Dad's blood infection improves. His white blood cell count lowered yesterday... which almost sounds bad.
But it's good.
It means his body feels that
he needs less cells
to fight off the infection.

He still has a bit of pneumonia... but
he seemed better today
no smiles or anything
but he tried to speak a little
and was more aware.
I spent almost an hour with him attempting to
work out his legs.
He lies in a very...
strange
sort of natal positionish way
his legs bent
and held tightly to his chest
NOT by his arms
but by almost atrophied muscles in his legs
I massaged his legs
and little by little
(watching his face intently for any pain)
I moved his stubborn legs...
20 minutes later I had the first one straight
I exercised it (My mom then took over on that leg while I worked to unbend the other)
a little tricky because the
other leg had gotten wedged under his but
and
the catheter (a tube attached to his penis) was also intertwined within the mess of legs
gently I was able to free the second leg
and again my mother took over
as I went back to the first.

We left him, looking quite comfortable, legs extended... asleep
I hope better than when we entered.

Day 49

I spent the morning writing for class

the afternoon visiting Dad

and the evening finalizing all our work for both classes.

It was a tough day.

Yesterday, if you logged on, I made you read a really looooong play.

So today let's just leave it at this...

Tomorrow I promise more

promised play

This is my final project for my class
our job was to adapt one or more of our works for the stage
I chose to adapt a little of all three...

enjoy



(Stage is dark. We can here scratching and movement in the darkness. We begin to hear the old man moaning, maybe mumbling but nothing coherent. Lights begin a slow fade up. We can see center stage, Old Man. He lies in the bed. He is attempting to get out of the bed. We then begin to hear the sounds of a television. Lights up slowly on Woman stage right. She sits in a rocking chair with her back to us. She faces a small television. The sound from the TV should be distorted, but every now and then a word or phrase can be clearly heard.)

Television
Next Up, William Shatner dances the Tango…

Man
Bill? Bill! I’ve got to get… HELP! I need to get… Hey! Hey! Isn’t there anyone? Okay… I can.. if I (moving legs and trying in vain to get them over railing) If I just… no… noooo… Bill pleeease!

Television
Do you feel an uncomfortable itch?

Old Man
Yes!

Television
Have you tried Vagisil?

Old Man
What? I can’t understand you?

Television
Vagisil is the… for you…

Old Man
You are not making sense! (trying to remove railing) Who put this… son of a bitch… gate here. Where is the latch on this gate! BILL!

(from offstage we can hear the voice of a nurse and young man. Their voices should be heard as if they are muffled or distorted in some way.)

Nurse
You must try to change his diaper 3 times a day.


Young Man
Yes, yes. We do… I do.

Old Man
Who are you? What? What do you want me to…

Nurse
How is his appetite?

Young Man
Oh. He’s good. He eats well.

Nurse
He needs a lot of fluids. Fluids will help him with his bowels.

Old Man
Shit. Shit.

Nurse
He has constipation, I understand?

Old Man
Shiiiiit!

Young Man
Yes. Badly.

Nurse
You should give him a mild laxative in the morning and two stool softener pills daily. And have him drink lots of fluids.

Old Man
I want a goddamned vodka and tonic!

Young Man
Yes we will. I will.

Old Man
With three olives… I said OLIVES!

Nurse
He has fourth stage Alzheimer Disease. You have to be very careful when feeding him. Keep him upright and only allow him to take small sips when he drinks. This will reduce the possibility of aspiration. I’ll be back in three days. Any questions?


Old Man
Yes! Where’s my fucking drink?

Young Man
No. No, thank you.

Nurse
Goodbye Mrs. Roberts!

Old Man
(sings to himself, still trying to get out of the bed) God bless you please Mrs. Robinson…

Woman
(Doesn’t turn around) Oh? Thank you. Thank you for coming.

(Young man enters onto stage. Lights up on a chair. He sits in the chair.)

Man
Oh god. This is… shit, shit… just get me… give me… Bill? Mom! Oh help… help me… I got to go… I got to… please

Young man
Dad? (When young man speaks to Old Man it should sound like it is coming through a distorted microphone. Like the voice of an extra terrestrial.) Dad?

Old Man
NO! Don’t… let me… oh GOD. (looks at young man) BILL!

Young Man
Bill is dead dad.

Old Man
Shut up! NO! Mommy!

Young Man
And your mother… I never knew her. I’m your son.

Old Man
You’re my horse Bill… help me. I’ve got to get… a fucking vodka and tonic with three… lilies… lollipops…

Young Man
Dad, just relax. It’s night. It’s time to go to sleep.


Old Man
OLIVES! Bill?

Young man
Dad, you are home now. We took you home from the hospital.

Old Man
Horse portal?

Young Man
This is your room.

Old Man
Hey! Bill! Can you get me a vodka?

Young Man
Dad? I’m your son. Brad.

Old Man
Brad?

Young Man
Yes.

Old Man
Brad. Can you get…

Brad
Yes?

Old Man
Get… Get … Get…

Young Man
(reaches out his hand to touch his father’s arm.)
It’s me, Brad. (he touches the old man’s arm and there is a flash of light and an electric drill sound. Old Man screams as lights go dark. After the scream lights go up on Old man. He is riding his bed as if it where a horse. Pillows become the horses head and body. He is no longer sick. He is younger now, about 35

Old Man
Get up in there! (clicking with his tongue) Wooooe. Easy girl, easy. I’ve been riding horses since I was 3 years old. I swear it. There’s this old black and white photograph we have… from 1938. There I am, up on old Bill. Dad’s arm is extended and supports my body so I won’t fall. My face… what a face! The eyes, and the smile… something like this (He makes a face.) Horses made life so much more… well, just more, I guess. If you know what I mean. (sees young man who has been watching him the whole time.) Hey there little man.

Young man
(He is now 6 years old. His voice is no longer affected) Hi Daddy!

Old Man
You wanna get on board? (dismounts and holds out sheets as reins for the young man)

Young Man
I’ll fall off!

Old Man
What? (starts to pet pillows as if it is the horse’s head) You hear that, Bill? You think you’d let my son fall off? This is my son Bradly. He comes from a long line of horsemen. Way back to the Mayflower!

Young Man
I do?

Old Man
Why he’s an American Horseman. Would you let a real American Horseman fall? (moves horses head from side to side) How bout I sit you up there?

Young Man
Okay. (Old man helps young man onto bed. Young man looks afraid. When he is on horse) Can we call this horse Mayflower too?

Old Man
Giddyup! (There is a sound of a cracking whip the “horse” bucks and the young man screams in delight. Lights go to black. The young man’s scream becomes the old mans scream and the lights come up on the old man in his bed and the young man touching his arm.)

Young Man
It’s only me. Your son, Brad, Remember? Oh Dad. I wish I could… help… could make it better. Do you want some food? Are you hungry? I’ll get you some food. (exits)

Old Man
(As Old Man speaks the Woman goes to television, crouches and turns volume down. As man calls out she turns and begins to move downstage. She remains crouching the whole time… eyes forward… but nearing level with the Old Man) NO!! I want to die… I want to DIE. PLeeeease! Let me…. Get me… I want… help…. MOM!



Woman
I am not your mother. (as woman speaks her voice sounds like an angel’s)

Old Man
Who?

Woman
You don’t want to die.

Old Man
Die?

Woman
No. You don’t want to die. Who will feed the horses if you’re gone?

Old Man
I.. I.. I…

Woman
(she stands and begins to move closer to the man) Sweetheart… It’s me.

Old Man
Oh! (He stretches out a hand.) I can’t believe… it’s been a long time.

Woman
I’ve been here all the time. You’re home dear.

Old Man
I am? It’s you..

Woman
Yes…

Old Man
You

Woman
Yes

Old Man
Mommy!

Woman
I am not your… she was a beautiful woman.… I’m… I’m an old woman. I’m your wife.


Old Man
My life?!

Woman
Wife

Old Man
I’m married?

Woman
For 48 years.

Old Man
What the hell did I go and do that for?

Woman
Don’t you (old man still stretches out his hand) remember? We have a son… and our house… and (she touches his hand and lights out. Lights come up on the two of them. They are sitting at opposite sides of the bed. It is their wedding night. They are both shy. They are much younger.)

Old Man
You’re shaking

Woman
(Her voice no longer sounds like an angel’s) Yes.

Old Man
I could come over there (starts to stand)

Woman
No! … just… give me a minute… I… I’m sorry, but I never…

Old Man
Of course.

Woman
Mom, she never talked about it.

Old Man
Yes.

Woman
Your Dad?


Old Man
No.

Woman
Oh. So neither of us know…

Old man
My brother George told me.

Woman
George!?

Old man
Well… yes. He… Dad and I don’t talk much. Oh… and the horses.

Woman
You… talked to the horses?

Old Man
No.. no.

Woman
(shocked) You didn’t…? With the horses!?

Old Man
What? Oh NO! I wouldn’t… No. We breed horses.

Woman
Oh that sounds…. I don’t want to think… that sounds…

Old Man
The mare… she stands there… shaking… no sort of shivering. And we bring out the stallion. He’s ready to go. His Chest is all puffed up. There’s a crazy fire in his eye. We walk him by her a few times… he’s shivering too.. no he’s… his muscles are quivering. It drives him crazy to be so… so close to her… but he can’t… feel her yet. (Old man moves closer to the center of the bed)

Woman
And the mare? What does she do?

Old Man
She watches… waits. Stares at him… every minute move he makes she sees it with those big dark horse eyes of hers. She’s watching… and sort of breathing.

