Childhood Memories

(I thought I'd ask my sister for her input.) - When we were growing up, after our family dinner, dad would regularly take a napkin, wet it, and squat down to wipe up the linoleum floor for crumbs. This would happen after lunch on Sundays also since he was at home at the dinner hour.

Usually he would work overtime at his job which mom, my sister, and I would drive 25 minutes to give him a ride home. Should we be a minute late, or park 35 feet across the street rather than on curb in front of the building, he would get into the car loudly, fussing to mom. He hadn’t seen her in 12-13 hours and that’s the hello she would get after driving to pick him up. Maybe we were on time to pick dad up, didn’t matter, nine times out of 10 there would be an argument before arriving home. 

We often couldn’t figure out who dad was. He seemed to be married to the mint condition car, freshly swept carport with broom positioned just right (upside down) afterward, clean waxed lawnmower, tools just so on the workbench, even pride in brushing teeth, not mom.

It was similar to having an elephant in the room as far as how a person feels when around him. 

Dad, Can I Borrow the Car?

I flew home to visit for a week last month. My sister picked me up from the airport and took me to my parent’s house where I’d be staying. I’d planned to take mom to Florida to visit family and friends for four days. My sister and I had done a lot of planning to make sure our dad was taken care of while mom and I were gone.

My parents have two cars: one is an old Toyota Corolla; the other is a 2005 Hyundai SUV. Since mom only drives the Toyota, I thought I’d ask to drive the SUV to Florida since I needed a car and since it needed to be driven. I’ve always met resistance when asking to borrow one of my father’s cars, so I expected it this time.

“That would be ‘no’,” he said when I asked to drive the SUV to Florida. “Crossing the state line… to Florida! Two women?” As if this was a high-risk proposition that only got worse the more he thought of it. 

That’s OK, I was prepared. I smiled and said “OK” and changed the subject. But I remembered and wrote down his actual words because they are just too good.

Coffee

Mom drinks tea; my dad drinks coffee, instant. When I’m at their house, I make coffee in a French press.

My dad likes to grocery shop and he looks at the various coffee labels and has had several types and brands of coffee in the house. Somehow, the ground coffee that I drink got put into an empty instant coffee container and mom used it to make coffee for him one morning. Apparently, there was a big blow-up about it. I happened to call that morning. It was an innocent mistake on mom’s part. But my dad hit the ceiling about it. Mom paid the price and heard all the yelling and anger and got accused of serving bad coffee.

Now, thankfully, my dad is making his own coffee. This should have happened a long time ago. Mom now puts the instant coffee container on the table with a cup of hot water and a spoon. (Yes, mom is an enabler.) My dad now measures and makes his own coffee.

Why Is There a Ladder in the Living Room?

I visited my parents a couple weeks ago. Mom had told me not to be surprised by the ladder in the living room. And sure enough, there it was, folded and lying on its side. So, I asked my dad, “why is the ladder in the living room? Do you want me to put it in the basement?”

“No. I got that out to put the new lightbulb over the table,” he said. “I’ll need it again at Christmas to put on the decorations outside the house.”

“But Daddy, this is August and Christmas is in December.”

“Just leave it there. Your sister’s husband offered to put it in the basement too.”

As long as they don’t need to open the front door it won’t be in the way. But the step chair is nearby in the kitchen. Why doesn’t he use it? The answer: he has dementia.

Living with a Demented Person

Is it wrong to call someone with dementia “demented”? It sounds derogatory and yet I think it is the correct terminology.

My dad decided they needed a new washer and dryer. He bought new ones and they were to be delivered about a month apart. My parents have a laundry room. Instead of letting the (young, strong) delivery guys move the old washer out and install the new one, my dad decided to get the ball rolling the night before. He and mom moved the washer and dryer out of the laundry room so when the delivery guys came the next day with the new washer, part of their job was done for them. Yes, my dad is 87 and mom is 83.

