Grampy Old Men

Since I wasn't under enough stress because of the whole insurance mess (still no word on what they'll pay for, but the caseworker says they can bill Medicare if they have to, so at least we won't be on the hook), this is the weekend Stepmom decided to come up for her granddaughters' swim meet and she insisted (in the nicest way) on seeing monshu. All of which is great, but she brought Dad along, too. (At least I convinced Mom to stay at home for another week.) I think it's probably for that reason alone that when I asked the Old Man this morning, "Would you prefer I were here for their visit?" he nodded yes. So much for getting a half day of work in.

Dad is losing it. There have been hints for years, but now we're getting to the point where it must be obvious even to those who don't know him well. Just during the hour together in monshu's room, he gave several nonsensical replies, told the same story about falling over twice (having completely forgotten he'd told it already yesterday evening), and answered questions that weren't directed at him. We've always suspected (based on the fate of the previous generation) that if he lived long enough, he'd fall prey to Alzheimer's. We just hoped it wouldn't hit for a while yet.

He's also looking more feeble. More like, well, a man in his 70s who's spent some time in the hospital recently. It's an exaggeration to say--as his wife does--that he has "no gait", but he certainly doesn't have the confident stride that I imitated without realising as a teenager. Our time together was fine--I told my stepmom about a Venezuelan restaurant near work and she drove us up there for lunch. Mostly she and I talked, but Dad made contributions at times. Still, the days when he and I would go on cross-country adventures seem behind us now.

***

Chatting with my stepmom is always a pleasure--she's still as with it as always. I was looking forward to telling her about my conversation with the director of "the Jewish place", as she began referring to the nursing home I visited yesterday after I told her there was a sukkah on the doorstep. He was a shmoozer straight from central casting. The secretary had shown me into a meeting room to wait while he disentangled himself and no sooner had we made introductions when he turned to her and said, "Did you get this man something to drink?" Then back to me to say, "I need to get someone new in the front office, someone who's not so rude to visitors. It's been, what, 19 years and I still haven't found anyone."

He was called away twice to deal with other matters and kept joking about paying me for our time. "You can take it off the first bill," I told him. He engaged in some mildly sexist banter with the staff and patients as we strode through the narrow corridors. He remarked on my surname and joke that he learned to speak German by copping a Colonel Klink accent on his Yiddish. I told my joke about the Jewish boy who takes German for an easy A and then makes the mistake of saying "Shabbes" when asked to recite the days of the week, which led to a discussion of the etymology of Samstag.

All in all, he seems like a mentsh and it looks like a good place. I do worry that monshu needs more medical care than they're used to dispensing. Really, if there physical therapy were more intense, the best thing for the Old Man would probably be just staying where he's at until he's strong enough to head home, but no way the beancounters are going to approve that.