Sunday, September 11, 2011

Playing Flashlight and Hard Hats

Lola gets on and off binges where she plays flashlight. She picks it up, looks at it, looks at one end, turns it over, looks at the other end, turns it on and shines it all over the walls. She's taken to shining it in Joe's room at night after he's gone to bed.

Joe was a pest Sunday morning because he couldn't find a preacher. I know the Paducah church broadcasts at 11:00 a.m., but he was on me at 10:30, and complained 3 times between then and 11. It's not like I can make a show come on on-demand for him. Then when it finally came on, he was dismissive because the choir did a bunch of singing at the beginning.

At one point he sat on the sofa beside me and wanted to know if he could help me in the other room. Then when he started to say what he wanted to help with, he stopped, opened and closed his mouth a few times, shook his head and said, "It's terrible." "Not that you're terrible; I am." I think he meant it is terrible that he can't complete a thought in words. He got over it quickly and went on into his den where I turned church on the TV for him.

Sometime Sunday afternoon Joe found a hardhat in the yard. He had gone outside to putter around, and I had seen him wearing the hard hat. He keeps coming up with stuff I have no clue he has, nor where he keeps it. He happily wore the hard hat all day long. Finally at near 8 p.m. he came in the kitchen and sat down. I laughed and asked him why on earth he was wearing a hard hat. He told me he found it in the field and had gotten the dirt off it, and it was a dandy hat. Sigh. Okay, he picked up a hard hat in the yard and plunked it on his head. He has no clue whose it was, whether they had lice or some awful scalp condition or anything. No washing it, no letting it air for days, no sanitizing it, no nothing. Let's just plunk it on our head. Well, if anyone reading this lost a hard hat with "IC" on it, you can claim it here.

Otherwise, Joe was unbelievably calm today compared to yesterday. Oy. Yes, please.

On another note, last night Lola showed me a photograph. It's her hobby. She shows me photographs everyday of the same people, the same photos, but each time they're brand new. She showed me one of my dad when he was young. I said, "Yep. That's my father." She looked at me like I was absolutely nuts and proclaimed, "No! It's not. It's my husband." Gobsmacked, I couldn't keep from spouting back "And that's not my father?" No, was her instant reply. Curious beyond control, I asked her, "Well, if that's not my father, who on earth is?" Okay, so she finally conceded he might be my father.

If any of you out there have not become convinced that once the elderly have become senile they make no sense, get over it. You and your parents will eventually not make sense, unless you have the fortune to die first. Personally, I'm praying for a massive stroke or heart attack that takes me out in a split second. It sure the hell beats living and torturing my son with my care if I'm like my parents are.

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