Tuesday, December 17, 2002

castle in the Loire

"When one realizes that his life is worthless he either commits suicide or travels."

Edward Dahlberg

It is not enough to be h

My eyes ache because I really didn't get enough sleep. But I'm up around eight, checking on my dad's flight from Frankfurt. I get positive news, too, from the friend about the dropoff. She says he is being taken care of and maybe upgraded.

I get a shower and go to the barber. There is another lady in front of me. She is talkng and talkng, embellishing her stories with unnecessary detail. I get my book and read because she makes me tired. Then I'm in the chair and soon I'm trimmed up. I think I'll never talk again after listening to this woman but soon I'm telling the barber my own stories.

I go to Dad's. One of the plants looks droopy. It looked better the other day. I water it some more and put a little water on all of them for good measure. I sort his mail into useless ad stuff, ad stuff he might want to look at, Christmas cards, packages and notices of gift magazines, and bills and business. In the latter pile I put the important stuff like bills to pay on top. Not that he has that many. The ambulance people want something for one of Mom's trips, he has a dental bill and a bill for cancer insurance.

I go home. FFP calls to tell me the health insurer wants three years of medical records and results from the most recent mammogram. I call the doctor (I've only been to one in the last three years) and they need something signed so I take them that. I'm getting answering machines on the matter of the mammogram.

I go for a workout after dropping the thing off with the doctor. Then I come home and track my dad's flight until it lands. I look at the market close info, send a holiday card to someone Forrest asks about, address a couple of invitations to people for a benefit we are giving in January and generally shuffle things on my desk. Which is a huge mess. There are piles everywhere. I have too many projects going and need to wind up some of them.

Dad calls me on his cell phone which has a Dallas number and which I've picked up at his house. He sounds good. He has gotten lots of help. I assure him that I will be there to pick him up.

Because it's rush hour, I leave the house before his plane leaves Dallas. I go to the area where you can't miss people coming out of the secure area to baggage claim, the area where the elevator and escalator down are. I buy a soda and some Fritos and realize that I haven't eaten all day except some fruit slice candy (that my aunt sent as a Christmas gift) and a couple of pieces of cheese. I meant to eat but the maid was always in the kitchen.

Dad emerges in a wheelchair. He looks very tired. But when we get down to the baggage claim, he dismisses the assistant and we both give him a couple of dollars. (What's the appropriate tip here? Good question.) His bag pops up right away. He has the yellow band on it so I recognize it and grab it. The car isn't too far and he makes it fine.

On the way home he tells me stories of driving in Europe of his train ride to Cologne and about Heidelberg. When we get home, I show him the mail piles, put his cell phone back on the charger and tell him where I put his car keys and luggage from Dallas. I forget to tell him that I've taken care of most of the rest of Mom's clothes with a few exceptions. But he'll probably notice that. He puts his suitcase in the laundry room, figuring to efficiently unload the dirty clothes into the laundry.

Now that he's home I'll have new worries. I worry about him being there alone and about him getting lonely and such. But I don't have to worry about getting the mail and watering the plants.

Home again, FFP has made spaghetti with tomato sauce and turkey sausage. It tastes good. I work on one of my Christmas projects while he watches 24 and then I watch NYPD Blue and read papers and work puzzles. I stay up too late. I don't like getting up late but my day keeps slipping into the night. I don't doze much in the chair even.

JUST TYPING
From the moment I open my eyes.
I realize.
Dad is in transit.
Coming home.
To be my responsibility again.
Or I, his.
Tracking his flights.
E-mails from his friend about dropping him off.
His voice from Dallas.
Telling me his flight to Austin.
As if.
I wouldn't be thinking about it.
And when to go to the airport.
The parent like a child.
One hoping their experience
isn't too traumatic
so that they are at peace.
When it's me, I slug through the airports, confident I'll get joustled, bumped and battered but that I will get home.
No problem.
But you don't want to lose track of an old parent.
It would be so embarrassing.