Woman
Then what?

Man
Well, he’s ready… her scent (he smells the woman’s neck) drives him insane… he can harldy… hold himself back… we take him to her… she is ready… he rears up in the air… his great front hooves touch her back (Old Man’s hands touch the womans shoulders and bring her in closer to him) She tenses up a little… but just for a moment… then she kinda relaxes. He is ready… she is ready…

Woman
It sounds

Old Man
He enters her

Woman
Horrible!

Old Man
It’s not. It’s not horrible. It’s beautiful.

Woman
Doesn’t it hurt? The mare I mean…

Old Man
(whispers) I will never hurt you (lights down. Lights up on Woman and Old Man. He is holding her hand as before. He is kissing it.)

Woman
I love you (Suddenly he bites her hand as the son enters with a plate of food.) Ow! Damnit! Damn you (she nurses her hand.)

Young Man
He is hungry Mom.

Old Man
Mom? Mommy.

Woman
I am not your mom!

Young Man
He doesn’t know what he is doing…

Woman
I am your wife! (She quickly goes back to TV.)

Young Man
Mom! Don’t go… I need your…

Old Man
Mommy, don’t go I need!

Young Man
I’m your son Dad. Brad. I brought you some food. Are you hungry? (Old man shakes his head.) Here … I have to get you ready first. (Young Man goes to bed to get Old Man ready. He must fluff and pile the pillows to get Old Man to sit upright. He should try several ways. Each time the old man should slide to one side… or the other… or lean forward to far… finally Young Man finds a way to get Old Man upright. He then begins feeding.) It’s lasagna. Here have a bite. (Young Man feeds Old Man using a spoon. Old Man clamps down on spoon) Okay dad. Give me the spoon back. (They fight over the spoon for a moment… then son gets spoon out of mouth) You have to eat the lasagna… Is it good? It’s pasta, ground beef, mozzarella cheese, and tomato sauce… you know… with spices and stuff (Young man gives old man second spoonful again they have a fight over the spoon) We always used to have this at special occasions. Christmas and Easter… Do you remember (another spoonful goes to mouth… this spoonful is a little early… Old Man hasn’t swallowed the last yet… but takes the new amount of food anyway.) We loved this lasagna together… Mom would make it (gives old man another spoon) we would laugh and drink soda and eat lasagna (another spoonful, now old man is chewing furiously to keep up) Everybody loved it… all the family raved (another spoonful) everyone had seconds (another spoonful) everyone (another spoonful) ate (another) ate it (this time when Young man forces spoon into Old Mans Mouth, Old Man begins coughing. The cough is deep. Pieces of food should fly every where. As He cough woman should again come down stage) Dad? (Young Man looks at plate, then at spoon. He continues to look at them as Old Man continues to cough)

Old Man
(the cough should build to a climax, almost as if the Oln Man is near choking to death. As the Woman arrives at the bed, the old man should suddenly stop coughing. He should lick his lips and swallow any food remaining in his mouth.) Mhhmmm

Woman
You like that?

Old Man
Yes, more…

Woman
You want more?




Old Man
More… mommy (Woman goes to Young Man and retrieves the dish and spoon. She then daintily takes the spoon and holds it up to the Man’s mouth. He eats it. A smile appears on his face.) If you like it that much, I’ll make more next week)

(lights out)

Day 48

Things look worse for Dad.
Is it a cop out to write
that I just can't write right now?
Am I allowed to do that?
Does it fit into the plan of the account of my blog?

I am so tired (again) but for different reasons.
I have to read and write so much in just 48 hours.
I am confused

Day 47

I learned something today...
This is a thing which can only be learned by experience.
Personal experience yields different knowledge to an individual
maybe my experience teaches me something
someone else has learned in a different way
or maybe
the same experience would teach somebody else
or even myself at a different time in my life
a different lesson altogether

Here is what I learned

To be an adult is not to be given responsibility

Yo be an adult is to acknowledge that there is a responsibility to be taken
and to accept that you, (the instant adult) are the best one present to handle that responsibility.
In the acceptance is the transition from child to adult

Today my mother and I went to visit my father at the hospital.
His blood is better.
His cough is gone.

However... he does not seem to be swallowing properly
nor even swallow at all.

We listened to a lot of doctor talk.
We asked our questions...
then it was time to make some decisions.
I called my sister... I called dad's family doctor
I looked at my mom... inside pleading for her to take control...
I found solace no where
I found support... but no answers

I realized in that moment
those moments
that there is no one else willing
or able to make those decisions
I told myself
You arethe decision maker
what you decide now will impact the future
you have no control over the future
only the present
so take that control

and I did. And it felt strange
I could feel something leave me... and something else enter.

Next week (unless by some miracle Dad begins swallowing again) Dad will have a tube connected directly to his stomach
through which we will feed him.
This is a big deal
because it means
1. He will no longer eat (eating is about the last human pleasure he takes part in)
and
2. It is the beginning of the end. By doing this we set in motion a series of events which lead to his decline.

And in today's situation... I was the one who had to say the... "yes, that's best." and the "I think we shoulds..."

This isn't me... but now it is

I feel so alone

day 46

Today was Thanksgiving
I write this because many of you are not American and may not know it

I write to you with a bloated stomach
and a deep need for sleep.
My bed is right behind me, you know?
It's a big bed... and unfortunately it's only Bubble and me who sleep in it.
But tonight I don't care.
I just want to intersperse myself into the blankets
osmose my head into the pillows
rest rest rest


I wrote another play for class.
This play we had to choose one of our earlier poems and stories and then adapt them for the stage (which is why our last play shouldn't have had the same theme as all the rest.)
I began by adapting my first poem... then added my second poem and THEN added my story as well.
It became this weird sort of Sam Shepardish (I am thinking about Fool For Love here) thing.

I am not sure it's a play.

I will not post it today. I am waiting for feedback from my fellow students... I feel like
I like it... I actually do but
I don't feel as if it's ready yet.

So what do I write tonight?

My youngest Niece is very sick. She caughht strep throat last week
this week my sister found that she had an allergic reaction to the antibiotic
her tongue is all white
everything hurts
she refuses to eat
and will only drink juice or water

it's amazing because
right now my dad can't eat either

they are only filling him with liquids

so she and he
have for the same number of days
not eaten (about 3 and a half)
The difference is that she is a trooper
youth supports her
she almost shines as she refuses to eat

my father melts away
grays
loses himself

Tomorrow I am sure both my father and my niece will eat
I hope they both enjoy it

Imagine for my Niece
a Thanksgiving when
all you can do
is watch everyone else enjoying all the food
and sip from a Capri-Sun

day 45

A quick blog to say
That dad is doing better.
His fever is gone.
He was much more awake today and getting angry at the nurses... which is a good sign.

A part of me does wish that he'd go in the opposite direction.
But most of me is happy that he is well.

Honesty, right?

I think I am sick
because I don't want to do anything except sleep.


And I feel that I can't make these blogs very interesting
I feel like I should be able to log on every day and have "something" to say.
But what if I don't?

Ill try a different Dad memory tonight.

hmmmm

How about he story from Dad's childhood?
When my father was 10 years old he used to go to a small stream near his house and collect some sort of reed that grew there. These he would weave into little baskets and sell them for a penny each. (seriously!)
One day he was walking along the water searching for these reeds... and he saw something odd.. was it a hat? Was that an arm?
At first he thought it was a drunk man having passed out the night before and still sleeping it off in the morning... but as he neared... the smell and the flies clued him in on the truth.
He was 10

He ran like crazy! Told no one because he was too freaked out.

In the afternoon (my father's parents owned a corner store and their home was the second floor of the building.) my father played upstairs in his room. He heard a car pull into the lot and looking outside he found the police entering the store.
He ran to the top of the stairs and crouched down.
He covered his mouth because he was worried they'd hear his breathing...

"Hello Mrs. S." said a policeman. "Can we ask you a few questions?"
my Dad gulped.
"Sure, what's it about?" His mm happily replied.
"Well, we'd like to know if you've seen anything strange today?"
my Dad gulped again.
"No, why?"
"We found a deadman out by ?creek. And we think it may have been a murder."
"I don't know... Haven't seen anything, but let me get my son. I think he was playing out there today."

My Dad ran to his room and hid under his bed... his mom looked aroun for him and called but couldn't find him anywhere.

"Im sorry" she told the police after returning to the store. He must have gone out again."
"Well. If you see him later ask him if he saw anything."
"Will do."

My Dad... in his ten year old mind thought
that because he'd been there
the police would assume he'd done it
and he'd be taken to prison
and maybe electrocuted.

day 44

Now dad has a room at the hospital.
room 1200.
The official diagnosis today, given by a indecipherable Doctor
is as follows
He has pneumonia
he is dehydrated
he has a urine infection
which
has entered his blood
so
he has a blood infection too.

This means it is quite serious... how serious?
WHo knows?
I tried to ask the doctor but...
he was so expressionless
almost cold
he asked us if Dad had a living will
but I think that that is just protocol.
There is a chance they may have to do something if the blood infection gets worse (for example his blood pressure mae drop rapidly)
But i feel that that wont happen.
When we took him in he wasn't so bad.
I think it is on a scale with mononucleosis ... which I know is a terrible thing to have
but it isn't deadly
especially when you have it at a hospital
hooked up to antibiotics
and getting daily care...
plus my father just doesn't look that bad.

so I guess we wait for two days
the doc said
he should improve by then.

day 43

43 days later
my father goes into the hospital.

