Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

Knock, knock. “Who’s there?” I yelled. Oh no, I thought. It was 10:30 and I was in the shower, rushing to get ready to run an errand before I met friends by 11:30 for lunch. 

“Where are the keys to my car?” Peter asked from outside the door. He hasn’t driven for years, but Bill had arrived to take him and Nobby for their weekly nursing home/ therapy dog visit.

“Black chair in the dining room,” I hollered. I didn’t think he’d remember that by the time he got downstairs and he didn’t. 

Knock, knock. “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon tied on the key.”

By the next knock knock I was toweling off. Peter cracked the door to ask, again, “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Peter-r! Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon…,” I said, “but wait!” I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a pad of paper off the nightstand and wrote black chair, dining room, orange ribbon. “There you go,” I said.

Minutes later, he was back holding my keys in his outstretched hand. “These?” he asked.

Argh-h. “No! C’mon, I’ll go with you.” I wrapped my robe around me, ran downstairs to the black chair in the dining room and picked up the key with the orange ribbon. “Here,” I said as I handed them over.

“Oh-h, I didn’t look there,” he said.

By then, I didn’t have enough time to go order the new refrigerator I’d been researching for weeks and that we’d needed for months. Instead, I went directly to the restaurant and vented to my friends about my morning. Of course they laughed, but I could’t, not then. By the time lunch was over I’d convinced myself I could place the fridge order the next day. It would be fine.

Thursday I managed to get out of the house with just enough time to take care of the order before an appointment. But I was a day too late take delivery the next week. Now it’ll be the end of November. Santa Claus will be knocking on the door by then. 

These days the ho, ho, ho’s are harder to come by, but still I look…

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Doris.
Doris who?
Doris locked, that’s why I’m knocking.

He was polite.
Too polite.
He knocked before he opened the fridge door.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Amanda.
Amanda who?
Amanda fix the refrigerator.

Groan.

 

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Laughs every day are harder to find.

Maybe it’s the shorter days, the longer nights, the unseasonable cold eight weeks ago, the unseasonable heat this month, or maybe the light at the end of the tunnel burned out, but I’ve really had to search for laughs to drag me, us, along recently.

One evening.

Leslie, Martin, Peter and I had a Friday night dinner and movie date, but there was a line out the door of the restaurant we’d chosen. We had little time to spare, so we ended up at the one place I’d said no to: Red Robin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but Peter had been there twice that week.

We’d no sooner ordered than another waitress came by and skidded to a stop beside our table. “You didn’t come say hello to me,” she said, grinning at Peter. “What’s up with that?”

Peter laughed. “I didn’t know I was coming here.”

“I’ll let you off,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, but someone called in.” She looked at the rest of us. “He makes us laugh ordering ‘cish and fips’ when he comes for lunch.” Peter grinned. They make such a fuss over him at Red Robin. The bonhomie reminds him of an English pub.

Later that evening.

We were about one hour, thirty minutes into a one hour thirty-seven minute mildly entertaining movie. Peter fidgeted and twisted in his seat. Bored, I wondered? Hm, no. “Do you need the loo?” I whispered.

He was annoyed that I asked. But suddenly he got up, felt his way along the row, down the few steps, and he was gone. “He won’t know how to get back,” Leslie said, as if I didn’t know. I groped my way out and followed.

In the hallway Peter fumbled at a door marked with the international symbol for family restroom. “Can I go in here?” he asked. I nodded. He dashed inside.

Even though the movie was a bit of a ho-hummer, I wanted to see the ending. I paced outside the theater door, then noticed the sign above said “Blade Runner.” I looked around. None of the doors’ signs said “Home Again.” Ack! Was I lost? By the time Peter emerged, I’d realized our film only ran at 7:30. “Blade Runner” would be shown at 10:00 in the same theater.

Back inside, just before the closing credits, I told Leslie I’d gotten confused. Of course she laughed as she does, but I didn’t try to explain to Peter. He would’ve cracked up knowing I’d been lost…momentarily.

