The kids are alright...I hope.

Look at them. They're younger than my kids are now. They have no idea what's in store for them. An entire lifetime of joy, excitement, wonder, discovery, heartbreak, trials, sadness and sometimes, quiet moments of contentedness.

Today, they start the next chapter in their book of life. Sometimes I realize that I think of them as simply a conglomeration of medical issues. They're macular degeneration and dementia. They're osteo-arthritis and vascular Parkinsonism. They're hypertension and diabetes.

Today, the day that they move into their new assisted living apartment, their new "forever home," I want to think about the people inside those withered and beaten-down bodies. Here is who these two people became:

They raised four children as best they could. They lost one of them, a four-year old daughter, to leukemia in 1968. It was a heartbreak so painful, it forever changed them and the family. And yet they moved on. They fulfilled their promise to do something they never did - they gave their kids college educations. 


He was a commercial artist. He was talented and ambitious and built his own company that thrived through many years and finally crumbled for too many reasons. And yet, he pulled himself up and managed to survive. 


She stayed at home and raised the kids. She cooked, she cleaned...she took care of everyone...except herself. 


He used to own horses and then his obsession turned to race cars. That hobby would be the backdrop of their family life. Fun, danger, excitement - a team effort that made him the star. 


She learned to cook and sew and garden and consumed books with a passion until her eyes gave out. Her Polish heritage never really left her. She often translated for her neighbors and their cleaning ladies. But mostly, when we all left, she took care of him. 

Today, they will no longer live in my house. They'll forever be in my care, but now they'll have at least an approximation of their former independence. Funny, but they started out in an apartment and now they are back in one. It may seem like a step back, but I'm hoping they'll find it to be a step forward. I'm praying that they find the peace, safety, stability, comfort and joy that they deserve.

God bless, Mom and Dad.

A wink and a prayer

IT'S MOVING DAY!!! 

I should clarify. It's FURNITURE moving day. But seriously, this is a HUGE step. It puts a big, fat exclamation point on a process that has been nothing short of stressful, terrifying, trying, scary, fingers-crossing...hopeful.

Yesterday, Mom and Dad signed all of their admissions documents and Dad said it best: "Those numbers scare me. I don't know where this is all coming from."

Amen, Dad. This costs a LOT of money. There are a lot of moving pieces that need to fall into place in order for this to happen. A lottery win would help everyone immensely. But the odds of that happening are between none and none. So we're going on a wink, a prayer and a plan.

The interesting thing is that along the way, this changed from something we want/desperately need to something my parents' want/desperately need. They can taste their independence and I want SO badly to make it happen for them.

If you're the praying type, please say one or two that this all can happen...without strained backs, pulled muscles or herniated discs. Also say another one that somehow, some way, we can pull together enough resources to keep my parents in a happy place.

Here we go....

The parents move but the worry stays

Things are still progressing forward toward the big move. I'd like to say it's all good, but that would be a lie. I'm just a mixed up jumble of nerves and concern and worry and stress.


My sister is down in Illinois, sorting through furniture to move to my parents' new apartment and making a valiant attempt to clean up their house so that she and her family can finally move in. She arranged for carpet cleaners to come on Monday. Several years ago, my parents recarpeted the living room. In that living room, was a large armoire. When the carpet cleaner moved it away from the wall, she discovered that THEY HAD CARPETED AROUND THE ARMOIRE. That's right. Under the armoire is old carpet. Who does that?! I told my sister: "I think we've discovered the beginning of the dementia."

In the meantime, I've turned into the Water Nazi with Dad. Since he was found to have too low of a blood pressure, we were told that he needed to hydrate more. And so I follow him around telling him to drink water. In response, he nods in agreement and promptly ignores me. Yesterday, he pretended that his Fresca was a glass of water. If I hadn't picked up his glass and noticed that it was cloudy, he would have gotten away with it.

Seriously, he doesn't care at all to listen to anyone. Doesn't matter if we warn him that he needs to do something in order to stay healthy, get stronger, improve the quality of his life. He does not care. He's using the logic of a toddler. I'm not being mean. I'm being truthful.