He woke up, almost the same as every morning.
But
One eye had swelled during the night
puss oozed from it
and he couldn't use it properly.

He also had developed a cough.
and it sounded... wet?

He ate his breakfast... but then something happened. He just stopped responding.
I mean even more than with the Alzheimers
I even got his arm mistakenly caught in the wheelchair (to which he usually screams in pain) and... nothing... complete silence.

I knew something was wrong.

Called the Doctor
my sister
and then the ambulance.
I tried to sound calm and... not worried on the phone. (I didn't want sirens and screaming EMTs. I mean my Dad was sleeping and snoring... okay he had phlegm pouring out of his mouth as well... but he was snoring. You can't be that sick if you are snoring, can you?)

The paramedics came (6 OF THEM!) and 2 policemen came as well... ahhh. the American tax dollar.
We followed behind.

In the hospital we waited. We listened to nurses. We found that he was just on the verge of developing pneumonia and he had a slight urinary infection. When Alzheimer patients get infections they tend to shut down and quit responding. They told us we had done the right thing to bring him in. It is so much better to catch it now than wait until it gets bad.

In the hospital I looked at my dad... these spaghetti twisty plastic tubes flowing around his head and his bed like calligraphy gone wild. He snored again.
Why are we doing this? I thought. What kind of life is this. He'll wake in the morning and have no idea where he is. He wakes here in the morning and has no idea where he is. What can he possibly be getting out of living this life?
Am I talking like a... uncaring shitty no-good pessimist? I just can't pretend here. I am with him all day long... where is even the possibility of joy in his life?

why are any of us alive? We may not be able to answer but we know there is an answer... somewhere. Where is that answer for him?

Hey! Try to read it before Monday noon EST.
I have to give it in tomorrow.
I have grown to like it
S, thank you for your suggestion... maybe I will write something about my trip to Snezka with T.
If any one does not know about that trip I suggest they go here:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMwDUlfe__o



Here is my play.
Oh! and if you happen to be one of the characters... Jim, David or Mike.... please know that I know NOTHING like this ever happened! I was completely happy with K, when we were together. And we never watched porn... I know... but I remember "intelevision" and "prism" and "D&D" with deep fondness!


Come Out to Play
[Set: Living room in the 1980’s. There is a tv with Atari and several games strewn around. Piles of school books mixed with other books and papers on end tables and floor. Two posters adorn the walls. One is of Madonna/Like a Virgin the other Van Halen/Jump. A black ashtray sits atop one pile. An open dominoes pizza box with two slices remaining sits on the coffee table. Television is down center facing backstage. Mike 15, David 14 and Jim 15 sit around the living room. They are all wearing jeans or courduroy pants with t-shirts. They are playing D&D.]


Mike: (holds Dungeon Masters Hndbk) You see an Elven enchantress before you. In her hand she holds a golden ring. What do you do?

David: What color hair?

Mike: Wha?

David: The enchantress. What color hair does she have?

Mike: I dunno… (David sighs) okay. Black hair.

David: I like blonds.

Mike: So do you talk with her?

David: Is she tall?

Jim: I take out my +3 attack dagger and I try to kill her.

Mike: What?

David: Is she like one of those short Santa elves or a… like tall woodland elf?

Mike: You want to kill her?

Jim: Where’s Keith anyway? We need our 9th level magic user to fireball her or somethin.

David: I bet she’s tall. Big boobs.

Mike: He’s on a date with Katie… You’re really gonna try and… an enchantress?

Jim: Yea. Kill the bitch.

David: With long sleek silky legs that sort of shine in the moonlight.

Mike: (annoyed he roles the dice) It’s a friggin dungeon. There is no moonlight! (looks at roll and smiles) You try to kill her with your dagger and she turns you into a toad. She says she’ll turn you back if you stop being an idiot. (waits) well?

Jim: How can I say anything? Im a friggin toad.

Mike: Think it. She’s clairvoyant.

David: Hey. I ask her what she’s doing later?

Mike: What?!

David: Like… later… after enchanting all day. What does she plan on doing… like… tonight?

Mike: Go to the bathroom and take your wet dream with you… jeese. (looks at Jim) Well?

Jim: I’m thinking it. I hope she can hear me. (puts hands on his forehead and makes a thinking sound.)

Mike: Look. If you guys don’t wanna play, let’s just forget it.

David: I wanna play! I want that elf girl!

Jim; Sorry. Okay. Fine… turn me back.

Mike: She takes out her wand.

David: where does she take it from?

Mike: My God… okay. She takes it from her bra, alright? She takes the wand out of her bodice… slowly… and she looks directly at you while she does it. There’s this look in her eyes, like she’s got this secret she wants to tell you later and the whole time the wand is coming out of the space between her breasts… the neckline of her dress slips over one of her breasts, you can see part of the nipple… she licks the wand with her tongue and moans at the same time…

David: (envisioning it) You are a great Dungeon Master…

Mike: (to Jim) Then she turns you back into a hobgoblin thief.

Jim: Okay. I try to kill her again.

Mike: What?! You son of a…

[There’s a knock on the door.]

Mike: Bastard.

David: Maybe it’s an elven enchantress. (runs to door to answer)

Jim: Let’s play Atari or somethin… (begins to set up game)

Mike: You are an ass.

(David opens the door and Keith stands there. Dressed like a preppy. Short sleeve button down shirt. V-neck sweater. Khaki shorts… socks match his shirt… Docksiders.)

Keith: Hey Dave… sorry I’m late.

David: Hey, come on in.

Keith: I mean it was Katie and all… we saw a film… and then she wanted to take a stroll.. you know… romantic stuff… moonlight. I hope your mom doesn’t mind Im comin over so late…

David: She’s not here. She won’t be back til Sunday. So just us tonight. (He nudges Keith and smiles secretively)

Keith: (coming into living room) Hey.

Mike: Hey, Keith.

Jim: (looking at tv screen he raises one hand and burps as he forms the word “hello” out of his burp.)

Keith: Sorry I’m late. I had a date… Katie… we went to the movies. Then… you know… moonlight and walking.

Mike: It’s only 9:30

Keith: Yea? Well… early film.

Mike: What film?

Jim: (at TV) Die you Martian android dickheads!

Keith: You know.. that comedy. You know… girls like those.

David: Did you sit in the back row? (begins to snicker)

Jim: (still watching TV) Fuck the back row!

Mike: What’s the name of the film?

Keith: I don’t… don’t remember.

Jim: Shit! (sound of death on Atari)

David: You weren’t watchin the movie, right? You were in the back row… and when the lights went down… (makes kissing motions)

Keith: Yea. Right. I wasn’t watching the film.

Mike: you sly dog!

Jim: How far did you go?

Keith: You mean on the walk? Just around the park and all…

Jim: Knuckle brains. What base? 1st? 2nd? Center field? (makes rude gesture)

Keith: You know. It was the movies…

Jim: Foul ball. I’ve seen you play baseball.

Keith: We just kissed and… it was the movie theatre… God… we do that other stuff… that baseball stuff in her room… after the walk.

Jim: A regular Mike Schmidt.

Keith: Well at least I’m palyin some baseball and not sitting at home with a joystick in my hand. (looks at David) Are we playin?

Mike: Not now.

Jim: Takin a little break… YOU SON OF A BITCH! (sound of death again)

Keith: Why not?

Mike: Better things to do tonight.

Jim: That ghost just screwed my pacman.

Keith: (looks at Mike who says nothing just smiles. Then he looks at David and begins to remove his sweater.) What?

David: We got a… surprise.

Mike: Surprises.

Jim: (putting joystick down) You ordered some strippers? Like in Risky Business?

Mike: No. Be right back. (Mike and David start to exit)

David: You can do that for real?

Keith: You don’t want any skanky prostitutes. It’s not like the movies.

Jim: Just skanky girlfriends are ok?

Keith: Hey! Katie is not…

Jim: Well, you do that stuff in her room, right? (starts singing Like a Virgin)

Keith: Katie’s not like that.

Jim: So you haven’t hit a homer?

Keith: Yes, of course we did but… like… romantic

Jim: Yeah… sure. After the film tonight? Then you took a walk under the moon right? What like a 10 minute walk?

Keith: Just holdin hands and… what girls like

Jim: Yeah, right. So film, quick walk and what? A five minute screw? It’s only 9:30 man.

Keith: Shut up. At least I have a girl and I’m not stuck at home with my father’s old magazines and a jar of Vaseline.

Jim: Hey! We have a beta machine at home! Magazines are like… the 70s.

Keith: Go to hell.

J: You are such a tight ass. You are so wound up about everything dude.
Nothing is that serious my friend. Lighten up. I’m just joshen you. We are 15 years old. We play D&D. We talk about chicks. We are young. Be cool man. Just relax and be 15 man.


(Mike and David return. Mike is carrying a paper bag and David is carrying a Video)

David: It’s Indiana Bone and the Raiders of the lost Pork! (Keith looks disgusted)

Jim: No way (checks out film) I hope it’s better than Star Whores.

Mike: (opens bag and takes out bottle) Mad dog 20-20.

Jim: It’s going to be one hell of a night boys.

(lights down.)

Scene II

(in the darkness we here the sounds of a porn film… bad dialogue… moans and classic porn music. Lights come up on the same set. Dimmer lighting. 4 boys are in front of the TV. Mike Jim and David are watching the film. Keith is sitting not facing the TV. All have various glasses in their hands, occasionally taking drinks except Keith… who sometimes looks into the cup.)

