he adjusts them over a period of time and that will help them if the hearing aids need to be reset.

I went with him this time which was good because the technician gave him a lot of information to absorb at one time.  I told her about Dad's difficulty in hearing on the telephone.  She immediately said there is a special phone that is designed to work with hearing aids and has a louder volume control.  She's ordering one for him and the VA will cover the cost.  He would never have even brought it up, so I'm glad I went.

When I went out to call him for supper, I could barely hear his tv.  I had offered to go out first and turn it on so that I could turn the volume down for him.  I had visions of him being blasted to the floor when he heard it.   He apparently decided to handle it himself.  Unlike the telephone. 

He informed me that he needed me to call and schedule his haircut.  "You can do it yourself.  You can hear now," I informed him.  "But I don't have my new phone yet," he complained.  "So try the regular phone and see how it works," I ordered.  "It'll probably sound like a hurricane," he groused.  "You won't know until you try," I stood my ground. 

I told him earlier when he was complaining about being able to hear everything that I didn't really think he wanted to hear.  It provided a handy excuse for every conversation he wanted to avoid and telephone call he didn't want to be bothered with.  I don't doubt that being hard of hearing is frustrating, but he's also used it as a convenient excuse that he doesn't seem in a hurry to give up.

Happy New Year!

This picture of Dillon and me was taken on Christmas Eve. Like the good boy that he is, Dillon was looking directly at the camera and the flash gave him a serious case of pet eye in the picture. Those are reindeer antlers on my head. I decided to cast my dignity to the wind and go for the laugh. I got one out of the UPS man when he caught sight of me.

Neither Dad nor I stayed up to ring in the New Year.  It's a good thing I went to bed fairly early because Dillon decided to bark in the New Year.  He woke me up several times with prolonged periods of barking.  I expected him to be restless because firecrackers started going off early in the evening, but the barking caught me by surprise.  I don't know what had him so riled up, but he was certainly letting all creatures large and small that were anywhere close to the house know that he was on guard.
 
After watching the Tournament of Roses Parade, Dad and I had collards and black-eyed peas for lunch today. My black-eyed peas turned out very well if I do say so myself.  I'm never sure how much salt to add, but this time I got it right.  The collards are easy, I just cook them in chicken broth straight out of the carton.

"Now we'll be healthy, wealthy and wise, right?" I said when Dad complimented the meal. "I'll settle for two out of three," he replied. "If I'm healthy and wealthy I can stand being stupid." While I don't dispute the merits of health and wealth, I don't think I have the patience to live with someone stupid, so he'd better hope for all three.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions.  Why set myself up for failure?  I do plan to try and get back on schedule with blogging.  The video card on my old computer died early in December so I was unable to do much of anything for a week or so.  The learning curve for the new computer has been steep.  I like my new computer, it's much faster than my old one, but I'm not a fan of Windows 8.  It's just not designed for desktops and I'm having to relearn practically everything about how to do even the simplest thing.   Why couldn't they leave well enough alone?