Yesterday, Dad had his appointment with the neuro PT. We were sitting in the waiting room prior to the appointment. He looked at me and said: "Karen, what am I complaining about?" Geez, Dad. That's a loaded question. What AREN'T you complaining about? But what he meant was to ask why he was there. I explained that the PT will address his poor/wonky gait. And she did...and he was fine...while under her watch...and then went back to his old habits the minute we left that office.

I'm terrified what will happen when I can't see what Dad is doing all the time. Yesterday, after breakfast, he started walking toward the bathroom with his bowl full of leftover milk and the few Cheerios that were floating in it. I stopped him and asked what he was doing. "What do you think? I'm dumping this down the toilet so it doesn't clog the sink." I said: "Dad, we don't do that." He replied: "What are you talking about? We do that all the time. I thought it was a nice gesture." Huh, what? I told Mom about this exchange and she was equally mystified, but she actually doesn't notice these things like I do. What if he starts doing odd things like this in assisted living? What if he starts doing them so often that they question his safety?

These are the things that keep me up at night. These are the things that make me think that we're headed for trouble. God, I hope I'm wrong, but this is what I worry about....constantly.

Here's a peek inside my brain right now: "What if they don't like it? What if they don't find nice people there?  What if the staff isn't kind/nice/helpful to them? What if the food isn't good? What if Dad gets all crazy there? What if they get lost going to the dining hall? What if assisted living facilities are cliquey? What if Dad gets lost IN the apartment and falls? What if I lose my mind driving down there constantly? What if they call me all the time because they're confused or worried about something? What if they can't figure out how to work the remote for the TV? What if the finances fall through? What if one or both of them becomes seriously ill? What if they/we just can't make it all work?"

This feels just like sending my kids off to college...only worse.

Cautiously optimistic

It's been a while. Yeah, not much has been happening.

WHAT?! WHO AM I KIDDING?!

Here's a clue.

Look at this photo.

Yep, that's what you think it is. Keys....on a stretchy wrist keychain thingy. A symbol of the senior lifestyle.

This can only mean one thing.

MOM AND DAD MIGHT BE MOVING INTO THEIR OWN ASSISTED LIVING APARTMENT.

Wait, why did I say "might?" Why? Well, because I don't trust life and fate and circumstances and health and government. Yes, we need all those things to work together in order that this might happen.

Oh and in case you think my parents might be ambivalent or unhappy about this move, think again. Last night this exchange happened:

Me: "Next week - Olympics!!!" *claps hands in joy*
Mom: "Next week - Moving!!!" *claps hands in joy*

So, now this is important not only for our/my sanity, it's really important for my parents' happiness too! We've been to the apartment multiple times now and both of them are very excited....or as excited as two old, frail people can be.

But a lot of stuff has to fall into place....in a ridiculously short time-span. I need my brother and my sister to help a LOT on their end with moving some of Mom and Dad's stuff up here to Wisconsin. That's going to be Herculean....and awful...but hopefully a pain that is short-lived. I'm hoping we can make this happen without strained backs or hurt feelings. I just need to pray...a lot.

In the meantime, Dad goes up and down in terms of lucidity and health. Some days, he's bopping around the house, stealing candy from the freezer, giggling like a kid. Other days, he can't remember where he lives or who I'm married to or he's putting his adding machine into paper bags from Chinese takeout orders. Sigh.

Today, Hubby and I are going rummaging to see if we can pick up a small kitchen table and perhaps a few other things that Mom and Dad might need. I'm not a rummage sale person, but we can't afford to go high end on any of this stuff. And Mom and Dad are perfectly fine with that.

If you're one of the 2 or 3 people that read this, say a prayer...or ten...that somehow, some way, we can work this out. If this is going to happen, Mom and Dad are going to leave our house in the same way that they arrived - on a wing and a prayer.

Ode to the Sweatshirt

Dad wears a sweatshirt every day.

Every. Single. Day.

Every sweatshirt Dad wears looks exactly like the one you see here. And Dad has a sweatshirt in every color imaginable....including day-glo orange...which he wears...in public.

Oh and you need to know something else: We are currently in the middle of a drought caused by a heat wave. Today it will be 102 degrees. It's been this way for WEEKS.

