When you get older, you don't remember things that well. So although Dad knew I was coming in, when I got there, a little past 2 pm, he told me that his allotted time of respite had been adjusted from 2 to 4, to 1 to 3. We'd have to hurry, he said, just to pick up a few groceries and be back in time before the respite worker left. We boogied on over to the Sobey's picked up the fruit (tangerine oranges, pears , bananas) mac and cheese bologna, cereal (oatmeal crisp, shredded wheat, corn pops!), toothpaste (2 tubes of Colgate regular), shampoo (Head & Shoulders), and hearing aid batteries (#13). When Dad's pushing the cart, he moves! Sure I had to hoist him up into the truck (I would have taken the car, but Boo needed it), spot for him as he got out (unjamming his feet from one another), and hold his hand as we crossed the parking lot, but once he got behind the cart, he was on a mission. He knew what he wanted and where the stuff was. He's 91 and he's focussed. That might mean that he bumps out one of the clerks stocking a shelf, but he's all cool making a joke about his age compared to the kid's and they both chuckle and keep on keeping on.
We joke around as we get him back in the truck. I say I'm going to bring the cart back and he tells me that I should just leave it because they have people hired to do that work. Okay, I say, and leave it by his door. We drive off at 2:50 confident we'll be back in time. He's in a good frame of mind. He likes living. It's cool to be out with him and see that he still has energy to do mundane things.
So we get back and find that one of their floormates has fallen and likely broken his hip. The respite worker is out there helping. She's glad we're back. We think, of course we're back. We head into the apartment and Dad tends to M, while I unpack the groceries. Then I make coffee and, since it's M's birthday, and there's a cake already there, I cut off two slices and we sit down to it. This will be the coffee time we were going to have outside, at a coffee shop. This will do.
We're finished the cake when the respite worker comes back in and asks why Dad has come back early again.
You have until 4 pm she says. We've lengthened the time by an hour. You have from one till four on Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Saturdays? says Dad. I thought it was Fridays.
Saturdays are better for me, I say.
Well sure, let's leave it as Saturdays then, he says. Would you like some cake? It's M's birthday.
Sure, she says.
I cut her a piece and she sits down to ask questions and pass the remaining 40 minutes of her work time, with us in the room. I suggest to Dad that we go out for a walk, but he declines.
I've had enough of being out, he says. We'd just have to come back in.
She finishes the cake and we talk about this and that. She likes one of Dad's books and he lends it to her. She says she knows someone whose parents live in Altona. She tries to remember the name, but can't. She says it's probably a pretty big place anyway. I say it's not. She says oh well. We both think, Well, we tried. At five to four she says good bye to M and heads out.
M's been in bed the whole time, except for a bathroom break. She wants it that way. She's tired. She's ready to go. You know, the BIG go. But Dad's doing all right. He shows me the tax stuff. I go through it. Ask a few questions. Then supper comes for M and Dad helps her get out of bed and to the table.
Dad's got the meds pack ready for her. She's working at the bubble-wrap domes as I stand there. You want a tough job, she says to me.
Sure, I say. She hands me the foil and plastic sealed packs. I unpack them (which isn't that easy, actually) and put them on the table in front of her. She takes them, with prips. I unwrap the salad and glob on the ranch dressing (also from a plastic and foil pack - is this the way the world has to be? plastic and aluminum foil wrapped everything?). Dad unwraps the cherry dessert. I say that if I was 93 all I'd want to eat is dessert, because by then I figure I'd have earned it. M smiles. She starts to eat the meatballs and carrots. Dad says that he's not sure about that. He says that when you get older your tastes change. Nothing about who you are when you're young is guaranteed.
(Wow. Take notice everyone. Live like you can now, because it might be can't later!)
Dad takes his leave to go to the common dining room for supper. I walk him out, we say good bye, and I head off for my supper with family (which was more than wonderful curried chickpeas, purple wild rice, and mango papaya salad prepared by GeeVs and JWo (capped off with a hookah-fest dessert and attempts at smoke-rings).
Well I hope my tastes don't change too much. I like desserts. I enjoy good times with family. I'd love to be 91, pushing a shopping cart into young clerks at the grocery store and then using my age as an excuse to make a lame joke. I hope my taste for that gets stronger. Though it's likely no one else does.
1 comment:
I wish there was a "like" button for your posts. Because I don't always know what to say, but I always like them. Maybe it's too easy to just "like" something... but in this case it's genuine.
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