David: Wait! Pause that. Rewind.

Mike (rewinds and plays over) Jesus, is that even possible?

Jim: Seeing is believing.

David: Hey Keith?

Keith: What?

David: Is that possible?

Mike: Have you ever… you know… done that? (Keith watches the TV set for a moment and turns away.)

Jim: Yeah, Mike Schmidt. Tell us. What is it like?

Mike: Come on.

Keith: Stop making fun of me.

Mike: we’re not

David: Yeah, Keith … come on. You’re the only guy we know who’s done it. I mean what is it like?

Keith: Huh?

Jim: Sex. You idiot. He wants to know about sex.

Dave: What… what happens?

Keith: It’s on the tape.

Jim: So you do that?

Keith: No. Not that.

Jim: So, what do you do?

Keith: It’s none of you’re…

Mike: Come on Keith.

David: yeah… tell us something.

Keith: Jesus. Well you… you get naked

Jim: Oh, really genius?

Keith: and then you…

Mike: Go down on her?

Keith: Huh? Yea… that

Jim: Take her from behind. Get milked by her? Go around the world?

Keith: No, I…

Mike: Come on Jim

Jim: Hide the salami? Give her a pearl necklace?

Keith: I…

Jim: Tell us what have you done with Katie?

Keith: I didn’t okay. I have never had sex okay. No baseball. No nothing. Now fuck off you horny bastards.

Jim: I knew it!

Mike: You never? With Katie.

Jim: All this fuckin time. All these “late” Friday nights. You never even… I knew it.

Mike: But she’s your girl friend… jeese

Jim: I knew the only bone he ever had was his head!

(Mike and Jim go back to watching film.)

David: (putting his hand on Keith’s shoulder) That’s okay

Keith: It’s so stupid. Who cares anyway?

Dave: I’ve never had sex. They’ve never had sex either… right?

Jim: (still watching film) But I should with Katie…

David: Well you don’t right?! So shut up, until you do have sex, alright?

Jim: I’m sorry…

Dave: What?

Jim: For lying… I just thought…

Dave: Oh who cares… hey I bet there’ll be a three-way scene! There hasn’t been one of those yet. (David sits down to watch film. Keith watches him sit… thinks for a moment, drinks his entire glass in one swig, grabs the bottle to pore more alcohol and then joins the rest of the guys. Lights down)

Scene III

(lights up. Same set… The TV screen is only snow. Mike and Jim have fallen asleep strewn out on the floor. David and Keith sit on the couch.)

David: I can’t wait.

Keith: What?

David: you know… sex. Get a girl and all.

Keith: Oh… it’s not…

David: It must be so… God.

Keith: But it isn’t so…

David: How do you know? You never …

Keith: I tried. I tried it ok…

David: But you said…

Keith: I know, I know…

David: You tried? What do you mean?

Keith: Tonight. There was no film. I went to her house… her parents were at some party… and… and we were there and we were… naked… I thought, I thought I should go.. you know.. down there. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it. It was sickening to me… and I didn’t know what to do so I sort of put my hand down there… and Katie she… she tensed and then her breathing changed you know… it got all heavy and like the color purple or crimson or something… and she’s moving herself all up against me… and I… I mean… it felt so weird… wrong… but we kissed and she took control and… then the condom.. and then… there I was.. inside her but… she put me inside her… but it was nothing like… I mean I was there and I felt it… because of the friction and everything like science… Christ Im 15… I mean of course I was… a flippin breeze could make me… a cat sitting on my lap… I mean anything… so I was… but I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t feel… so I closed my eyes

David: Wow

Keith: I closed my eyes and thought about anything. Anything else but… I thought about my Algebra homework due on Monday. I thought about this vacation we had last summer in Pennsylvania. She … Katie… she went wild beneath me… like bucking horses or Han Solo navigating through an asteroid field… I thought about D&D and my Mom and … I thought of you. (David says nothing. Just looks at Keith. Keith leans in to kiss David. They kiss. David is very tense.)

David; You know Madonna. She’s hot. I mean seriously… like on music television. Do you have that? It’s on cable. They call it M.T.V. Music TV, get it? Her videos… Madonna’s …I mean hot. But, you know … I think I am more of a Christie Brinkly guy… Uptown Girl… you know a classy chick. A real girl who wears real girl clothes… and perfume and stuff… and doesn’t have to dye her hair cause it’s naturally blonde… I mean okay if Madonna walked up to me… I mean… yeah… but I’m not going to go looking for her… Madonna… Kristie though… Billy Joel is such a lucky guy.

(Keith looks away. Looks at the snow on the TV screen.)

Keith: Yea.

day 41

The subject of my play (which I will probably post tomorrow)
makes me think about myself
How lonely I am
and how lonely I often find myself in life
I always feel like... even when I am part of a group
that somehow I don't connect
even here... I am working hard
trying to help my Dad
but it seems when my sister.. my mother.. even my nieces interact with him
he loves it
but if I am involved... usually... he could care less.

i realized after writing it
that I am once again in that world
other people are all around me
but I am the only one
unattached

Part of my "theme" for this blog
is that I am a gay man
with a dog
and yet... if you erased that line
it would be more appropriate

when was the last time I felt gay?
dunno

It has been 4 years since my last relationship... almost 5
There are aspects about being alone which I like

no compromising
freedom
no distractions

but there are other aspects
that
basically
suck

especially when the only man really in your life
is your 75 year old father
with alzheimer disease
who punches and spits at you
and whose ass you have to clean
after bowel movements

which he finally had today

I feel like I shouldn't have written this
that it is self pitying and ridiculous
but I promised myself that I would be honest hear
and there is a true thing
I am trying to convey
can you see it?
or am I just unconnected to the world
even here in this blog?

day 40

Dad is sitting in the wheelchair
mom stands behind him
I am in front of him
the toilet is on my left
I am getting ready to help him stand
and then Mom will remove his pants
I will turn with him
and sit him on the toilet

sounds simple, right?

Dad... sit up
yeah okay I
Dad sit up

and he doesn't. He holds his arms tightly to his sides like ice impacted car door
you pull and pull but
you can't separate it

so I have to force my arm under his
and around to his back
I have to sit him up myself
with my mother pushing him from behind
all the time he is using his feet
pushing against the floor
trying to lock himself in the chair
and doing a pretty good job

we pry him away from the chairs back
my fingers inching along
my arms sqeezing through
then when I feel I have a good enough hold
I calmly say
"Okay Dad. Now we are going to stand up"
"NO!"
1
NO!
2
DONT
3
and its like an ambush
I suddenly use all my strength and hike him up
he screams
his legs (which can stand)
limply hang.
I am holding him like a set of weights
which I cant lift properly
he is almost on the floor
the inches of which I would have to turn him if he were standing
become miles as i DRAG him
arms flailing
legs limp
in the meantime my mom is trying to pull down his pants
she cant
she's on the floor herself
pulling at him
making it heavier
because with his body
he's fighting her too
NOooOOooooOOOOOoOooo
sounds like he's dying... like we are raping him... like he's Captain Kirk and an alien race is taking his soul from his body.
finally the pants are down
I then have to
with I swear the last little bit of strength I have
heist him up like a sack
and slap him on the toilet seat.
In which he screams more
then he sits there
40 minutes today
occaisionally in pain
Is he trying to go?
does the seat feel cold?
Is the back of the toilet digging into his shoulder?

we don't know
40 minutes later we lift him
there is nothing there
nothing
after days of miracle laxatives
stool softeners
prune juice

nothing

then we have to repeat the process backwords
this time he is more prepared
and as we go he uses his body weight
to try and fling himself away from me
you know like when a little child runs to you
you catch him with your arms
and then the kid throws his weight backwards
and tries to swing
well dad is 180 pounds

As I put him into the chair
pain rolling up and down my back
my heart racing
my food ready to be vomitted
dissyness
he says
"I don't want YOU" and hits me
I gave him my middle finger
right in his face
and I said
"FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. I don't want you either!"
and I left him there
with my mother
he was not in the chair properly
he was half off it
and it felt good that he was uncomfortable
I thought... he deserves to feel uncomfortable
my back was screaming at me
my head pounding
I lay down in his hospital bed
I took off my glasses
and I started to cry

in the words of Sally Field
Steel Magnolias 1989

"Why. why? WHY?!"

Day 39

We have entered yet another 3 day lag in bowel movements.
This just doesn't stop.

My father takes bran every morning
warm prune juice twice a day
5 10-ounce glasses of liquid
milk of magnesia every other day
Miralax every other day
a stool softener in the morning and at night
and 2 laxatives every morning
and he STILL can't go.

I don't want to keep writing about the same things but my god
can't it just happen?

I go twice a day and have for as long as I can remember (which isn't so far back because you don't think about that too much when you are young)

I've begun to write my one-act play. It's set in the 80's in a living room. 4 boys (about 14 or 15) play D&D. There is a whole lot of bravado, competition and one of the characters (although pretending to be in love with a girl) comes out to his friend's bro, late at night.
I don't hate it... but I don't know... Ill post it when Im done.

I am also writing a paper about how the first American explorers differed from the Indians in the ways they viewed and "wrote" (or orated in the case of the Indians) about the actual earth of the North American continent.
Something interesting I've discovered. The North American tribes were pretty separated in many ways... languages were very different, customs, oration... myths... but there is one idea that struck me as kinda cool that seems to be shared by tribes from Massachussettes to Texas (a long way for those of you who are not familiar)
It seems when people of several tribes come to the end of life their "souls" go southwest. So Southwest was the direction of death... and it is not viewed negatively... for some reason the south west was lucky and the southwest was were they'd come from... they say... I think it's cool.

i wish I had more to say about what is going on with my father.
There will be one final visit by a nurse next Wednesday.
Then we are on our own. (with Tay of course!)