And yet, Dad still wears a sweatshirt.

Every. Single. Day.

A few weeks ago, Hubby took Dad for a haircut. The stylist said to him: "How are you liking this heat and how's the sweatshirt?"

Mom and I have tried to convince Dad to wear something cooler. He also owns a large collection of Polo shirts which sit in a dresser drawer, unworn.

Truth be told, he wears a sweatshirt every day because I am blessed to have air conditioning and I am ballsy enough to keep it on every single day during this heat wave. So, it's almost a little chilly in our house, even though I have the downstairs air conditioning set to 80 degrees. Compared to what's happening outside, it's kinda cool. And I love it.

Do you remember back in April, when Mom and Dad first moved in with us and Dad was cold and this happened? Well, that's why I have no problem with Dad wearing a sweatshirt. It's his way of surviving my need to have air conditioning. It's also one of the few clothing items he can put on with little help.

There's another side to the sweatshirt - the fashion side, or lack thereof. I'm used to sweatshirts because Dad has worn them forever. When I was growing up, he wore them in the garage while working on his race car. They're sort of his thing. Dad without a sweatshirt just seems wrong. And yet some people might think Dad seems wrong IN the sweatshirt.

Yesterday, we went to my brother's house for my nephew's birthday party. My sister-in-law's family is kinda swanky. They dress well. REALLY well. So well that Mom came up to me last night after we got home and said: "Do I look like a dork?" We then had a conversation about how well that family dresses and then I had to remind her that they are not better than us because their clothes cost more.

Anyway, Dad was there in a bright yellow sweatshirt...and I could see the looks. And you know what? F*** 'em. All of 'em. I kinda liked that they were there, all designer-ed up and I was there, dressed head to toe in Target and Dad was there in his crewneck glory.

Because here's what living in the Senior Sauna has finally taught me: The little things don't matter. And Dad dressed in a sweatshirt doesn't matter. He can no longer embarrass me with his odd and weather-inappropriate clothing choice. It's such a small thing. The comfort and functionality of the sweatshirt - the fact that it's stable and something upon which Dad can depend every day - is perfect.

I realized yesterday that I used to look at people that were caring for and transporting old people around and think: "Poor bastards. That must really suck." Now I see us, with our Old People Train walking verrrrrrrryyyyyy slowwwwwllllyy in and out of places, and I realized that I've finally relaxed. I finally have learned to just chill. Not about everything, but about a lot of things. And all it took was two old people invading my life. All it took was putting my life on hold and creating a new home for people that gave me my first home.

All it took was the sweatshirt.

God bless that damn sweatshirt.

Familiarity breeds contempt

I'll start with the good news: I'M LEAVING TOMORROW FOR GIRLS' WEEKEND!!!!

This is my annual trip - 7 women, 1 cottage, 1 lake. We've been doing this for about 22 years and it's nothing short of amazing. In the past, I've been whiny about the fact that there's no air conditioning. This year, I'd almost sleep in a tent. I need this weekend SO BADLY. I need girl talk and book reading and NO PILL-SORTING. I'm going despite living with the guilt of saddling my Hubby with my parents for 2-1/2 days. I really do feel bad about this, but I'm afraid if I don't go, I might kill my Dad.

Yeah, it's getting bad.

Here's the bad news: Caring for your parents might make you feel differently about them...not in a good way. Allow me to explain.

I always worshiped my Dad. Despite his flaws, I looked up to him. I loved his sense of humor and his work ethic. I liked the way his mind worked. I was always so proud of the life that he built without a college education. And then when life beat him down and he lost his business, I loved how he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and never whined. His beautiful home was taken away and he and Mom had to move multiple times and he had to drive halfway across Chicago to work for someone else.

Now, after living with him for 3 months. I don't like him. I've forgotten what I ever liked about him. I'm just being honest. I now see what my Mom has put up with for 60 years. Her vigilant care of him masked his selfishness and his lack of any interest in anyone other than himself. Maybe he's not really like this and maybe age and poor health has simply stripped him down to only the negatives. I'm not sure, but I feel really sad about the fact that I don't like this person that is living in my house. How awful am I?

