Sunday, July 16
Over breakfast, I said to Don, "You know, you called me 'Dad' last
night."
"I know," he said. "It's not the first time."
I was glad he remembered. It had been dark in the room when I
came to bed around 1:00 AM. Don had rolled over onto my side
of the bed. When I came over to see what was
up, he'd said, "Dad, I need to go to the bathroom." It was a little
alarming. Was this a symptom? Or was
he just confused, waking in the middle of the night?
He didn't seem at all confused this morning. "It's a little
embarrassing," he said. "I was just looking for someone in
a position of authority to help me."
"Well, that would be me."
"It's my way of saying 'Help!'"
"Or, 'Hey, Big Person in Charge!'"
He laughed, adding, "'Help, Cecil, help!'"
We both laughed, remembering Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent.
"Well," I finally said, "I'm happy to be your Dad, so long as
I can still be your lover."
He thought that was a fine idea. It's nice that gay culture has
a nitch for these kinds of relationships.
|
|
Monday, July 17
|
|
Tuesday, July 18
Maha came and spent the night. What a relief! She tended Don
as well as she could, which meant that I got six continuous
hours of sleep fir the first time since Don when into the
hospital with pneumonia.
|
|
Wednesday, July 19
The suppliers for the hospice's medical equipment came and
gave Don a new bed (exactly like the old one), a new walker
(exactly like the old one), and a different commode (not as
nice: no padded armrests). They also tried to replace the
wheelchair, but it was inferior to the one we had and I
refused to accept delivery.
|
|
Thursday, July 20
This morning, I was on the phone
Jennipher came and fixed us a delicious lunch and spent a brief
time with Don in quiet meditation.
|
|
Friday, July 21
Don has been suffering from agitation around sunset for the past several
nights. It's a well-known behavior pattern, typical for people with
Alzheimer's and other brain disorders. They call it "sundowning."
This night, it seems to last well past sundown.
I was sleeping in
the livingroom where I could be available if Don needed me in the night.
He did.
"Dad?"
I got up from the mattress on the floor.
"I'm here, Don. It's Lou."
"Dad, please help. I've got to go. Please help, Dad."
"You don't have to go anywhere, sweetie. You're fine right here."
"Please help."
"You just have to relax. Relax. It will come to you."
"I've got to go. Please help."
"You don't need to do anything. It will come to you. Like autumn
comes. Or like a flower, waiting for spring. It'll come and the
flower will bloom."
"Ah, bummer."
"What? I thought that was a beautiful metaphor."
"Takes too long."
|
|
Saturday, July 22
Davis came by today. He was sweet, sincere. He spoke cheerily
of his hiking adventures. He seemed very intersted in the location
of Rancho Cicada, the gay-run nude campground in the Sierra
foothills where I had gone nude square dancing.
We also chatted about my work, which he had never heard described
before. I boasted that I'd gotten pretty good a memory management,
even anticipating and fixing bugs before the customer had noticed
them. Don has always encouraged me to be proud of my work, so I
said to him, "I'm pretty good at memory management, aren't I?"
"Well, you're a lot better at it than I am," he said, which cracked
us up.
Later, when it's time for Davis to go, he takes Don's hand in his.
Don gives him a very focused look, very intentional. You can tell
he is really "there". "I love you, Vivekan" Davis tells him.
"I love you, too," Don replies, and I know this is not the
tit-for-tat bartering that Swami Satchitananda disparaged.
This is one heart speaking to another.
AFterwards, as he is leaving the room, Davis leans into my arms,
weeping. I hold him and feel oddly calm and comforted.
Later, I tell Rémy, "It's funny, but everyone else seems to
be falling apart, but I'm not. And I don't think I will."
"You will," she says. "Later, when you're not so busy."
|
|