by Kathy Brasby | Jan 9, 2015 | Seasons
The day that Sam went searching for his pajamas in the attic, Jody thought it was time to have a talk about forgetfulness.
“I think you ought to visit a doctor, just to get a diagnosis on this confusion.”
He cocked his gray head to the side like he had done a million times in her life. He was digging in for the long fight. “I’m not forgetful.”
“Well, sometimes you are.”
“Prove it.” He hadn’t moved his head yet but his chin was pointed toward her. Once it had been the signal to take cover.
But not this time.
“Remember the time you couldn’t find your back brush? And it was hanging in the shower where it was supposed to be.”
His eyes glazed for a moment and then sharpened. “Everyone forgets things sometimes. You forget things, too.”
She didn’t want to do this. “Not like that.”
“Give me a test.”
“All right. Do you think you can count backwards from a hundred by threes?” Jody had read that test in an article somewhere and figured it was worth a try.
“Of course I can. One hundred. Uh, ninety—“He drew in a long breath. “I don’t want to do it right now. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. You can’t do it either.”
She could and she proved it. “Please, Dad. I just want to see if there’s something to help you. That’s all.”
“You think I have Alzheimer’s, don’t you”
“I really don’t know. That’s why I’d like a diagnosis.”
“Well,” he tossed his head back now. “I don’t. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to get that. So I don’t.”
She gave up.
He lived two more years and never visited a doctor about his forgetfulness.
Jody didn’t learn how severe the dementia was. But in his last days, Sam still knew every family member who visited him.
For Jody, that was enough.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jan 2, 2015 | Seasons
Della had positioned her wheelchair near the front door of the nursing home, searching each face that entered until her son finally made his way into the lobby.
“Bobby!” She grabbed the wheel of her chair and propelled herself into his path. “We need to talk.”
Bobby stopped in mid stride. “Uh, OK, Mom. Is there a problem today?”
He stopped by every day on his lunch hour and he kept up on her issues and conditions.
“We need to talk.”
He pushed her wheelchair to another room for some privacy and settled on a chair in front of her. “So what’s up?”
“Do I have any money?” Della leaned forward, her eyebrows bent.
“Yes. Dad made some good investments over the years. You’re doing OK.”
Della nodded. “Can I afford some new socks?”
Bobby glanced down at her feet, clad in fuzzy purple socks. “Do you need socks?”
“I don’t have any that fit. But if we can’t afford it, I can wait.”
His mother had once been the queen of proportion. Socks, once upon a time, barely registered on her concern meter. Things had changed.
But if socks were important to his mother, they were important to Bobby. He ventured into the sock aisle to scout out the selection. Maybe warm striped ones this time.
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 30, 2014 | Personal
Late on Christmas day several years ago, we bundled our family into the car and headed for a ski trip in the Colorado mountains.
The gift-giving had been trimmed back so that we could enjoy this ski outing but my husband wanted to do something special for the family on our travel that evening.
“Let’s stop at that nice steak house on the interstate,” he said.
So we did. They were closed. It was, after all, Christmas day.
Hmmm. We hadn’t thought of that so we continued to the next town and pulled in, thinking the Chinese restaurant there might work well.
Closed.
We were starting to get a clue, finally. But we had five kids in the car and the Christmas cookies were wearing off. They were restless.
“Let’s try a fast-food place.” My husband had set his heart on a special mealtime family gathering but his stomach was growling, too.
Closed.
Grocery stores were closed. Walmart was closed.
We were about to take stock of the energy bars that might have been left in coat pockets when my husband spotted a 7-Eleven convenience store open.
We turned the kids loose. “Find something to eat.”
Because there’s virtually nothing healthy in a snack place like that, the kids were not bound to a balanced meal. They grabbed chips and popcorn and gallons of fountain drinks.
Their parents have felt guilty for years for not having enough foresight to avoid such a disappointment. We wanted to give them a nice steak dinner but instead offered candy bars and peanuts.
But I have been assured by our older son not to worry.
“I got a fistful of dill pickles,” he said. “Best Christmas dinner ever!”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 19, 2014 | Seasons
The lamp burst to life, blasting light into Josie’s sleeping eyes. She awoke and glanced at the clock. 1:34 am. She’d slept an hour.
The blanket held her in a warm embrace but Josie broke free.
She shuffled into her mother’s bedroom. “Do you need to go to the bathroom again?” At 83, her mother was wheelchair bound and unable to get out of bed on her own. Josie did the lifting and transferring. But they’d been up at 11:47 and 12:29. Surely there couldn’t be much left.
Mom rolled her head on the pillow. “No, not this time.”
Josie settled onto the edge of Mom’s bed and adjusted her blanket, pulling the sheet under her chin. Just like her mother had done when tucking her into bed as a little girl. She laid her hand against her mother’s cheek, like her mother had done a thousand times. “Are you sure?” She really didn’t want to get up in another hour.
“I’m sure.”
Josie tried to clear sleep fog out of her brain. “Well, why am I up then if you don’t need anything?”
“I just thought you ought to know.”
Josie kissed her mother on the cheek, just like her mother had done to her so many times in the past, and padded to the cooling sheets. Better get to sleep before that lamp burst to life again.
Just like it would do a thousand times.
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 16, 2014 | Stories
Our pool table resided in the basement, piled high with boxes of outgrown clothes and books to be donated.
I listed the pool table for sale. That way the boxes could go away.
A young man showed up with his buddy.
I had asked $35 for the pool table because I had bought it for $25 at a yard sale. But it was a slate top pool table and connoisseurs liked that idea.
So this young man examined the slate and did a verbal fist pump. “Slate! I can sell this table anywhere for $200.”
I smiled. I just wanted it out of my basement and wouldn’t mind getting my $25 back.
“Would you take $30 for it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, I need to come back with a pickup. Could you hold it for me?”
“Sure, if you pay today.”
He studied the table and his buddy. Perhaps the $200 sale loomed before him. “I wonder if we can get it home now.”
So they jumped into the project. My help was finding all the pool balls, which I carried to their vehicle, a dented and rusty old station wagon.
They sweated and struggled and leaned against the stairway walls several times. Finally they and the table emerged from the house.
With more grunting and groaning, they hoisted the pool table onto the top of car.
“We’re good now,” the new buyer assured me.
Later, I watched them pull out of our driveway in a cloud of white dust. They had tied the table onto the top of the car, running the ropes through the windows. I didn’t get to see them shimmy through the windows to drive away.
And I thought my $30 sale was a whole lot more secure than his planned $200 sale.
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