A Place For Old Men

Dear Hearts,

I ran the dishwasher last night. I even washed the coffee pot. I put the smiley face note on the coffee maker: “Dishes Clean J” I usually leave the dishwasher for G-Pa to unload because it gives him something to do. He didn’t unload it. He just added dirty dishes to it. I will just do it again tonight. I may have to hand wash a fork. Goddamnit.

His short term memory is getting worse. I can start telling him on Tuesday that I am working at Burning Bed on Thursday and Friday nights. But, by Friday he is surprised to learn I am on my way out to Burning Bed.

But he is gonna mow the yard today. It’s nice out—not cool, not hot—perfect. I am not going to wrest the lawnmower from his hands. He is going to the grocery now to get a few things, to the gas station to get gas for the mower, and to the auto parts store to get spark plugs. He says he can go by himself.

God forgive me. I am grateful. I hate going to the fucking grocery store. For him, it’s an outing.

Dr. Swede cancelled yesterday for pie—so I took G-Pa for pie (I had my own selfish peanut butter pie motives) and a drive. We drove for an hour. He REALLY, HONESTLY likes driving in the country. I cannot understand why. I don’t begrudge him that pleasure.

Tonight, when he talks to Mom, he can tell her that he “accomplished” something today.

Oh, and by the by, the lawn doesn’t need mowing.

It’s a paradox—he NEEDS to do these things. If we kept him in his TV chair, he would surely die. He can’t remember or observe when the dishes are clean.  Yet, he remembers when Old Man Cooper lived 63 years ago. But, we worry. I don’t want him to fall while mowing.

That’s my greatest fear: G-Pa suffering. When it is time for him to join Gram, he will. I just don’t want his journey there to include a broken hip and a hospital. I’m not so worried that he’ll have a heart attack while mowing—but that he would hurt himself.

He just came back ‘cuz he forgot his wallet.

If he “hurts” himself, he won’t be able to recover. I don’t want him to die the way my other grandparents did. After long suffering infirmities, we sat at their bedsides waiting for them, praying for them to stop breathing.

He is a proud man. He needs to do these things to feel like he is still a man and has a job to do.

It’s just such a paradox—that he is surprised Aunt Faerie was going to Chicago this morning (although I told him thus every day) BUT he can fix the spark plugs in the mower.

It’s sad. Maybe, more sad for those of us around him though. He doesn’t remember that I told him where Aunt Faerie was going five times. I’m not gonna lie. It does get frustrating—like when he mixed up the dirty and clean dishes. But, it’s a momentary frustration that passes. He deserves love, patience, compassion, dignity, and quality of life. It’s our turn to care for him as he cared for us.

I want to see him mowing next year, too.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.