Oddments

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GQ Dad

I would argue that Dad was by nature a man of questionable fashion sense. It can be reasonably opined that I inherited this, but “it takes one to know one” strengthens my argument. The Fathers’ Day ties I gave him were likely no help.

Bad ties aside, Dad was obsessed by red. His wardrobe, his walls, his cars, his lawn would have been blazing scarlet and sultry ruby had he his way. Every time Mom bought a black dress, he would observe that it would be much nicer in red. I’m sure he thought her iconic potato salad would have been better with a dousing of red food color.

One fateful Christmas, someone bought Dad a brilliant crimson shirt, and thus was born his favorite Christmas ensemble: red shirt with a painfully green St. Patrick’s Day tie. He wore it annually with pure euphoria and we dove for sunglasses.

Dad usually looked good, though, because Mom governed when it came to clothes. His blacks and beiges and pristine white shirts were her doing. And, protests to the contrary, they were his preference for most occasions.

But after Mom died his daily wardrobe became more expressive of his inner Matisse, and one day he emerged from his bedroom in full bloom: brown tweed trousers and red-plaid flannel shirt. Over the shirt — wait for it — a beige sweater with green and orange polka dots. That became his favored fashion statement his last autumn. Blaming the dementia would be handy but not fully honest.

The world according to Dad was brown tweed with red plaid with green and orange polka dots. His spine was straight, his head high: the proletariat could wear whatever — he rocked the look.

Happy Fathers’ Day to all dads who rock the look!


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When you’ve had enough…

“You’re talking about me! I know you’re talking about me!”

I looked up. There came my mother full tilt down the hall.

Yes, Mom, I’m talking about you! This is the nurses’ station and I am going home for the night! I’m telling them there is no one with you now!

There was no patience in my voice. I’d had enough of her paranoia and enough of not knowing who she was.

A few years later, my father threatened me. I walked out of his hospital room fighting back the tears, to a different nurses’ station, where I told them I was leaving and didn’t give a damn what my father did.

I’d had enough of Dad’s dementia and enough of not knowing who he was.

My mother’s last Mothers’ Day present was chemotherapy. On Dad’s last Fathers’ Day we took a ride and hit a rough patch of road which caused me to exclaim “It’s a good thing we haven’t eaten yet!” He replied, “You mean we ate already?”

A lot about caregiving comes back to me at this time of year. Dad died at the end of March. Mom went into crisis in mid-April and died mid-June. Different years, same season. Same me. Mom’s brain tumors, Dad’s dementia, spring, Mothers’ Day, Fathers’ Day…it all blends together like muck and mud.

Sometimes you have your parents but you don’t. You see and hear only the look-alikes that disease has left in their stead. They know you, but you don’t know them. Eventually they don’t know you either. So where’s the Hallmark card that says “Happy Mothers’ Day, Whoever You Are,” or “Happy Fathers’ Day from the Daughter You Don’t Know”?

Forget “When you care enough.” It should be “When you’ve had enough.”