Haircuts

I took my parents to get their hair cut.

Mom used to go to a salon in Hyannis, but missed several appointments and is no longer welcome there. She didn’t appreciate that not showing up meant loss of income to her stylist, who sent a very gracious note wishing Mom well and explaining that she couldn’t accommodate those losses anymore.

Unwilling to visit a less posh salon closer to home, Mom didn’t get her hair cut for almost a year after that (don’t look at me, this is while she still had her driver’s license). Meanwhile, Dad was seeing his regular person, Tammy, just 10 minutes away.

Getting Dad from place to place can be quite a production. Eighty-six and blind, he doesn’t make quick strides, and he’s very easily startled by changes underfoot. From car to building, he has cane in one hand, me in the other; I’ve got him on one arm and everything else over the other shoulder. If it’s raining, add an umbrella. We shuffle along. It’s nice when someone holds a door.

When I first brought Dad to Tammy after Mom stopped driving, she came right to the door, opened it wide and swept him away as smoothly as you please. She offered just the right guidance and spoke at just the right volume about just the right things. And my Dad sat right down in her chair and proceeded to tell her All About It. They had a great time and I was so happily unnecessary it brought tears to my eyes. He came home looking handsome and feeling great. I tipped her exorbitantly.

Mom, in desperation, now agreed to see Tammy as well. I scheduled a midday appointment to get them both taken care of and me back to Sandwich in time for Robin’s volleyball game. Win-win (and-hopefully-win).

They were getting dressed when I arrived to pick them up. Dad needed help with small, stiff shirt buttons. He was mad that he couldn’t do them. I said “Dad, maybe you need to start wearing rugby shirts!” I was not entirely serious. However he is now obsessed with the idea of a rugby shirt, and I know what to get him for Christmas.

Sad news at the salon: Tammy was out due to injury. Rather than call to reschedule, the salon people had figured other stylists could fill in. This made me nervous and a bit resentful. Tammy is the whole point of that place. It’s not so great without her.

Stylists were hanging around discussing lunch orders, but Dad’s designated stand-in wasn’t even in the building. We were told she was delayed due to “the weather” (light rain). We waited. When she arrived and was asked if she wanted something from the cafe, she said “no, I picked up something on the way.” I think she realized mid-sentence how that came across.

A mystery: The ladies’ room in this place has no dryer or towels, so the inside door handle is always wet. But there’s a roll of paper towels on a table ten feet down the hall.

More mysteries: There is a lot of weird shit for sale crammed into the waiting area. Here is a partial list:

  • cocktail forks
  • a blouse
  • an electric egg cooker
  • a book by Dr. Phil
  • scented candles
  • a pair of metallic sandals
  • orange silicone kitchen utensils
  • loose tea
  • a scarf
  • Christmas ornaments (or fall? are fall ornaments a thing?)
  • a sequined black sweatshirt
  • an elaborately framed print of Cavalry, by Octavio Ocampo, which is a pretty creepy work of art no matter how you frame it.

It’s like that game where you look at a random assortment of items on a tray, and then someone takes away the tray and you have to list as many of the items as you can remember.

I’m in a constant state of low-grade confusion and irritability in this place. Why aren’t the paper towels in the bathroom? Where does all this crap come from and who would buy it? Where is the lady who’s going to cut my Dad’s hair? What is that other lady doing to my mother and how soon will it be before Mom starts saying things we will all regret? Why is all of this taking so long?

An hour and a half later, Mom had something like a bowl cut. Dad’s was better. Mom was persuaded to buy expensive tea tree shampoo to treat something on her scalp that I suspect would not exist if she shampooed more often. She was instructed not to use the expensive tea tree shampoo every day. That is not going to be an issue.

I’d thought we might go to lunch, but I was so fried that I just brought them home, paid the bills, brought in the mail, the newspapers and the garbage bin, consolidated some of Dad’s medicines in bottles he has marked in various ways to know by touch what they are, and set up Mom’s medications for the week ahead.

What I took away: Mom’s 2015 appointment calendar, with about 8 pounds of paper scraps tucked into it that I will scan through to be sure don’t include any legal documents (the car registration is MIA, for one thing); three catalogs to call and get her off their mailing list, again.

Another visit done.

I did make it to Robin’s game: a victory that left her in a fabulous mood all evening.

Oh, her aching back (no, really)

My mother suffers substantially from back pain. Over the last decade she’s had two spinal fusion surgeries and a hip replacement. We didn’t know about her dementia before the surgeries, but looking back I know she was distinctly worse after each one. Her immediate recovery periods were always nightmarish, and each time seemed to diminish her permanently.

It was after one of those surgeries that my father confessed to me his worry that she hadn’t been paying the bills. (Blind, he couldn’t pay them or verify her payment of them on his own.) He handed me a briefcase with the entire contents of her desk in it and we sat up till the wee hours sorting through stuff. That’s when I took over the bill paying. Diagnosis followed not long after. It’s been almost 5 years now.

