I helped out my Dad today....
He looked old in a way I've never seen before.. and it seemed so wrong.
I arrive to an empty living room, the familiar heady aroma reminiscent of sun-warmed damp cedar planks fills my nose. I try to ignore what the smell really is and wonder if he's in the bathroom or possibly getting changed. I place the painting he's been missing by the sliding door and bring the fried chicken along with his medications to the kitchen. I can hear him moving about in his bedroom. I call out that I am here and need to use the facilities.
I flip the switch and watch for swift moving bugs running for cover. So far I've never noticed any, but wonder how much longer before they reach his apartment. As I sit, I notice the odor of Old Spice and spy the bright red bottle of body wash and my mind continues it's path to my childhood.
Back in the kitchen, I see his teeth soaking in a bowl. Both my parents have dentures, and I wonder if and when I'll ever need them.
The sounds coming from his room seem as if he is struggling with something. I head to him while asking if he is decent. His marble mouthed response misses my ears, but I can tell that he meant that he is dressed enough. Softly back lit I find him dressing in his wheelchair. His chicken legs uncharacteristically exposed. Back rounded, his large frame is missing it's usual strong stance. He is struggling to pull on an undershirt.
I move close to help and notice the beads of sweat on his brow, his damp hair and pale color. I reach to help pull the shirt down his back only to find his skin cool, damp and sticky. As I work his shirt over his clammy skin and down his back I notice his typical leg twitch is pronounced. Using his long arms, he leans forward to lift his knee to quite the spasm, but for the first time in my memory it doesn't stop.
He tells me that one of the drugs I picked up for him will help with the spasms and the sweating. He sounds uncomfortable and tired. I've never seen him without his teeth in.. his sunken cheeks are a little comical.
The smells of his apartment are the same they have been my whole life, a mix of home cooked food, old spice, marijuana and the slightest undertone of urine. Typically this aroma, as odd as it may seem, brings me comfort and a childlike relaxation. A part of me slowly becomes the little kindergarten girl in the painting I left by the sliding door. Today it doesn't work. I watch as the next spasm runs from his leg up through his abdomen, threatening to pitch him from his chair. I listen to him catch his breath as if he's got the most disturbing case of hiccups I've ever imagined and he becomes the child.
I arrive to an empty living room, the familiar heady aroma reminiscent of sun-warmed damp cedar planks fills my nose. I try to ignore what the smell really is and wonder if he's in the bathroom or possibly getting changed. I place the painting he's been missing by the sliding door and bring the fried chicken along with his medications to the kitchen. I can hear him moving about in his bedroom. I call out that I am here and need to use the facilities.
I flip the switch and watch for swift moving bugs running for cover. So far I've never noticed any, but wonder how much longer before they reach his apartment. As I sit, I notice the odor of Old Spice and spy the bright red bottle of body wash and my mind continues it's path to my childhood.
Back in the kitchen, I see his teeth soaking in a bowl. Both my parents have dentures, and I wonder if and when I'll ever need them.
The sounds coming from his room seem as if he is struggling with something. I head to him while asking if he is decent. His marble mouthed response misses my ears, but I can tell that he meant that he is dressed enough. Softly back lit I find him dressing in his wheelchair. His chicken legs uncharacteristically exposed. Back rounded, his large frame is missing it's usual strong stance. He is struggling to pull on an undershirt.
I move close to help and notice the beads of sweat on his brow, his damp hair and pale color. I reach to help pull the shirt down his back only to find his skin cool, damp and sticky. As I work his shirt over his clammy skin and down his back I notice his typical leg twitch is pronounced. Using his long arms, he leans forward to lift his knee to quite the spasm, but for the first time in my memory it doesn't stop.
He tells me that one of the drugs I picked up for him will help with the spasms and the sweating. He sounds uncomfortable and tired. I've never seen him without his teeth in.. his sunken cheeks are a little comical.
The smells of his apartment are the same they have been my whole life, a mix of home cooked food, old spice, marijuana and the slightest undertone of urine. Typically this aroma, as odd as it may seem, brings me comfort and a childlike relaxation. A part of me slowly becomes the little kindergarten girl in the painting I left by the sliding door. Today it doesn't work. I watch as the next spasm runs from his leg up through his abdomen, threatening to pitch him from his chair. I listen to him catch his breath as if he's got the most disturbing case of hiccups I've ever imagined and he becomes the child.