The next morning.

Peter was in the kitchen clattering around. I pictured dishes suffering new chips and silverware headed for the waste bin instead of the dishwasher. I went to check. Ah-h!

“Peter, those haven’t washed yet,” I yelped when I realized he’d taken dirty plates, glasses and silverware from the dishwasher and put them into cupboards and drawers. He growled and stomped away. I reclaimed the dirty unwashed.

That evening I took a couple salad bowls off the shelf. Both were encrusted with bits of tomato and lettuce. Ready made salad, right out of the cupboard! What a concept.

Peter had the last laugh, because his mistake was my fault. I hadn’t switched the color-coded sign I stick on the dishwasher from  yellow/clean  to pink/dirty. How was he supposed to know the things he’d removed were dirty?

 

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Saturday morning I circled the soccer matches — “football” to my English husband — in the sports pages and wrote the channel numbers beside each. I was determined to forge a better day than Friday had been.

When Peter finally got up, the first game — ManU at Liverpool — was about to end. “This one’s nearly over,” he said, noting the score was nil-nil with seconds to go.

“Yes, but look, Chelsea plays Crystal Palace at ten,” I said. “Then, Arsenal at Watford at half past twelve. They’re your teams, aren’t they? Should be good matches.”

He nodded. “Fulham! Arsenal! Chelsea! Crystal Palace and Watford don’t have a chance.”

“Funny, you forget all sorts of things, but you don’t forget your football teams.”

“I don’t forget anything,” he said.

Hmm, I thought. How I wish that were true.


Crystal Palace shocks the boots off Chelsea, 2-1

Watford kicks in the Arsenal, 2-1
No joy for the Chelsea and Arsenal fan in our house.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. screen-shot-2016-12-07-at-10-14-53-am

Love and loneliness sit together.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to write a post about Peter’s acceptance of his new wrist-hugging PALLess than two weeks after I introduced him, he rebelled:
He tries to take the “watch”off, by pulling, tugging, fiddling with the locked clasp. (I have the unlocking device.)
He purposely ignores and/or forgets — a bit of both, I think — the time I ask him to to return.
He gets mad when I pick him up after tracking him, way out of range, an hour later.
When I put a note on his watch to remind when to be home, he stuffs it in his pocket and forgets about it. As he would, of course.
He always insists he knows where he is when he’s out walking, but when I ask where, he says, “I don’t  know, but I know.” I actually understand what I think he’s trying to say.
When I pick him up after he and Nobby have been gone way too long, he doesn’t recognize me or my car. When I beckon to him, he waves politely, and keeps walking. Nobby knows and he’s tired. He drags Peter to the car.
Because my paper note didn’t work, I try to write on his hand. Angrily, belligerently, he jerks away. “The only option,” I say, “is that I walk with you.” I set the alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes and walk along. Though he’d insisted he would be back, when my alarm beeps, he says I didn’t tell him he was supposed to be home at a certain time.
“I will not be told when and where I can walk,” he says repeatedly. “You don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” I try to make him understand that I want to make sure he’s safe. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, stomping like a child.

Ah, I don’t blame him for any of it. He can’t help it, I know that. I’d hate it too. Everything, everything, about dementia — Alzheimer’s — sucks! I’d be way worse if I were in his shoes.

To anyone who has ever known my husband, these words don’t describe the lovable, affable Peter of their acquaintance, the man they worked with, laughed with, caroused with.

He isn’t the lovable, affable Peter any longer. He knows it. I know it. He hates it, I hate it. At least I still see brief glimpses, some sparkles and shy smiles of the man I fell in love with.

I created a piece that is a tribute to life and society. Love and loneliness are a part of society and The Lovers’ Bench combines them both. At one point or another in our lives, we all sit on this bench,” artist Lea Vivot says of the entranced couple and the lonely woman beside them.
Header: Lea Vivot’s “The Lover’s Bench,” Montreal’s Botannical Gardens, 2009.

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