The delivery guys moved the old washer out to their truck and put the new washer in the laundry room, but my dad wouldn’t let them connect the hoses. He said it’s his house and he wants to do it his way. (I’ve heard this attitude before: “don’t come in my house and tell me how to do something.”) So that left the old dryer sitting in the breakfast room just outside the laundry room. The new dryer wasn’t scheduled to be delivered for a month so my dad got mom to help him move the dryer back into the laundry room.

I guess I should count my blessings that my folks are healthy enough to do all this. But listening to mom tell me about it on the phone is heartbreaking. I wish mom had a partner who cared about her and treated her with respect. And I wish my dad would see the sense in letting younger, stronger men move heavy appliances. Neither of my wishes will come true because he has dementia.

Grocery Shopping, Kitchen, Eating

Another organization problem area is grocery lists. My parents don’t keep one. But the larger issue is that my dad has taken over the grocery shopping. This has been going on several years. When my sister and I found out, we explained to our dad that “the one doing the cooking needs to do the shopping so they get what they want and need.”

But he likes to shop. However, he will buy what he likes according to the picture on the product. Meal planning doesn’t enter the picture. Mom stopped going to the store with him since he took control of the cart and questioned everything she added to it.

They eat out a lot which is good since my dad complains about cooked meals. Mom has stopped most cooking. Even when I cook for them, my dad complains “it’s too hot,” “it’s too spicy,” “why didn’t you add this to it,” “next time you need to do it this way.”

A strange food story is the time I said something about a bag of rice. My dad looked at me quizzically. “A bag of rice?” I got a bag of rice out of the cabinet and showed him what I meant. Had he never seen a bag of rice? Did he not know that uncooked rice came in bags? Had he never thought about how rice is cooked? Had he just momentarily drawn a blank?

Then, there’s his obsession with kitchen knives. Mom has used the same paring knife and kitchen utility knife all my life. She keeps them laying behind the sink faucet and uses them every day. My dad saw a commercial on TV about a new ceramic knife and he bought one for mom to use. She didn’t want it and didn’t use and that made my dad mad. I explained to him that a cook’s knife is very important and personal to them since they use it a lot. They know what they like. Had he never paid attention to mom’s activities in the kitchen? Thinking back over the years, the answer is “maybe not, no.”

This is an example of my lack of paying attention to what was happening in my own home growing up. I was incognizant of behavior that I took for granted: mom cooked, my dad ate, my sister and I washed the dishes. I never realized that my dad paid no attention to the pots and pans, dishes, or utensils used. He had no role whatsoever in the kitchen. I took it for granted and paid it no attention. I ignored it just as he ignored the kitchen.

I wonder about all this and think “what a weird household I grew up in. How has it affected me?”

The Mail

My dad complains about all the mail my parents get. He’s referring to junk mail. I’ve told him that when he orders from a catalog they know they’ve got a “live one” and will send him more catalogs and share his name and address with other companies. It doesn’t sink in.

I have found a website where I can enter information to stop catalogs being sent to my parents. It’s an endless task.

Meanwhile, when the mail comes in the house, my dad writes the date and “received” on the envelope or the contents of the envelope. I can understand this but it’s a little disconcerting to see dates from three years ago on papers lying on the desk. Also, this is a bit controlling, right?

I think it was around 2008 when I visited my folks one summer. They’d bought a shredder and mom thought I could get rid of some old documents. Wow, was I in for a surprise! She brought shopping bags of financial papers from 10 or so years back to the garage where I’d set up the shredder. I know I’ve been guilty of this, but I’d just never thought about my parents’ sensitive documents.

Then, when I had several plastic trash bags full of shredded papers ready to put in their garbage, my dad had a problem with that. He thought the trash company would see shredded documents as an opportunity to glean sensitive information. He wanted me to put the trash bags in the basement. I did as he asked, but eventually they all found their way into the garbage.