Okay listen up all! Please stop dropping the "H" bomb around Dad; the only 4-letter word that literally sends him over the coo-coos nests. Debbie once commented, quite benignly I might add, "Angie stays at your house during the week to help you." Using the word "Help" was like dropping the "F" bomb, wrong word. He was off and running. "I don't need any help. I do everything for myself now." Shuttin' down the motor on his mouth after the "H" word is out is the barn door, horse analogy. Sorry, never lived on a farm, so not quite sure how that goes, but you get it. Right? Yeah. Dad says, "Matter of fact, I don't even know why she stays here and pays rent somewhere else. Doesn't make sense." Dad puts emphasis on a specific word every now and then for no other reason than he likes to raise his voice along with his blood pressure to emphasize a point, or two, or three. "She doesn't do anything. And she gets up really early. What's that all about?" By the tone in his voice it's like he's completely baffled, with no idea at all why I would have a credible reason for, in his thinking, such unusual behavior. Um...I need to be at work at 7:00am Dad. "Then after work she walks in the house and fiddles in the kitchen. I don't know what she's doing." There's no fiddlin' going on. Just washing some dirty dishes, pots and pans. That's all. He's always suspicious of everything and everyone. "And she goes to bed as soon as she gets home. What's that all about?" He says that a lot. Okay, I live in Tacoma, work in Seattle, so getting up when the frickin' rooster crows...Hello!...makes perfect sense, DAD!
So for the record, Dad's record, I don't do quat at Dad's anymore. For the most part, he is taking care of his personal health needs, grocery shopping, driving himself to and from his doctor's appointments and cooking his own meals. I provide a few amenities like having coffee peculating in the morning--and Dad will tell you that sometimes I forget to do even that--I take out the garbage and clean the kitchen. And I have to add that it's not that he can't do these things-he can--I just like to (insert said word discreetly) where I can. Oh yes, I also arrange his medications for the week in a nice little organizer Jean bought him. So see...I'm doing very little these days. And considering how far he's come since the surgery, I'm okay with that. We met our objective to get him on his feet. I still like to stay at Dad's during the week...because...well, I worry, and I don't like him to be alone at night. I will admit though, verbal communication between us is limited. I walk in the door and speak on the run, "Hey dad, how ya doing?" He usually yells something back, "Fine." Very short and clipped. Shoot, I've gotta keep it short 'cause Dad can talk you comatose. Can't handle it after working all day. I hit the stairs real fast and climb into bed for sleezy my neezy. Oh...still hip.
So there you have it. Watch your dirty mouths around Dad; using the "H" bomb gets him all worked up. To Dad, insinuating that he may need a little (you know) is paramount to saying he's completely debilitated and ready to be put away somewhere. His biggest fear. With Dad, his pride gets in the way sometimes and we just gotta find ways to work around it. It's challenging, oh yeah it is. But that's how we do when we care enough, to care enough, about how someone else feels. He's our Dad after all, and we love 'em even when he's a cranky old butt.
Here's my disclaimer: I was not in the room during the aforementioned dialogue and scenerios referenced in my post. However, the information I've gathered was provided to me by reputable sources, the names of which will not be disclosed. Besides, I know Dad's m.o. If my sources say he said it, he did. So there.
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