Here's the rub: I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Yesterday, I got on Dad's case about getting up and moving. I told him, in no uncertain terms that he needed to get up more and move around the house. It's starting to piss him off and, well, you already know how I feel about that. Well, he snapped at me again. And then I snapped back:

Dad: I moved, OK? You told me to move and I did. Where do you want me to go?
Me: Never mind. I give up. Do what you want.

*Cut to me walking away and Dad shuffling away in disgust.*

After that, he sort of stopped talking to me. And I was OK with that...but not really. (I'm a people-pleaser. Even people that I don't like. It's a horrible quality. I don't recommend it.) Suddenly, this silent pall fell over the house and it was icky and sad. I want to fix it all and I can't. I'm digging so freaking deep to find compassion and patience and kindness and the well has simply run dry.  This is why I need to go away...before the damage is so bad that my relationship with my Dad is beyond repair.

But let's be glass-half-full about this: I now adore my Mom. She's now my new hero. Life has consistently dished out lemons to her and yet, to this day, she continues to be optimistic, sweet and pleasant. My new fear is that I won't be like her when I'm old. Her simple kindness is nothing short of endearing.

While I spend my days fuming about Dad's general lack of interest in life, I also look for ways to tell my Mom that she's awesome...because I don't think that anybody has ever told her that. Despite all the sh*t that she dealt with during her 81 years on earth, she finds the grace to be amazing. I hope someday to be the same.

In the meantime, I'm off to the woods - drink in hand, book on lap, friends nearby. Sanctuary.

Stare down

It's the staring that gets to me.

If I think of all of the things that bother me about our new roomies, most of them are just me being the crabbiest and least flexible or kind person on earth. I like things a certain way and there's no way anybody, least of all two 81 year olds, will fit into my idea of the perfect roommate.

But the staring gets me every time. After 3 months, I can can tell you, definitively, OLD PEOPLE SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING.

It drives me mad. I sit next to my hubby on the couch, look out on the deck and see my Dad sitting, not reading or sleeping, but staring at NOTHING. Then here's the conversation that takes place:

Me: Look at him. How does he do that?
Hubby: Do what?
Me: SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING?
Hubby: It's his life, why does it matter?
Me: Because his life is now in MY house and it drives me CRAZY!

Sometimes my parents sit together and stare at nothing...together. They don't talk. They just sit and stare. Then my Mom will punctuate the silence with a question of my Dad. Typically an inane question that really requires no answer...and usually receives none.

But the worst...the ABSOLUTE WORST...is when I go in the library and Dad is sitting in there alone. The TV is on but muted. He's staring at the screen. And then this conversation takes place:

Me: Dad, what are you watching?
Dad: NCIS
Me: Why is it muted?
Dad: Because I've seen this one and I don't want to watch it.
Me: Then why don't you watch something else?
Dad: Because I don't want to. 


*Cut to me walking away, shaking head in disbelief.*

I know that while they are sitting and staring, they are sometimes thinking about things. I know this because sometimes, after a mini stare-fest, my Mom will make a beeline toward me and then ask some crazy question about the Assisted Living facility where they will, hopefully, move in a few weeks (more about this later.) Or, more typically, she will talk about her belongings and then simply say: "I need to sort through some things." I swear to God, she has said that sentence at least 50 times in the past week. For God's sake, Woman, SORT, SORT, SORT!!!

But I guess therein lies the mystery of old people. They have thoughts, but the execution of those thoughts and/or desires is simply beyond their abilities.

Or, as Little Feat said in the great song "Old Folks Boogie:

And you know that you're over the hill
When your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill

A letter to my 81-year old self

There's a video that's gone viral. It's a guy talking to his 12-year old self. It's kind of cute..and awkward. Here, you can watch it:



Well, this got me thinking. What would I say to myself in 30 years? What would I say to my 81 year old self - i.e. me, at the exact same age my parents are at?

Well, I won't torture you with a video. I haven't yet showered and I don't look all perty. But I'll do it in a letter form. Here goes:

Dear Karen,
Hey, how's it going? 81, huh? Can you believe it? Do you remember what it was like when Mom and Dad were 81? Do you remember those months that they lived with you? They seemed endless, didn't they? And yet, looking back, they were actually just the blink of an eye. Kind of like everything else in your life - you made a gigantic freakin' deal out of it all and, in reality, it was over fairly quickly. You were always such a drama queen.

