Fuggeddaboudit Page 11

a hell of a lot of prayers. He was a healer that healed us all. Jason was truly magical.

  Some would consider the amazing comfort of his sessions as his magic. I know I did. Tom did, too. Tom thanked Jason many times for keeping me sane. It was a demanding performance to be sure. Others witnessed how well Dad held up as medicines failed and the disease advanced. Other victims at the same doctors and in the same clinics fell much faster. With the same futile promises of healing via the drug of the month, Dad lasted almost two years longer than most. It was Jason that did it.

  Jason made sure bodywork worked. He used every weapon in his arsenal of healing. Massage, acupressure, Reiki, reflexology, trigger point, and whatever was needed…Jason fought a better battle against Alzheimer’s than the Surgeon General and his army of highly priced mercenaries. Jason kept Dad alive with healing touch. Some, in fact most, would call that magical. The truth of our Guru’s power was far greater than even that. Jason The Great did something heretofore thought impossible. He did it without even trying. Jason got Dad to spend some money. Willingly.

  Dad was famous for being frugal. He was beyond frugal. Dad was out and out cheap. Before Fuggeddaboudit, it was the family joke. After the invasion, Dad tightened his already well-worn belt even further. We all did. Dad just had a head start and bragging rights for being there first.

  My father rarely spent money, avoided debt in all forms, and quit buying anything but essentials since disease upended our financials. In the years since Dad was diagnosed, he only spent money was there no way around it. That was a good thing. We barely made ends meet and would have been in bankruptcy without medical insurance and a damn good prescription plan. Then Jason arrived and the miraculous happened. Dad spent money on something unimaginable before…and wanted top of the line. My father, King Tightwad, marched into the room one day and insisted we go on a field trip. Dad said it was time to buy a massage table.

  At first, I blew it off. He asked me first thing Monday morning. I figured it more of a whim and would be forgotten before Prince Spaghetti day. Dad asked again on Tuesday and added a deadline. He wanted it before Friday when Jason came for his session. Dad insisted on buying a massage table so Jason did not have to, in his words, “…lug his own”. Off we went…Daddy and Daughter….to surprise the Guru.

  It was my old Dad. The efficient one. He had the make and model of Jason’s table. His list included the specific brand of massage lotion, three sets of sheets, minimum 500 thread count, an incense holder, a large box of Nag Champra, three CDs, Pure Moods and two Enyas, and a CD player. The man who was beginning to forget the day of the week gathered all of this information by himself.

  I discovered he did not ask Jason at all. In fact, that was essential to his plan. He wanted everything to be a surprise. “That boy is one of the nicest boys I ever met. I want him to have stuff at the house. His stuff. It’s only fair. He gives us so much.”

  Dad was exactly right. We made two trips, substituted an Enigma for one Enya, and used a CD player from the bedroom, but when Jason arrived on Friday, we were all set. Our house now had a therapy room. The short lived sewing and craft room that morphed into a place where we hid stuff until we knew what to do with it became Sanctuary. Right under our roof. Our gift to our very own gift giver. It was my Dad’s last demonstration of efficiency. Wow. What a finale.

  The Hard Part

  Before Dad’s finale, things got harder. A lot harder. So hard, it hurts to even remember the darkest parts. I handled them in ways that honor my Irish blood, as diluted as it is since so and so married so and so and then they married so and so and all those so and so’s were from places different than Ireland. Still I had Irish blood so I did what the Irish do at their very best…..I joked about the darkest stuff.

  Just beneath that humor is stuff so dark I tried not to face it. Decided not to share it. Not here. Not anywhere. Then realized we can joke about it but it is still dark and very real. Real enough that I went through it and others went through it and, until they find a damn cure, others will still go through it. That ain’t a damn joke. It is not something to hide in humor. It is something to face. I came face to face with it one day when changing my father’s diapers.

  Changing diapers is not a dark thing. I changed a lot of diapers in my days. As a mother, I saw right passed the shit. Saw if my child was healthy. Saw if my child needed more of this or less of that. Saw the beauty of changing diapers because it was something parents did until our children don’t need it any longer. Changing diapers for my children was one thing. Changing diapers for my father was something else.