At any rate, the pain has been ramping up again over the past year. Nobody thinks she can undergo another surgery. She’s been seeing a physiologist at Spaulding, who today performed a radiofrequency ablation procedure which will, we hope, deaden the nerve that is hurting her. It would be so great if it worked. Mom’s concentration is flighty enough; the pain makes it so she can’t tolerate standing for long, and you just know she isn’t listening to anything that’s said half the time because she’s distracted by how much she hurts.

So, we desperately want this to succeed.

She arrived for her procedure this morning in the car of a kind volunteer who drove her from Chatham so that I wouldn’t have to do two round trips. I met her at the door, and we checked in. She was absolutely calm (thank you Ativan — and thank goodness she managed to save the last two little pills for today.) The doctor’s assistant wheeled her away, and I headed to the cafeteria to sit with a coffee and go through my “Mom & Dad” binder, culling out of date papers.

I had a nice visit with a friend who works there. We talked about the mixed pride and heartbreak of sending a kid to college. I told her all the Facebook pictures of friends’ new college students are breaking my heart, as I’m half wrecked because my eldest just started high school and she STILL LIVES IN MY HOUSE. I am risking my Spock-like reputation by confessing to these things, but I do.

I saw my daughters’ 2nd grade teacher, since retired, a really great person who lost her son to addiction last year and somehow still puts one foot in front of the other.

I saw the physical therapist who told me I had an attitude problem when I said it would be nice to be done with the the pain in my shoulder for which I went to see her for help some weeks ago. We ignored each other with no love lost. That remark of hers still makes me angry whenever I recall it. The day she said that, I should have cancelled all the rest of my appointments.

Her assistant passed by and was lovely, though.

So 45 minutes went quickly by, and then Mom was asking for me in the recovery room. Her procedure reportedly went well. She was reclining next to a pile of snack wrappers. She’d eaten all the Lorna Doones and half the Ritz peanut butter crackers and was struggling to unwrap the Fig Newtons. This was not a procedure she’d had to fast for, by the way. She asked me, “do you drive to an office somewhere for the program you’re on?” I had no idea what she meant. “For losing weight,” she said. “No Mom. I’m not on a program. I just quit eating bagels and muffins and cookies, and got serious about walking more often.” “Oh. Did you read about that in a magazine?” and so on, for the duration of the Fig Newtons. My 200 pound mother in a recliner shoving junk food in her face asking me how I lost 10 pounds.

I brought the car around, she was helped into it, and we headed home. I’d told Dad to expect us at about 11:00. When we got in, he was asleep, but he jumped up, shouting “IT’S ONLY 10:26!” “Hi, Dad. 10:56 I think.” Dad checks his talking watch. “Oh, 10:56. All right. Hello.” By this time Mom’s tired enough to assure him all went well and then go right to bed for a nap.

With Mom asleep, I have the opportunity to assess the status of the fridge and freezer. Peapod delivered groceries yesterday so they’re in good supply. Excellent supply, you could say. Mom had ordered four gallons of milk and 36 yogurts and 8 bags of croutons, among other things. Dad was concerned that he couldn’t distinguish the individual rice pudding cups from the individual yogurt cups. We determined that the rice pudding cups have a unique dimple on the bottom, solving that difficulty. One less thing. I don’t tell him about the rotten food that I’m hauling away. There’s nothing he can do about that.

Thus concluded today’s adventure. What I took away: 3 gallons of milk, 3 lbs chicken breast (Mom doesn’t cook but hasn’t stopped shopping as if she does), 3 bags frozen peas, 1 bag frozen corn, 1 loaf of raisin bread, 1 salad bowl. All this I can use. In other bags: 2 dozen frozen bananas that are too far gone even to use for banana bread, 4 bags of rotting baby carrots, one open can of pecan pieces, one open box of 5-year-old Fibre One cereal, one plastic container of an ancient unidentified granular substance, and 1 gray withered slice of pizza in a Ziploc bag that, thank God, stays closed. All this I throw away in public trash cans before I get home.

When I finally do get home, it’s 12:30, and I sit down to work. The summer lull is over and I have actual writing to do for actual money. I’d be in better shape to do that if it didn’t feel like I’ve done a full day’s work already.

Blink! First day of school.

Summer flew, as summers fly. Robin did her “nerd camp” and then a volleyball skills camp. Josie, as promised, did “nothing,” which means she reread all the Harry Potter books and invented board games and wrote trivia questions and swam and did a kids’ triathlon and spent time with her parents and grandparents. Aaron worked on the house. I had a lull in my workflow. We all went to California to visit the west coast contingent of Aaron’s family and do some sightseeing.

In most years I’m overjoyed to get everyone (including me) back into a routine come September. I love it down to my bones, the new edge to the air, the earlier nightfall, the promise of all we’ll learn and do and feel when we get Back To It.

This year’s different. Robin’s starting high school, Josie middle school. I don’t have a child in elementary school any more. And it just seems like with the start of this school year, I’m one big step closer to their leaving me. I know, that’s as it should be. I know, it’s no more significant than any other sunrise in the inevitable march of time. I know, they were always going to leave, and I know, something would be wrong if they didn’t.

But yesterday nobody in our house was a high school student. Today, someone is. College is, like, tomorrow.

I have so little time left with them, and it’s hitting me kind of hard, just now.