The kids turned out pretty well, didn't they? All that worry paid off. Or is it that they were destined to be great and you just wasted so much time worrying? I don't know that we'll ever know. 

And aren't the grandkids AMAZING? Yes, you finally have grandkids, although  for a while, it felt like you never would. But that's just you - impatient as always. Both a good and bad thing. Good because you made things happen. You did things. Not always the right things, but at least you didn't sit back and never make decisions. I'm proud of you for that. 


I'm curious how your health is? You finally got healthy when you hit 50. (About damn time. What were you waiting for?) It's paying off a little now, isn't it? Too bad you didn't buckle down and read more. Your brain would be better off, but then again, that's more of that impatient thing again. The internet is oh so tempting. Too easy to check Twitter 50 times a day instead of reading a few pages of a book. Remember Twitter? Yeah, that was pretty stupid. So was Pinterest, but that's for another time.


So now is the time to relax and enjoy things. Enjoy the family. Enjoy the friends. You kept your friends, right? God, I hope so. Talk to people. Ask questions. Let people wait on you a little bit. You've certainly earned it. Spread some wisdom around - you've certainly earned THAT. Here's my most important message: I'm guessing that you have some aches, pains and health issues. Don't dwell on them. They will be there regardless. Fine, talk about them with the old people you know, but talk about young people things too. Be that old person that young people love to be around. Be the old person that still craves happiness - just like Mom was. Not like Dad. I know he couldn't help it, but still, make that your goal. Achieve happiness. You've earned THAT. 


Now go take a nap. You've earned that too.
Love,
Karen

Now that I've written that, it's more like a letter to my 51 year old self. I realize now, reading that, that if I want all of those things, I have to start now. Being a great old person takes years of work.

Better get busy.

Move it...and don't stop.

I'm going to get a little Preachy McPreachster. I have seen end results and they're not pretty.

Ready? Here goes: No matter how old you are, exercise. Exercise right now and don't stop....EVER.

No doubt about it, getting old kind of sucks. Some things you can't prevent. Some things you can. But here's something I have seen personally - IF YOU GET UP AND MOVE AROUND, YOU'LL BE BETTER OFF WHEN YOU'RE OLD.

Caring for my 81 year old parents these past 3 months I've seen, up close, the effects of no exercise (my Dad) and moderate exercise (my Mom.) Despite the fact that Mom has had both a hip and knee replacement, along with a few other unearned maladies, she's in pretty darn good shape. She's happier and much more vibrant.

Dad chooses to move very little. I have to beg him to take a short walk and even that, for him, is agonizing. I've told him time and time and time again: GET UP AND MOVE AROUND. YOU WILL FEEL BETTER. He chooses not to listen and, therefore, he chooses to be unhappy and miserable.

Everyone has seen the studies that show that exercise prevents aging. The truth is, we are all going to age, but I'm here to tell you that it really, really, REALLY does matter how you age. What you do or don't do now - if you're 20, 30, 40, 50 or 60 - will pay off when you're 80. And I'm not talking about running marathons or working out like a mad person. I'm talking about REGULAR, moderate exercise. It all counts and it all adds up.

And if you have kids or plan to have kids or have family and care about them at all, make that your motivation. Because eventually, your kids or somebody in your family will, in some way, be caring for you.  The less you move now, the harder you make it for them down the road. That's right. You can choose not to exercise at all and think that it effects only you, but eventually somebody else will have to pay for your sedentary lifestyle.

Here's an idea. Think of life as a game. He/She who has the most points, wins. Points are given for exercise. The less points you have, the worse you feel, in the end. Got it? OK, then move it.

That's it.

*Steps off soapbox.*

Independence Day

Oh the irony.

To me, the 4th of July was always just that - the 4th of July. This year, today, it's most definitely Independence Day.

This summer, I really understand that word - independence - so much better. I know that our Founding Fathers had a much different idea of independence. They wanted to be free from tyranny, injustice, religious and political persecution, inequality and so much more.

