soapy, I’m so sorry for your loss. Know that you are in our thoughts. Should you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.
So, Dad’s behavior remains . . . interesting. He got up sometime around 3 a.m., got dressed and went outside. We know this, because he couldn’t get back inside, so he rang the doorbell. No one asked why he felt it was necessary to go outside at this hour, and he didn’t offer a reason. We all just went back to bed.
This morning, while I was awake but not up due to a tummyache, Dad was complaining at Mom that we’re stealing from him, that I never do anything to help, blah blah blah dementia-cakes. Mom informed him that indeed, I had ordered copies of his birth certificates so that he could replace his IDs and that they’d arrived the previous day. Then, why hadn’t I given them to him, he demands. (Oh, I don’t know. The fact that you hate me now, that you can’t be trusted with anything valuable or important, that your short term memory is shot, that it was a busy day, that most of the time you pretend I don’t exist, oh, just pick one.) So Mom told him it was because every time I try to talk to him, he walks away. Now, technically, this is true, but it’s not just that he walks away - he leaves the room.
Then, she came up and got the envelope with the birth certificates and gave them to him. All three of them. I’ve never been so tempted to smack my own mother upside the back of the head as I was in that moment. Give him ONE. Let him hug it and stroke it and call it George. Let him hide it, forget that he hid it, and accuse us of stealing it. Then, at least, we have two more copies to use. But nooooooooo . . .
However, when I finally did come down, Dad actually thanked me (after coaching from Mom). Once I was gone back upstairs, he then told Mom he doesn’t like my cooking, my gardening (tomato plants are ugly and he refuses to eat the ones I pick, because they’re ‘strange’), the way I do laundry or fold it, not to mention how I vote. Oy. Later, there was some major racket from his room. Mom thinks he had nailed his bedroom door shut and was trying to remove the nails. He has also - wait for it - hiding the birth certificates so we can’t steal them.
And phoukabro told Mom that he really doesn’t like the idea of placing Dad in assisted living, because he remembers all the things Dad did for us when we were kids. (You kind of have to travel back in time to the tender phouka years to appreciate the irony of this, as bro made it very clear from the age of 12 on that he couldn’t stand Dad, thought Dad was an idiot, didn’t want to be seen around Dad, didn’t listen to Dad, couldn’t wait to get away from Dad, could barely tolerate being in the same room as Dad . . . ) And, of course, the three years of care I’ve put in doesn’t count.
If you hear a rhythmic thumping noise from far off in the distance, it’s just me banging my head against the wall.