I am thinking about taking a break in late february... early march.
I have a 400 dollar coupon for continental.
Ive looked into flying to Aruba (only $380)
but now Im considering going somewhere (definitely south cause I hate the winter) and joining a writers workshop.
Strike while the anvil is hot... sort of thing
or at least luke warm.

What do you think of these ideas?
Do you have any others... It can't be expensive. I don't want to pay much more than the coupon...
But let me know if you think of anything

day 38

Today I left the house all day.
I went to see the film Fair Game with Naomi Watts and Sean Penn
GREAT FILM

again here I am with an empty head
an since I have to write a play and a paper in the next few days
I am cheating yet again
and I will share with you the free verse Poem I wrote for my class

again same theme!

In free verse what's important is the... rhythm and the images and all the stuff that's important in a formal poem
except in free verse you can change the rules
and by the way
there is a problem. It won't copy correctly so I have to insert periods for space
normally there are no ....s


Alzheimer and Son part II


Dad stands within the
kitchen.
Holds my hand and
stands.

............................................................fear, fear here, oh dear, flee fear, danger near
Father don’t falter,
Sit straight........................................ Who do you?
Finish the fish...............................................What’s true?
on your plate.....................................Go! No! Don’t want to.


........................................................................................ I need, I need to
Daddy’s doom,................................................. I need to. go
coming soon...........................................................need to go
heart races,
fear chases........................................... I need to go to the bathroom!

Pop poop?
Pee Daddy?
Pain prostate.
Wait till I
get the toilet! ............................................................Screams and moans.
..............................................................................Tries to strike.
......................................................................................Cry, cry, cry!
Father don’t falter,..................................................Fists are tight.
Stand dad stand..............................................................why, why, why?
Pop hold my hand,........................................................................... I need to go
it’ll be done soon...................................................................... to the bathroom!

day 37

Suddenly I have writers block.

I went to school for theatre. I acted, directed hung lights.
I wrote plays
so many snipets of things
so many scenes
so many one acts
longer than one acts
I have words written on paper bags
on napkins
I have thought of ideas on planes trains wheelbarrows
in cars
out of cars
in the summer winter late autumn
when i wake
while I sleep (one play I wrote was based on a dream)
before I close my eyes at night.
In this country and in several others....

I have to write a one-act play for my class
and I have no ideas
I've kept thinking
oh i can't wait for the play assignment
that should be easy for me
well here it is... and nothing

Ive even gone through all my stuff
looking for something I could take up again
searching for a few words that will inspire
heck I'd even settle for a play that is already written
BUT NOTHING I CAN FIND FITS THE CRITERIA
Its not like most of my plays are finished
they are all in arts (except for about 3 of them)

I don't know what I want to write about
i have no little whispers in my ears!
I need your help
anyone! anybody!
just give me an idea
say something... anything.... get me to open up! PLEASE

day 36

Today a man who works with my sister and his father came.
They run a small business on the side.
Our house is 38 years old and it was built in the 70's when everything was ok... sure black leather chairs are ok... sure long uncombed hair is okay... sure really small doorways into bedrooms, okay.

We needed to widen the entrances into my father's room and bathroom.
We can barely fit the wheelchair through one
and not at all through the other.

They came and worked until almost 10pm. Dad stayed up much later tonight than usual because we couldn't put him to bed with saws and hammers going off.

While they were here I began several conversations with them.
And I realized, pathetically, that I haven't had any face to face real conversations that were not about bowel movements
or what to make for dinner
or whether or not we remembered to change my dad's socks.

I think I am becoming a bit of a hermit.
I haven't been out for almost 3 weeks.
i never comb my hair...
I always take a bath (every day... they calm me) but rarely worry much about actually seriously washing myself.
I just sort of steam and rinse.

Am I pathetic?
And guess what? I am going to go take a bath now.

Sorry not much interesting to write down tonight
no poems or stories
or even good thoughts.
I've said I was tired before
but Im a different sort of tired now
I feel old

day 35

I think I forgot to write this!
What do I do???
I missed a day.
Or maybe not.

Ill figure it all out later.
I have been working a lot and dad had soome trouble yesterday.
wouldn't eat.
had a terribly painful bowl movement
then wilted
then was up all night.

Bubble was given a new bone yesterday and tried to bite off people's faces if they came anywhere near the bone.
I eventually took it away from her.

Ill do a new post later.
feel like a schmuck for missing it :(

day 34 small breakdown

okay. so things are not as great as they seem to be.
right now I am... tense, upset, anxious, on the verge of breakdown.. i think
Im ready to cry... ready to.... I am shaking. I can't relax.
I think Ive been sort of holding it all in to get things done.

I don't know what...
I look at myself in the mirror
I turn away as quick as I can
I don't want to see it
don't want to know it

at night hours go by and i
churn
think and churn
sink and yearn

right now I am listening to Katherine Hepburn
(basically the best American Actress in the History of Acting)
It's her biography that she reads on CD
(passed tense actually she died in 2000 I think at 93 or something)
She's been an empowerment for me
she was .... she broke through the fences of society
wore pants when most of America thought
a woman in pants was the bride of Satan.

She's cool
and maybe by telling you about her, I begin to melt
I begin to ease
(of course it may be the cough medicine I took about 20 minutes ago, as well)

Kate Hepburn died on a Friday.
On that Saturday and Sunday I gave a Katherine Hepburn Memorial Film Viewing
Movies played from about 6am on Sat
to about 3AM on Sunday.
Several people came and watched a film or two.
I watched every one (except "Bringing Up Baby at 6AM because I fell asleep again while watching it.)

I do feel better.
Thank you for being there blog
and all you out there who read it
I really appreciate your reading.
Thank you.

day 33 a conversation with my professor

Ive been sick today

forgetting as well

forgot to give all of my dads pills to him.
missed about 7 of them.
I am a terrible son.

My throat hurts and i want to sleep all the time
when I get hungry I begin to feel horrible
after I eat I only want to lie down

how did I get sick?

I never leave the house.

I want to share something with you...
This is what my teacher wrote:

I'm up at 4 am, thanks to incredible pain (more on that if it becomes a problem; I may be posting from a hospital room soon), but since I'm up, and actually logged into work to work (may my boss have mercy on my tattered soul), I took a minute to watch the Joy Behar show, which honestly I wouldn't watch otherwise (my Star Trek episode ended, and I was looking for ANYTHING to watch). But her first topic was about the controversy regarding a man whose book, which is basically a guide for pedophiles, was offered for sale on Amazon.com. Now Amazon is under fire for this, and honestly, I think it's wrong. Now, I would NEVER condone pedophilia or anything of the sort, but where do we draw the line on books? This guy wanted to make some money, and he wrote a book he knew would sell to a certain segment of society (to be more charitable than I should be), and he made some money off of it. Is that a crime? Absolutely not. Is it being treated as a crime? Absolutely. Is it right? Wrong? Evil? Dangerous? What about the Anarchist Cookbook (http://www.amazon.com/Anarchist-Cookbook-William-Powell/dp/0974458902/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1289557080&sr=1-1), whose author posts on Amazon a huge apology for even writing the book? For showing people how to make bombs? There was a tiny controversy about it a few years ago, and it just dissipated. How far does free speech go, and how does it affect us as writers?

This was my reply:
there are so many things here I am not sure where to begin.
First, I am sorry that you do not feel well.
About this book... I worked in a bookstore and was there in the 90's when the whole Anarchist Cookbook (it was the 2nd or third time the controversy happened because I think it was originally published in the 80s). My manager displayed the book proudly at the cash wrap (out of reach of young hands however) and it made the store have a good month.
I also read a fiction book... can't remember the name... about a young woman pedophile and her letters to a famous pedophile who was in jail.
The book was very explicit and extremely interesting.
The author of the book you are talking about is just an author. He is doing the same thing we are. Writing from his experience or interest or knowledge and trying to sell it. Books about making bombs or being pedophiles are NOT the problem. In fact, in a way, thank god for them because they bring the problem to light more clearly. They call the issue to the front of the table.
The problem is the family who is not in control of itself... or the society which does not care for anything but money and advancement. Books about pedophiles do not make pedophiles... books about anarchy do not make anarchists or terrorists. We do. We do it when we turn our backs on people with need. We do it when we ignore the signs in our children. We do it when we have children that we shouldn't have because we have them for reasons other than to love and protect and nurture.
Then someone writes this book. It begins to sell. It causes controversy because we look at ourselves and suddenly we see the monster within us. We see our faults. We want to blame someone else for this. We point our finger at the author, at Amazon... but we should really turn that finger around. Or stop pointing and make an open hand and use it to start healing the problems instead of just complaining about them.

Was that an answer you liked? I hope you feel better today. In some ways this online class makes everything more intimate than in an actual classroom. I feel like I want to make you soup or something. But since we live several time zones distant... Ill write you a bowl of soup!

soft morsels of white chicken meat dredged in white wine slowly simmered with spring water and a little olive oil. Add Bamboo salt and white pepper to taste. The finest carrots with an orange like only the earth can make should be gently sliced to an exquisite thinness and mixed within. Garlic to, but make sure it's fresh (or ginger if you are that kind of person) a green onion wouldn't hurt or a leek as well. Let it lie there... let it's smell enter the world... enter the kitchen. Let you body yearn for it first... the juices in your mouth beginning to emerge. Swallow hard and wait. Soon this careful soup will be yours and you will see better days.