Here, today, in our house, independence has a softer, more basic meaning - the ability to live on your own.

We talk a lot with my parents about independence. For nearly 60 years, they lived independently. Circumstances crashed into each other and they lost that independence. (If you're new to this blog, click here for the story.) It was taken away, by us, albeit for reasons filled with love and caring. It's a classic elder care story. "I love you. I care about you. This is not what you want, but it's for the best." Tough choices, tough actions.

We're working hard to restore some independence to my parents' lives. We've found a lovely assisted living facility. They've been assessed and have qualified. But it's not that easy. We need a whole bunch of things to fall into place (i.e. $$$) in order for this to work. But the important thing is that we now all have the same goal - to find them a place where they can live "on their own." We want it, but most importantly, they want it.

The easiest way to find out what matters is to have it taken away. My parents valued their independence. They pulled themselves up by their bootstraps time and time again. Finally, we had to reach in and do some bootstrap pulling for them. Sometimes, the hardest thing of all is asking for help. That is exactly how they ended up here, in our house.

Sure, we've lost some independence ourselves. Prior to them living here, our nest was empty and pretty darn cushy. I came and went as I pleased. I cooked hardly at all. The only pills I sorted were my own daily vitamins. The only being who was completely dependent upon me was our Golden Retriever.

My how things have changed.

I have to be honest and say I miss a lot. I miss my friends. I miss my freedom. I miss my quiet house. I miss making plans. I miss my family - I feel like we're relay runners passing the elder care baton between each other. 

And yet, I also have to say, that there's something compelling about feeling needed. It's been a long time since I've had that. Since our daughter was very young, so nearly 20 years. I never felt totally competent back then and I still feel pretty iffy right now. But everyone knows that. We're all doing the best we can with what we have.

We will have our independence back. At what cost, I don't know. But we will get it and we will give it as best as we can.

My parents' independence will be us passing that baton on to professionals - a helping hand, if you will. Easier said than done.

Then again, independence is never really independent, is it?

The Living Will continue...so stop asking.

The other day, for about the 5th time, I sat in a meeting in which the following question was asked of one of my parents:

"So, do you have an advance directive set up?"

The person asking the question then explains (in kind of a patronizing way) that an advance directive (or Living Will) is an instruction to loved ones and to medical personnel regarding doing CPR or any type of resuscitation in case their heart stopped.

Later, my Mom said to me: "Why do they keep asking me this? It's starting to freak me out."

I couldn't agree more. Look, I understand WHY they are asking this of the elderly. They are the most likely to NEED a Living Will in the near future. Apparently, a memo went out to health care providers to start asking elderly patients, early and often, whether they have an advance directive. Here's what this question makes old people think: THEY ARE DYING....RIGHT NOW.

Seriously, isn't there a better way and time to ask this? Or, if they've already set up an advance directive, can we give them a sticker or a bracelet so people stop asking?!

Elderly people KNOW their clock is ticking. What they don't need is a constant reminder that time is of the essence. If they didn't feel like crap before they were asked this question, they sure do now.

Imagine someone asking you, Mr./Ms. Healthy Person, if you want to be resuscitated.  You think for a minute and then ask yourself "Am I ready to die?" Regardless of your answer, it's a little unsettling to be asked, isn't it?

How about if we ask people this question when they turn 50...when death seems to be WAY in the distance and not such a disturbing notion. Asking the elderly just seems mean.

Losing my sh*t

The coffee made me snap - both the fact that I had two cups and the fact that it was all over the sink...and the counter...and the clean dishes.

I want to kill him. At this moment, right now, I can't take it. Yes, I CAN take it and I will continue to take it as long as everything properly falls into place, but this morning, about 15 minutes ago, I completely lost it. Actually, correction, I held it in enough to walk out on the deck and try to cool off and also enough that I didn't march into the library and yell at my Dad.

