This week, my sister Irene and me were able to visit Dad together down to Mahoosuc Green. That hasn’t been allowed since this whole Covid thing began. Up until now, it’s been only two people at a time, and both from the same household. Because his roommate was in the dining room with his own visitors, we got to visit Dad in his room.
Dad is always telling me he needs nail clippers. But when they give him some, he loses them. The nurses have a lot to do, and they don’t always have time to cut his nails the way he likes ‘em. So this time, I decided to bring some clippers, emery boards, a nail buffer and some hand lotion, and Irene and me gave Dad a manicure, one on each hand. Us gals had a great time, and Dad seemed to like it, too, though sometimes it’s hard to tell.
You know, I found it harder visiting with Dad in his room, and returned home feeling kind of down about it, which isn’t like me. It took me awhile to sort my feelings out. See, Dad had such a nice little apartment up on Dirigo Way (independent living), but when he needed more care they had to move him to assisted living on Chickadee Lane. That happened during the Covid lockdown, and I’d never been in his new room. Sure, I’d seen pictures of it and glimpsed parts of it on window visits, but to actually be in there and feel how tiny it is, wow!
See, my Dad worked hard down to the mill his whole life and my mom was a secretary at the high school.
They were careful with money, and managed to put aside enough for a half decent retirement. For him to end up in that tiny room with a roommate just seems so depressing. Especially when I think of his cute apartment, which cost half as much as the room he’s in now. And yes, I know they’re taking good care of him, and it’s a nice place, close by so we can visit him often. And we’re so thankful he can afford it. Even so, my heart speeds up a little when I’m making out the check. It seems unnatural to write a check that big every, single month!
I also know that some of the reason he’s in assisted living is because of choices he made in his life. Not his dementia, of course, but not taking his high blood pressure seriously. And don’t even get me going on the Type 2 diabetes. He knew what he had to do: lose weight, watch the sweets, get some exercise. My mom did her best, but she couldn’t monitor him every waking moment of the day, and after she died, all bets were off. That makes me a little angry, to be honest, and then I feel guilty about feeling that way.
Anyhoo, having an activity like the manicure and visiting with Irene really made a difference. Then when it was time to leave, Dad held onto my hand and asked, “Are you taking me with you?” His eyes seemed so sad looking up at me above his mask. That just broke my heart.
I held off crying, though, until we got to the parking lot. Man, it felt good to whip off my mask, take a big gulp of fresh air and let ‘er rip.
I says to Irene, who looked a little teary, too, “Screw lunch. Let’s bee-line it to Dairy Queen.”
“You read my mind, Ida. This situation calls for a Peanut Buster Parfait.”
“Or two! Man, ‘Reeny, I’m glad we’re in this together.”
“My sentiments, exactly.”
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: Dad Gets a Manicure