And his reply to me:

God, I don't think I could write that. And I am posting one message today, Kevin, and probably getting in trouble for it, but you have absolutely made my day, and I'm just stopping there. Thank you. I will get to the other responses later, but right now I want to eat my soup and love everything I can, and be well.

This is the greatest creative writing class I have ever had, because y'all are just brilliant.


made me feel good

day 32

Im cheating again!
Here's my short story. I hand it in on Monday night so any comments you have to share about it would help me immensely.
Remember please that this is fiction and although there are similarities to my life to keep the story real
not ALL of it is real... so don't going calling the police or anything!


Feeding my Father

I stare at his spoon and think, “could I really kill him?”
We sit next to our table piled with unopened mail, half filled plastic water bottles and containers of medicine. The messy kitchen encircles us. There has been no time for cleaning. In the next room my mother watches T.V.. I can hear it now, voices in the background saying things, talking to each other. I sit on the one wooden chair in the room and he slouches on his reclining wheelchair.
I raise the spoon. Lightly touch his dry frowning lips with its edge. There are several red stains around his mouth from previous attempts to feed him. He opens his mouth. I insert the spoon. He clamps down, teeth clutching the spoon like a bear trap. I pull. For a moment we fight over the spoon. I win. He gets the prize, a wad of smashed meat lasagna, noodles mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce.
If I forget to mash up the lasagna, give him an oversize portion, use a larger spoon he might choke and die.
“Mmhm” he hums.
‘He choked’ I would explain to the officer. ‘He choked on lasagna.’ Would they do an autopsy? Would they be able to ascertain that I’d given him too large a spoonful of mushy lasagna? Would they question me further? Would I begin to sweat after they’d ask me the same questions over and over? Would my mother know what I’d done when she’d look into my eyes?
“Good,” My father whispers.
“Mom made it for you”, I reply as if we are having a conversation.
“Mom?” he repeats.
“Your wife.” I say, “Dora.”
“Dora?” He spits out her name along with a few small pieces of pasta, which fly through the air. He says it as if he doesn’t know anyone by that name and the name disgusts him.
I move another spoonful to his lips.
“Have some more” a cheery fake smile stretches across my face, my body tenses.
“No.” he says adamantly and then takes it into his mouth anyway.
I’d considered overdosing him. On those first nights home, when he’d lain awake through the night and desperately tried to scale, like a rock climber, the bedside rails on his hospital bed. I couldn’t sleep because he’d been yelling, so I sat in his room and watched him by the half-light that echoed from the bathroom. He screamed out names of long-dead relatives and friends. Some of which I’d known or heard of. He screamed their names and begged them for help. My name was not among them. He kept calling and calling them, kept attempting to get his legs over the rail. No one came to his aid. ‘Oh please please pleeeease’ he whined to them but they were all dead. I watched him helplessly flail and call out, until finally as the multitude of names fizzled and the strength of his struggle dimmed he said, “Just kill me.” Did he speak to those long-dead ghosts? Was his request for them? Or was this a rare moment when he actually acknowledged my presence and made this bequest of me? It was then I began to think of ways to kill him.
But, no, overdosing would be easily discovered.
Spoon to mouth
Wait
Mouth opens
Insert spoon
Pull spoon back
Wait
Look at the dirty dishes piled in the sink.
Think of murder
He taught me how to ride a horse, not that I had been very interested. ‘Sit up straight!” he’d yelled “Eyes ahead. Can’t you think of two things at once?!’ But I couldn’t. No one can, can they? I think I heard or read somewhere that our brain only has the capacity to think of one idea at a time.
After accepting that his son would not blossom into a rider like him, he’d come to every play I’d ever been in. Celebrated each rite of passage with me. Gave me my first car, a 1984 blue Honda Civic. Loved my first boyfriend Greg as if he were his own son too. ‘I’m proud of you’ he’d always say.
What would he want me to do now? Would ‘accidently’ killing him make him proud of me again?
It is time for his drink. Here’s the trick. I insert the bottom end of the straw into the liquid. I capture some liquid in the straw by covering the top of it with my index finger. I move the straw to his lips and lightly dribble the liquid. When he opens his mouth to taste it I quickly turn the straw around and in one movement place the top of the straw inside his mouth and the bottom back into the glass at the same time. This way he drinks instead of trying to eat the straw. A little magic I’d picked up from CiCi the home health care aid.
CiCi comes every Monday and Wednesday for an hour and a half to give me a little break. She works quickly and efficiently. Changes his diaper in a flash. Gives him a rigorous but lightning speed bath, changes his shirts without snagging them on his elbows. She goes so fast my father has no time to realize what is actually happening. She treats him respectfully. She treats him like a thing, like a thing she respects.
Dad begins to cough and I immediately remove the straw from his mouth.
“OKAY?” I say a little too loudly. He continues to cough. I watch him allowing images of the near future to speed up in my head. Will he choke? Is this choking? I hadn’t even meant to. Should I call 9-1-1?
The coughing subsides.
From the den, connected to the kitchen by an entryway, I hear my mother’s question.
“Is he alright?” She asks.
“Just wrong pipe.”
Mom used to help me feed him. She isn’t strong enough to lift his 180 pound body. She isn’t focused enough to keep on top of his pill taking or his doctor visits but she used to help where she could. It tore her up when he got upset with her and tried to punch her.
“Why are you punching me?!” She’d hollered at him.
Dad hadn’t answered. He just kept trying to whap her with his outstretched arm.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing, mom.” Looking at her, my voice as gentle as I could have made it.
“But, I’m his wife.” And then she’d begun to cry.
They’d been married for 50 years. Both of them were the youngest of large families. They’d married late. My Mom 27 my dad almost 30. I think they’d been relieved to have finally met someone. I speculate that at the time, they were surprised by the love they’d found in each other.
She never would have believed that someday my father would have fourth stage Alzheimer disease and would try to hit her.
She couldn’t accept it. All I could do was stop asking her to help out. She didn’t notice, or she did notice and was grateful I’d stopped asking. Dad was no longer the man she’d known. She still loved him, loved the form and idea of him, but she couldn’t bear to admit that he was the man he’d become. He’d been her cement foundation like the one we have under our house, cracked and a little leaky but still holding the house together. She’d lived for taking care of him and me as well. She was happiest performing her role of wife and mother. Now, what did it mean to be this man’s wife? Whatever the definition she could not comprehend it. Did not want to comprehend. She did still continue to cook his food, but she never fed him.
These days, she watches television as the house room by room falls into a shambles.
I look down at the spoon again. Slowly I dig the spoon into the mound of food on the plate before me. There’s a certain sort of squishy moist sound that only wet noodles cheese and sauce can make like the sound of a bug being squashed.
I feel a little ridiculous. Would something like this even work? If it does, I imagine being convicted of “murder by forced lasagna choking.” The ‘Pasta Killer’ I’d be named or ‘The Supper Strangler’. Television stations would scramble to buy my story. Television because the plot would never support a movie, it was definite mini series material. Oprah Winfrey and Dianne Sawyer would vie over being the first to interview me in my jail cell.
I raise the spoon. It is heavy.
Half the lasagna left in the dish now ladens the spoon. Chunks of it lean over the spoon’s rim like ballet dancer’s contorted backs.
I watch my hand and the spoon as I guide it toward my father’s mouth. It rests there for a moment. My father’s eyes stare at me blankly. His lips begin to part. He opens his mouth. I try to gently insert the whole thing, the amount of food too big for the size of the o my father makes with his lips. I can’t believe what I am trying to do and I start to take the spoon away. The words ‘sorry dad’ begin to form on my own lips when Dad’s head shoots forward, lips stretching wider than ever. His teeth slam together like a vice gone crazy. He holds onto the food and the spoon with such strength I am unable to remove it. His cheeks bulge, swollen with the mass inside. He breathes through his nostrils, which flare up and down like an angry dog’s. I feel the wind of his breath on my hand.
I think, ‘he knows. He must know what I am trying to do.’ ‘He wants to choke.’ ‘He wants to die.’
The memory of his pleeeease and his request for death comes to my mind along with the desperate struggle of his attempt to escape from his bed, from our house, from what his life has become. I am thinking of this and wondering what I should do at the same time.
“Can’t you think of two things at once?” and it seems that I can.
Then, as if nothing has occurred his jaw relaxes. The spoon lazily falls from his hold. Slides down his shirt leaving a red trail like blood. He begins to chew, slowly at first. Overstuffed mush balls of lasagna fall from his mouth. Then he chews more quickly.
I can’t breath. I watch and can’t breath. I am the one choking. I am the one suffocating.
“Mhmm.” Says dad when he has enough room in his orifice to make sound. He swallows hard. Opens his mouth again for more.
I can’t move my hand. I look around me at the mess, the stacks of mail at anything but his open mouth and I see my mother standing in the entryway behind him. She is quietly standing there. How long has she stood there? She stares at me with a strange look on her face.
“What’s?” she asks, just that one word.
“Nothing.” I say, maybe too quickly. “He likes your lasagna.”
“Oh.” She says but doesn’t move.
A silence covers us, her and I. My father begins speaking now. Whispering unintelligent words, meaningless phrases.
“What?” She says again but to him this time, not to me.
“He’s hungry.” I say. “He wants more.”
“Lasagna?” She looks from him to me than back to him again.
“Yes.” My father says.
My mom moves to his side. She reaches out her hand to the plate of lasagna now just an incoherent glob of leftover food. She takes up the spoon, which had fallen to his lap. Grabbing a paper napkin, which she finds with ease among the stuff of the table, she wipes the spoon’s handle, dips it into the food, picks up a dainty morsel of the meal and rests the spoon against his lips. He looks up at her, straight at her, and he smiles. Opening his mouth he lightly, delicately takes the food, using his lips this time instead of his teeth. My mother removes the spoon. He continues to smile even as he chews. He continues to smile and to look into her eyes.
“I’ll make it next week.” She tells him, “If you like it so much.”
I watch her feed him. I no longer think about his death but I do think about myself. What I had almost done. My father has changed. He’s become a different man. It was not his choice but it happened.
I stand up and move aside. Slowly, while my mother concentrates on feeding my father the remaining lasagna, she edges her way into the chair I have left empty. I watch them for a moment. I grab a stack of mail and begin to sort it.