Here's a little background - Dad somehow thinks a kitchen sink is like a garbage can. Things that he wants to get rid of, go in or near the sink. I can't explain this. I have two kitchen sinks. The one on the right has a dish drainer. I've told him REPEATEDLY that the right-hand sink is where I keep clean dishes that are drying. And yet today, again, for about the 25th time, he dumped his leftover coffee in the right sink. Leftover coffee that I knew he would dump out when I poured it for him. Coffee he only wanted because he got up at 6:15 am for some God-knows-what reason. Coffee that, besides going all over my clean dishes, spilled out onto the countertop as well and sat there.

I was putting away dishes and didn't notice it at first. Then I grabbed a supposedly clean dish and looked into that right-hand sink.

Coffee, everywhere.

I. Completely. Lost. It.

If my daughter weren't still sleeping, I think I would have screamed. I held back slightly only so my Mom wouldn't absorb the guilt of the situation. (Earlier this morning I asked her to make sure Dad didn't slam doors because our daughter was still sleeping. I realized too late that Mom would now obsess about this and then feel bad. Mom feels bad about EVERYTHING.) The most I could do was throw a sponge. Hubby told me to go upstairs and he'd finish up. I ignored him. I needed to clean it up and brood a bit more.

The coffee isn't the only offending "sink invader." Dad is addicted to ice cream bars. (I buy him "no sugar added" bars that won't spike his blood sugar too much.) For some reason, he takes off the wrapper and throws it in the sink. I'm sorry but WTF?! How hard is it to open the garbage that's right next to the sink? He does this because he KNOWS that somebody else will pick up his crap. To be perfectly honest, I'm really getting pissed off about picking up his crap. Seriously.

Look, I know what you're thinking. He's got dementia. Give him a break. Here's what I'm thinking: It's dementia, not a learning disability. Because he's 81 and is mentally compromised, I should let him be a complete self-centered slob? I'm sorry, but no. I'm not buying it. I've been applying buckets of compassion to this situation but here today, I completely lost my shit. Yep, I said it.

My Mom can't see anything and yet she walks around as pleasant and sweet and flexible as anybody in the entire world. If there's anyone that has a right to be self-centered, it's Mom. She can't even see her own face in the morning, for God's sake. And yet instead of thinking about herself, she caters to Dad. Yes, she created that dementia-addled, wonky-walking, self-centered animal. But I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with his crap.

OK, thanks. I feel better now.

Mad Man

I guess everyone ages differently. My Mom has become a sweet, gentle, compliant person who loves talking to anyone and everyone. My Dad, on the other hand, has become, for lack of a better word, boorish. In fact, if I think about it, their roles have sort of reversed.

I remember Mom being kind of crabby all the time when I was growing up. No doubt that was in large part due to having a moody, abrasive and self-centered daughter like me. I admit it. I was probably not very pleasant to be around. What I didn't realize is that her crabbiness could very much also be due to waiting hand and foot on my Dad.

Back in the day, Dad was probably one of the stereotypical "Mad Men." He made his living in advertising. Although not as classically handsome as Don Draper, he was all about the 3 martini lunches (although in his case it was scotch & soda) and the ordering around of the women-folk in his world. Funny, but I remember him as being extremely polite and generous almost to a fault. I watched him interact with others and he was socially a bit shy, but always took an interest in things around him. If I asked Mom, I think he spent a fair amount of time ordering her around. Not in a mean way but rather to sort of guide her through life. She deferred to him because he had an art degree and she had only a high school diploma. (Truth be told, she may have been the smarter one of the two.) She looked up to him and wanted to keep him happy. He was, perhaps, a taskmaster at home, but gracious and affable in public.

Today, here in our house and with us, he's anything but that. When we go out to eat, he practically steps over my Mom's words to place his food order first. It's such a weird vibe from him now - practically unrecognizable. As I do with so many things now, I try to find the source of anything negative. What makes him unhappy? Why does he look depressed? (If you think about it, I've taken on my Mom's role from the 1960's.)

To put it bluntly, Dad is mad. He's mad that he can't remember things. He's mad that things hurt. He's mad that he's not living in his own house. He's mad that he's got a 51-year old woman ordering him around and questioning whether he really did wash his hands. Basically, he's mad that he's old. When did that happen? When did he lose the funny, creative guy that he used to be? When did he wake up to find that absolutely nothing in his life is of any interest at all?

When I think about it that way, I'd be mad too.