  It was not a rite of passage. It was a rite of passing on. It was everyday evidence of death. It was not a good thing on any level. Still, I did it. It was needed. He needed it. I needed to help him. So I did it. Yes, I thought it was hard. Then I just began to do it. It moved from disgusting to tolerable. Then Dad did something that made it really hard. Really, really hard.

  Dad got hard. My father. Got hard. While I was changing his diaper. Things went to a whole new level of low that day. I was speechless. Didn’t matter. It happened again a few days later. Then it happened again. Soon, it was part of the experience. Each diaper contained a surprise that broke my heart a little more. Each changing made me ashamed. That made me mad. That made me Irish.

  It was just hard at the beginning. Then it got to be a joke. It had to be a joke. A sick and not twisted joke. A damn, bizarre, freakish, you have to got to be shitting me, joke. So I did what the Irish do. I confronted the evidence and spit in its eye.

  “Well, I am happy to see you too, Dad.”

  Only it wasn’t Dad. It was that man that needed his diaper changed. That man that look forward to being changed. That being that used to be my father and was now something else. A being in need. A being I still loved because I loved my father.

  I never expected to see that. I never really got used to seeing that. Part of me hated seeing that. Part of me knows others saw things just like that. Things that made them ashamed and mad and helpless to do anything except put up with those things right along will all the other shit that comes with Fuggeddaboudit. Yes, it was hard. I changed a lot while dealing with it.

  A Pinch In Time

  Yes, I got mad at my father. Yes, I wanted to smack him. Yes, I wanted to shake him out of this crappy excuse for a life he was leaving behind a bit at a time. Didn’t do those things. Instead, I pinched him. Hard. Often.

  It was the best thing I did in my battle against Fuggeddaboudit. Discovered my secret weapon one day, it was actually two or maybe even three days, when I dropped a milk shake. Ah, the wonders of healing insight.

  Dad was my excuse for milk shakes. I liked milk shakes. Especially on summer days. Especially in the afternoon. Dad like them, too. So, I excavated the blender from the appliance graveyard. That “I know we have one and it is around here somewhere” place right alongside the juicer, two electric can openers that still kinda worked, a mixer with one beater where there should be two, and some sandwich making thing that crimped the edges of grilled anythings and should have been re-gifted rather than even opened. Dug out the mixer, put it center stage, and put on ten pounds. All for Dad. He deserved it. Dieting before death seemed less important at the time. Death watchers trumped weight watchers in my book. So I had Milk Shakes. Lots of them.

  It was just another afternoon. He was asleep. I was hungry. Decided to treat him to a milk shake. On the way in, I dropped both of them. He was startled. I was startled. Cleaned up the mess but noticed something in the process. Dad woke up as Dad.

  Didn’t have to ease him back and introduce him to himself. That was getting close to common practice each time he woke up. Morning. “Good morning, Dad. Remember me?” Afternoon. “Have a nice nap, Dad? Remember me?” Cat naps. “Hey there, buckaroo. Welcome back. Remember me?” Usually, he
did not remember me. Not right away. Each waking was a surprise. Lately, each one was a bit of a disappointment. Sometimes, Dad did not join us. Maybe after his next sleep. It was a crap shoot and the dice were cold and getting colder. Until I dropped the milk shakes and the odds shifted in my favor a bit.

  Dad woke up with a jolt. A jolt for me. “Huh? What was that? Are you alright, Mally?” Wow. Right name. Right response. Right time. Worth a few fallen milk shakes anytime.

  Thought about it that day and the next. Dropped a dish two days later. On purpose. Made sure it was a cheap one but dropped it hard. Right on the hallway tile. Close to where he napped. Again, he woke up quick. “Huh? What was that? What happened, Mal?”

  I apologized. I was not really sorry. I was anything but sorry. I was ecstatic. Dad woke up as Dad again. If it meant every dish in the house and then the neighborhood, I would wake him that way each and every time.

  Looked it up on line. No theories. No test groups. Nothing about sneaking up on Altimeters. No one said they had success in tricking it. Talked about it to Tom. He liked my enthusiasm but thought I was, in his words, nuts. “Nice that it worked a few times. Don’t get your hopes up,