Day 31

I just wrote a story for my class
based on a lot of what I've been writing in my blog.
I'll share it with you, but only after I get it back from being criticized.

It wasn't easy.

I woke up sick today and thanked ... whatever... just thanked
i thanked that today is Thursday and Tay comes.
Dad is sick as well. Keeps coughing sleeping and eating... we won't get too worried unless he stops eating.
There seems to be no problem there!

Bubble got a hair cut. She looks like one of those tramp dogs bow that live in alleys and eat from garbage cans... but the cute kind that eventually get discovered and move into a really cool family.

I am a bit worried about her because her hairdresser found several small tics on her. I've been applying this really strong medicine which is supposed to kill them but it seems not to have worked well. I'll have to take her to the vet because NJ has a serious lyme disease problem.

I need her... she's one of my only outlets and the last Czech friend who is physically in my life.

How's Dad doin? I ask my mom as she walks by my room.
"He's still sleeping Kevin. i don't know what to do."

she worries A LOT
or maybe
ALL THE TIME

Im going to the grocery store!
Look at the dates if you buy anything!

Im going for a walk.
Watch out for the cars around here

Im going to bed
be careful in the hallway

(The last one is a joke but not so far from the truth.)

I've written too much and concentrated too much more.
I think I'll end here.

Day 30

What is it about groups of ten
that leans toward celebration?

30 days! That is one month some months... but what does it mean really?
How different am I at this 30 day juncture than I was 30 days ago when I first entered the car and started down the road out of my drive?
I think a lot different...
....
very very different


but how?

I am a robot now. From the moment I wake until about 1PM I perform duties for others (Bubble included walks and so forth)

I am a student... from 1PM to about 3PM... and I read and read and read and sometimes answer questions and sometimes write

back to robot

back to student

sometimes I even forget to shower and eat.
I get very hungry around 4PM and I think... "what have I eaten?"
and my answer
"Oh.. oh no! I haven't eaten anything!"
and then
"I haven't drunk anything either!"

I know that this isn't healthy... but that's what happens sometimes. I am amazed that i actually find myself remembering to write my blog every day.

other ways I have changed

I metamorphed into a parent. i am happy when my father goes to the toilet. I worry when he coughs and wonder what could be the problem... does he have bronchitis?

I wield responsibility in ways I never thought myself capable of.

I feel older

....
Bubble has changed too. She sleeps more... is even more interested in killing squirrels... she loves my mother... oh, and she eats bugs!


Have you changed since reading my blog
have things in your life changed in the last 30 years?
Tell us... let us know

change is good... I think ... can always be perceived as good, at least.

day 29 Another day tired

I am too tired to write, I think.
Dad smiled a lot today... but toward the end of the day he became tired and cranky.
This strange thing is happening.
Whenever we try to sit him in his chair he refuses to bend at the waist.
In fact he deliberately (of course with his disease what does the word "deliberate" actually mean?) stiffens.
This means it becomes a hassle just to perform simple tasks like feed him, or change his shirt.
When i am feeding him, I have to constantly put his chair into a horizontal position
pull him up toward the top of the chair.
Make the chair vertical again
continue to feed him
until he once again slides down the chair.
Its infuriating...
and it isn't weakness or anything.
The man is just not weak.
It's funny because he stands now (he stood for about 12 minutes one day.)
We role the chair up to the kitchen sink
help him to stand up
and he holds onto the sink
and stands.
I support him. Sometimes he pretends he is weak... he cries out... he starts to slide to the floor.
I grab onto him and yell "Dad! You are going to fall. There is no chair beneath you!"
He gets so angry at me
and immediately his legs tighten
and he is standing again
trying to punch me
or push me away.

I guess I did write tonight
even though
after all the Dad pulling
my back hurts

day 28 A look back

Dad has been home 28 days.
He is... well great
as compared to before

I don't mean that it's easier for Mom and me (although it is but that has nothing to do with Dad)
He is more aware more active
He smiles more, speaks more, reacts more, wakes up more easily, eats more ... notices more.

Mom is less upset.
She helps without asking
she understands more what needs to be done
we have become a team

and me?

I will relay to you a message that I recently wrote my friend about how I feel right now:

JeÚ˝k [10:43 PM]:
with u?
writerkev [10:44 PM]:
okay today
I feel lately like I am flying in a video game and little magic balls of light and magnetizing themselves to me... I am growing but still formless
writerkev [10:45 PM]:
whatever that means
JeÚ˝k [10:45 PM]:
thats a very interesting description of feeling
JeÚ˝k [10:46 PM]:
a feeling?
writerkev [10:47 PM]:
I can't describe it in any other way
JeÚ˝k [10:47 PM]:
i think its beautiful.. the description
writerkev [10:49 PM]:
do you feel that way? I mean you are in school... and what is happening to me is that... I am reading all this stuff and doing all this stuff and I happen to really love it (even the parts I thought I'd hate like breaking down a sonnet!) and because I am stuffing all this stuff into me and at the same time I took on this difficult task... stuffing more stuff into me... I am changing... palpably changing... i can feel it happen

day 27

Okay
beneath sits another attempt at being a better writer.
This week we wrote fables.
Then in teams we critiqued each other's work.
The critiques were great! Very helpful.
This proved to be a very difficult assignment for me.
Fables have a certain structure and certain rules.
I haven't read many because I never liked to be told what to do as a kid!
Again the fable is very connected with parent to child relationships
which is the theme I chose to write all my assignments in.
Tell me what you think. Critique it! Give me a comment or two.
Keep in mind that fables are often written for a certain reading level.
I wrote pretty young I think...

As I told my classmates
I've been critiqued so much as an actor nothing you can say will hurt
only make me think.


The Ant Story
Father Mother and Tom Ant lived in a small house in Ant City. Father Ant had a job. Every day he helped build new tunnels in the city. Mother Ant had a job too. Every day she went into the forest to gather food. When Tom came home from school it was time to make dinner. Tom liked to help Mother Ant in the kitchen. She was very tired after work.
“Aren’t you too tired to make dinner?” Tom asked
“There’s always time for family.” She said.
Sometimes they made wavy gravy ham with sweet apple turnovers.
Father Ant always came home at 5 o’clock and they all ate dinner together. Every night Father Ant read Tom a story. Tom liked the stories Father Ant read. He was very tired after work.
“Aren’t you too tired to read?” asked Tom.
“There’s always time for family.” Father Ant said.
Sometimes he read stories about fire breathing dragons and longhaired princesses.
Then Father and Mother Ant kissed Tom goodnight. Tom fell asleep. He always had wonderful dreams.
When Tom grew older he got a job. He moved into his own ant apartment. He got married to an ant named Jane! She worked at the bank. They had two children. Their children’s names were Tommy and Janie. Tommy liked to play the electric guitar. He had lessons every Tuesday and Friday. Janie liked to do modern dance. She had lessons every Monday and Wednesday. Life was very busy.
One day, Tom’s mother wrote him a letter. We feel very sick, she wrote. Tom and his family rushed to the ant subway. When they got to Father’s and Mother’s ant house they found them both in bed.
Mother Ant had the flu. She kept sneezing. Father Ant’s back hurt. He kept moaning. They felt so sick they couldn’t get out of bed. Together Tom, Jane, Tommy and Janie cooked a big meal. Tom made creamy chicken soup. Jane made garlic toast. Janie and Tommie made a spinach salad with red tomatoes. All together they squeezed fresh orange juice! Mother and Father Ant ate all the food and drank all the juice. After dinner Jane cleared the dirty dishes. Tommy played his guitar and Janie modern danced. Then Janie and Tommy sat on the floor beside the bed. Jane sat on a chair. Tom Ant chose a book. The book was about fire breathing dragons and longhaired princesses. He read the story to the whole family.
Mother and Father Ant felt much better after the story. “Thank you!” They said to Tom Ant and his family.
Then Tom kissed them both good night. “There’s always time for family,” he whispered in their ears. Mother and Father Ant fell asleep. They had wonderful dreams.

day 26 photo of grandparents

Today the morning went well.
Dad had woken up before I went in to see him.
He smiled and waved.
I gave him his morning meds mixed with apple sauce. His smile widened and he murmured "mhmm"
He turned to the left
then turned to the right.
He enjoyed being lifted out of bed
his shirt came over his head
all through the soap and water there wasn't a peep or complaint.
As I got him ready for the day (also including changing his diaper, putting on pants and shoes, brushing teeth etc) I noticed a picture of my grandparents... his parents lying on his bureau.
I knew the picture well.
There are a few of them like it. In two my grandparents stand next to each other... and my grandfather holds my sister.
In this picture however it is only the two of them
It was taken in the 60's
a plain white background
They stand straight
toward the camera
not close they are separated from each other ... quite a bit actually.
They both wear black (My grandfather has glasses a suit and tie and a white shirt... grandma is wearing a black dress and pearls... she has glasses too.)
Although they stand separate... they are smiling.
My father's smile is their smile
somehow within the stretching of his lips he displays both father and mother attributes.

