Independence Day

Sis and Don went to the Belmont races this morning, so I took some time to myself before leaving their condo to shower, brush my teeth, eat some lunch, and start reading Losing Mum and Pop, by Christopher Buckley. [It was excerpted in Vanity Fair, I think, which whet my appetite for the book. It's good.] I took a nap, and got an iced coffee at Starbucks. And then Sug and I settled in to drive an hour to visit my Dad before heading home; it was kind of on the way. I tried to take care of myself first so I could better take care of my Dad. We finally got home around 7.

Hotdogs and Fireworks
When I think of the Fourth in Dumont, I remember fireworks, and Dad firing up the grill. But for most of the last 19 years, H., Figgy and I have headed to Maine, to be with his family. We alternate Christmas and Thanksgiving between my family and his, but usually build our summer week in Maine around the Fourth. Not this year, b/c Figgy is doing her mountain hike.

My first Fourth up there was in picturesque Spruce Head, at H.'s brother Pat's house, the one he built right on the water. It was so pretty. He was married to D. then, and I held up their little family--with two adorable girls and a cute black dog--as my ideal. My sister-in-law had beautiful taste in flowers, pottery, jewelry, table setting. She taught me so much just by sharing her passions. I had my first lobster there. I can still see the girls holding sparklers, and eating the strawberry-topped cake my mother-in-law made.

Sadly, Pat and D. divorced; there went my idyllic family. But those sweet girls are lovely young women now, navigating the seas of life--one even married a lobster man.

Sandwiches on the Terrace
Sis and Don will see Dad tomorrow, but H. and I have been invited to a couple of barbecues in Montclair. So I celebrated with Dad today. The aide rolled him out in his wheelchair onto the terrace at CareOne. [He can walk with his walker, but they only allow that in physical therapy, one reason Sis and I want him out of there soon.] I left Sug in his lap--they adore each other--and zipped over to Kings for roast beef sandwiches, apple juice, a small bag of chips, two baby ice cream cups and pretty red utensils and plates. We shared the roast beef with Sug, who had a red checked paper plate of her own.

My Dad noticed. He liked it. We had fun. We just sat there, chit-chatting about this and that, shooting the breeze, and talking to the man at the next table on the terrace, who kept slipping food from his dinner tray to Sug. I did ask Dad about the honeymoon time in New Hampshire and though he couldn't remember the town, he did remember how beautiful the mountains were and how fancy the dinner at the inn was.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
The workers at CareOne don't see Dad, not really. They see an 87-year-old who takes a fair amount of meds and needs help rolling over. They don't see the brilliant chemist, the hard-working father, the brother to Anthony and Aldo.

His shirt collar was a little dirty. The tails were untucked. He had two different color socks on. They're not keeping up with his laundry. They put somebody else's pants on him--they would not close--but I found a pair in his closet. I didn't particularly like the clipped way the aide talked to my Dad and got his pants on, but I do appreciate that helping elderly people with toileting and other matters cannot be a very pleasant job. "One, two, three," she said, and helped him into the wheelchair. I was supporting him from behind. He wanted to comb his hair, wanted to wet the comb as they passed the bathroom. "I'll bring you some water in a cup," she said. And she did. So he dipped his black comb in the Dixie cup out on the terrace, and combed his soft white hair.

I love my Dad. I hate the thought that he will die one day. I simply can't imagine forging forward without him.

Sweet dreams, Papa. I am so grateful that I got to see you today.

Love, Alice