I raised an eyebrow at him and said, “That’s where we left
off last night.”
“I had one left over.” He looked even more pleased with himself.
I’m not 100% certain whether he remembered we went to James
Coney Island for the last of their 92₵ chili dog nights on Thursday, but he
definitely gave an appropriate, typical-Dad comeback. While the burp wasn’t appropriate, as those of
you who know Dad know, that was totally typical Dad, although he can’t always
do them at will any more. He may lose his “professional” status.
A few years ago, when the dementia was still mild, Mom
commented, “Of all the things he forgets, why can’t Jimmy’s be one of them?”
Dad not only grew up on James Coney Island, he knew the family, hence “Jimmy’s”
for short. Mom’s never been thrilled with it but would go for Dad. I like it,
so it’s a win-win for us, especially since she tends to send us alone.
When Dad got in the car, he knew exactly where we were
going, which is no longer the norm. I usually have to tell him at least once as
we drive. We joked heading down Hwy 90 and contemplated tagging the train cars
that were pristine while we waited at a red light. The last time we went on the
special night, the line was halfway down the wall when we arrived and out the
door when we left. I decided we should go earlier this time just in case—a
lovely idea that countered getting stuck in traffic merging into a single lane.
Dad didn’t get upset at the delay (whew!). Time for more jokes. He didn’t tell
any, but he got the ones I told. I commented on some apartments a friend used
to live in before he moved out to the country. Dad remembered he had moved and visiting
his place. Outside of having to remind him a couple times where Mom was (with
friends), the meal was totally normal. He even did fine with the messy chili
dogs that sometimes stress him.
I went in with him when we got back because Mom had left
some food for me. He didn’t remember why he had change in his pocket (he had
paid for dinner) or why a dime in the drawer where he keeps his wallet was
somehow important, but he did know about the stories in which people find some
coin or flower or other object that reminds them of someone special who has
died. What he remembers and forgets is an odd juxtaposition in conversations,
but all part of the disease. I’m grateful for the normalcy we still have.
As I headed for the door, I thanked him for dinner, and he
thanked me for driving. I said that I had enjoyed it. Then, he looked at me,
made a fist, and tapped his chest a couple of times. I knew what was coming,
returned his look and burped first, which I can rarely do on command. He
deflated, shoulders slumping in jest, defeated because with that, he couldn’t
do his. It’s as good as disrupting someone’s sneeze with a “bless you” as they’re
revving up. I laughed in triumph; he laughed in response, and I left shaking my
head at him.
The burping is so Dad, but it’s something I’d be OK with him
forgetting. With our luck, that is one thing that will stay the same.