As a child
whenever I looked at this picture
(and I looked at it often. My grandfather died before I was born and my grandmother shortly after)
I wondered... what are they smiling at?
a joke?
surely not at eachother... they're so far apart
are they simply smiling at the photographer who just a moment before said
"Cheeese" like only a cheesy photographer can...

but here on this morning
while my happy dad
was happily allowing me
to help him
I thought
They are smiling at me
And what if they are
What if through some wormhole
flashback
line of connection (remember my blog about our breathing and the string of breath connecting us to our first breath at birth)
maybe it works with smiles too
and my dad's smile
connects to both their
and my own

day 25 Mr Sayens and More

Another short Mr Sayens story

Mr. Sayens had a wife named Elizabeth.
They also had a live in maid named Henrietta.
Mr. Sayens loved to make fun of his wife. She was raised in a time gone by. A very proper lady.
Whenever she went out she wore a hat made by a hatmaker
black gloves
perhaps a mink
and they had a chauffeur
(I'm serious by the way)

One day she called out to Mr. Sayens
"Mr. Sayens! (this is what she called him) I'm leaving for the store."
Mr. Sayens ,hiding behind a large tree, winked at my father.
"Okay Henrietta! Just make sure you have enough time to make dinner!"

There would be a sound of deep disgust... Mrs. S would yell (ladylike)
"I am NOT Henrietta!"

day 24

Okay
again... since I have to write things for my class
and since said class takes up a lot of my free time
I am sometimes going to cheat
and offer up here
things that I write there...

try, when you read this.... to read it as a poem
from someone who's story you do not know
I know its hard
but try to see if the poem
really says what you think it says
on its own
without back story from me
if it says anything to you at all!



Alzheimer and son
To me my hands are gentlemen’s
They caress, they wash, they apply and balsam
To dad my hands are aliens
They puncture, they flame, they torture and bring pain

To me my words are companions
They compel, they soothe, they cause ease and amuse
To dad my words are dark demons
They beset, they scare, beleaguer and strike fear

I take care and beware, give fare and repair
He bemoans and atones, gives groans, is alone
I scream. I redeem. I browbeat and feel mean
He calms. he welcomes. he astounds and feels numb

To me my thoughts are summer dreams
They ponder, they scheme, remember and they team
To dad his thoughts are autumn leaves
They scatter, they fry, pulverize and turn dry

day 23 POST 51! Mr. Sayens

I have written 51 posts.

My Dad has been home for 3 weeks

Today was my younger niece's Birthday.

And Dad had a bowel movement this afternoon! (is that what being a parent feels like. You get excited when your children poop?)

I have sooo much to read and soo much to write for my class.

I thought about the Julia Child blog today... you know The Julie/Julia project. The author who spent a full year cooking Julia Child recipes and writing about it. She also had wide knowledge of Julia's life and would often write about that as well.
So I have decided to write a bit about my father's life.

My father never learned to read.
He has dislexia. He never described it but whenever he looks at a page with words he doesn't really see words... just a bunch of lines and curves. His Aunt was an English teacher and every day after school my father went directly to her house were she tutored him, to no avail...
The other children made fun of him. He hated school. He blended into the background and kept quiet.
At 16 he quit school and got a job working for a Rubber Company. He worked there for 35 years.

It sounds completely sad and maybe would have been... if he hadn't met Mr. Sayens. Mr Sayen's owned the rubber company where my dad worked. He instantly took a liking to my dad and told him to come over after work.
My dad loved to meet new people (he still loves it when people walk into a room... even me... 5 times a day when I walk back into the room... he smiles a big smile, raises his arm and says "Hey! where have you been!") so he visited Mr. Sayen's that evening.

It was the spring and Mr. Sayens had a beautiful estate. Mr. Sayens loved plants. He worked all day in at the shop and went home and worked until dark outside. He gave my dad some plants to put into the ground (my dad was a natural at this.) and was so impressed he told my dad to come back the next day.

My dad returned to Mr. Sign's house often. Together they would pull weeds, graph trees, transplant rhodedendrums, line flower beds, make paths... they turned that estate into a paradise. A magical paradise with hidden pathways opening on secret lawns. Little pools of water hidden in green glades... flowers of every kind popping out in unexpected places (I know all this because Mr. Sayens lived until I was about 7 years old... my dad would take me there and instantly, before the car even came to a complete stop, I'd jump out and race into the magic garden. I wouldn't come back for hours... it was a kingdom of dream...)
So every day they worked together... and when the sun went down and the light in the sky dimmed he and Mr. Sayens would sit on the grass together and watch the sun set and talk.... They talked about everything...

One day as they looked up at a pink and orange sky at the beginning of a summer evening Mr Sayens asked my father what he thought about Shakespeare.

My father became very embarrassed. He told Mr. Sayens that he couldn't read and didn't know anything about Shakespeare. Mr. Sayens told him to wait for a moment and went into the house. A few minutes later he returned with a book of Shakespeare's worked... he opened it... and in the remaining light he began to read to my father. Every day after that ... while the sun set ... Mr Sayens read and my father listened. My father cried when he told me this story... It didn't stop at Shakespeare either... there were a lot more authors he read... my father never told me but in my imaginings there was Dickens and Dickenson... Greek Myths...Gulliver's travels and Jonathon Carusoe...

Mr. Sayens died when he was 98. The last time my father saw him... Dad had driven to his house alone to help him with something. He couldn't find him anywhere... not in the house or on the grounds... finally my dad went to the spot (under a tree) where Mr. Sayens always read to him.

"Mr. Sayens?!" my father called out.

"I'm here!" came Mr. Sayens voice from up in the tree. A 98 year old man who had climbed a tree... fabulous. He died soon after. During their friendship Mr. S. had given my father a ton of trees and plants. they are still out there on our "estate" azaleas and daffodils in the thousands... holly trees and dogwoods(who glow eerily on warm spring nights under golden moons) sturdy canas who come like clockwork every spring and last until late fall and one strange and mysterious tree called a big leaf magnolia.. he blooms great white island looking flowers in spring and bears strange purple fruit every summer. Now the magic garden is here... the paths (although overgrown) and the secret hidden glade (also overgrown).

Many years after Mr. S's death my father left the Rubber factory. He took a new job as a landscaper. It's been his biggest passion in life to landscape. Where other people had books my dad had plants... his stories are all around the house... his words are leaves and bark... grass and leaves again.

That's a bit of my Dad's life... and Mr. Sayens
Ill write more tomorrow...

Day 22

Since I am writing works for my Creative Writing class
sometimes (maybe often) the things I write apply in some way to this blog
so occasionally I'll hand them over to you
You can read them
and if you want
critique them
comment on them
tell me what works
what you think might be missing

anyway
all the work we produce in the class in the next 4 weeks
have to share a common theme
I've chosen parent-child relationships (for obvious reasons!)
This thing I've written
is to be a short story
with conflict
and with a change in the protagonist
however
the story must also be able to fit
on the back of a post card

What do you think?

STRING BEANS


I made the string beans the way I like them best. Fried in olive oil sprinkled with thyme and bamboo salt. I let them cook to perfection, somewhere between crunchy and pliable. I lifted one using a set of tongs and it possessed the perfect ever-curving shape. I turned the burner off and removed the string beans from the pan.
“They’re ready!” I called into the den.
From the den came the sounds of the television and this week’s episode of Dancing with the Stars. Jennifer Grey had danced a perfect tango and the judges were giving her scores.
9,
10,
9,
8
“What?!” my mother’s outraged voice asked the television. “Can you believe that? He gave her an 8.”
“Mom?” The string beans looked succulent as I carried them from the counter and placed them on the kitchen table. The kitchen was a mess, as always, but the steaming greens lying atop each other like sleeping puppies in the yellow bowl somehow had the power to combat the chaos around me. I was determined to improve our health. Since my father became ill we’d stopped cleaning and eating well.
“The string beans are ready.”
“What?” She asked half aware. “Oh, no thanks. I’ll eat later.”

day 21

I spent most of the day citing and referencing my first university paper in 20 years.
Things have changed (and I think I wrote all of three term papers back then. I got a degree in theatre!)
it took hours to put all the information in the right place and in the correct presentation.

and i am not even sure that I am right.

But i will submit it soon and bear with the consequences. I tried damned hard at least. Does anyone know APA?

I gave my father the finger today.
I don't even remember why.
He can be so nasty
and it's hard not to react to that as his son.

I don't smile at him much anymore
I think that is bad because he will begin to associate me with a bad mood
and whenever he sees me he'll automatically get angry

but I can't help it... maybe I could... but I can't find what I need in the moment that I need it.
Here in my blog I can say

"tomorrow will be different. I will smile and accept all he dies and gently and silently take care of him."

But I don't remember this the moment I try to help him change pants and he hits me
or spits at me...

The spitting is the worst,
it reminds me of a low budget exorcist
or something