I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to get a handle on my dad’s finances.  He doesn’t use a computer nor an ATM.   It was difficult trying to figure out what some of transactions are.  At one point, I started to raise my voice “You’re paying for something you don’t use?”  He looked at me and didn’t say anything.  I quickly calmed down and told him “Don’t worry, we’ll get everything sorted out.”   Later on in the evening, he asked me if I had a rough day at work.  He then told me “Your dad is getting to be a klutz with his banking.”  I kept telling he isn’t. 

For now, I’ve set up the accounts as joint accounts.  I can show him his transactions, pay his bills and he doesn’t have to get his passbook updated.   I’ve never been that organized with my own financial records.   This drives J nuts.  But after this past few weeks, my attitude has changed. 

Whenever I chat with my dad, I pay close attention to his memory and mental alertness.  His memory loss continues to be gradual but noticeable.  He’ll forget relatives and how they are related to him.  When I correct him on any facts, I try to balance leaving his dignity intact and getting the facts right.  If it’s not relevant to the conversation, I just let it go.  If he ask me who a certain person is, I just say the name and how they are related and don’t make a big deal out of it.  I wished my sister would do the same thing.

The other day, I sit down beside him on the couch.  I glance at the book in his hands and ask him what he’s reading.  “It’s by Simon Winchester.  Are you familiar with him?”  I shake my head.  He tells me a bit about the author and gestures to a pile of books on the table beside me.  I reach over and there are a couple of more books by the same author.  I read some of the background information about the author on the jacket.  To my surprise and relief, it matches what my dad said. 

He pulls up another book from a pile beside the couch.  “The Winchester book is light reading but I really want to read this biography of Gandhi.”  He’s always been around books.  I glance down at the pile of books beside him.  They are neatly stacked and patiently waiting for him.  I barely get a chance to do serious reading nowadays.

As if on cue, he points to the piles of magazines on top of the coffee table.  “Do you read the Beijing Review?  No?  Hmm…  How about Foreign Affairs?”.  I continue to shake my head.  I see The Economist, Fortune, National Geographic, New Yorker and the NY Times.  I tell him I get most of my news online but still try to read up on the 2 local papers.  He nods although I sense a bit of disappointment.  He then laments about the decline of magazines such as the Atlantic and even the NY Times.  But he saves his tirade for the TV news.  “You should watch the BBC News instead.”  We both agree that CNN has lost its magic and integrity. 

I am sure he can sense my concerns about him and he puts up a brave front.  He’s already told me he knows his memory is declining.  But he’s fighting it in his own way.  People complain my dad is stubborn.  I’m glad he is stubborn and refuses to let senility walk all over him.  I know age will eventually take its course.  But for now, I hope he continues to wage this noble war. 

As usual on Sundays, I picked up my dad for dinner.  My sister was running late and couldn’t make it.  That’s fine with me.  It gives dad and I some time together.  He was already waiting for me with a clean shirt, a tie and his favorite fleece vest.  I felt somewhat sloppy with my 3 day old stubble, a wrinkled sweater, cargo pants and sneakers.  As he put on a blazer, I commented how formal he looked.  He grimaced and said he couldn’t find his winter jacket.  He thought he left it in the car.  I went to the garage and looked inside his car but I couldn’t find it.  As I closed the garage door, he was coming out into the chilly winter night with just a blazer.  He said he would be fine.   

I led him back inside and told him we should look for his winter jacket instead.  He was a bit frustrated but didn’t argue.  I double checked the hallway closet and looked inside his bedroom.  He slowly walked into his old bedroom which he hasn’t slept in for some time.  As I was rummaging around, he said he found it.  I was surprised he left it in his old bedroom.  I know he doesn’t go inside there if he can help it.  I used to water the plants every weekend because he won’t go inside.  After a while, I just took those plants home with me.

He took off the blazer and I helped him into his winter jacket.  The only thing he doesn’t like about the jacket is the zipper.  His fingers have trouble lining the zipper up so I help him.  One time, he just muttered “This f*cking zipper.”  It’s not one of those big zippers where everything seems to slide easily.  I think it would be similar if we tried zipping up a jacket while wearing oversized gloves.

As he stood up, he let out a sigh and said “Don’t get old Matt.  I just can’t remember things anymore.  Don’t get old like me.”

I just smiled and said we will all go through that stage.  I did a quick check of the lights and we left.  As we headed out, I handed him his cane.  He doesn’t like using the cane but I gently tell him again to just carry it along just in case he needs it.  I lock the doors and slowly followed behind him.  But I don’t think I could ever describe myself as following his footsteps.  

I got a late night call from my sister early this week.  There was a lot of water seeping into the
basement and my sister didn’t know what to do. 
I dropped everything and rushed over. 
I was hoping it wasn’t the finished part of the basement where we had
just renovated after the summer flood.  It
had been raining hard throughout the evening and somehow the water must have
seeped in.  My sister said she’s been
mopping like crazy but the water just wouldn’t stop. 

To make a long story short, one of the drainpipes for the eaves
trough came loose and the water started to puddle around the side of the
house.  I put it back on but there was a
huge crack at the bottom of the pipe and the water continued to gush out close
to the house.  I slid a large plastic tarp
under the leaky eaves trough drain pipe. 
This covered the ground and the water drained further away into the
backyard.  My brother came by later on
and we shoveled the snow away from the house just to be safe.  After some more mopping, we could tell that
the water finally stopped coming into the house.  Luckily it was on the unfinished side of the
basement. 

Throughout the summer, we had been taking note of the things
we needed to fix around the house.  The
garage is starting to sag, I know some of the beams supporting the floors
probably need to be replaced or strengthen. Every room needs to be renovated.  There’s just so much on the list. 

Our home was never a fancy house.  It’s a simple 3 bedroom bungalow with one
bathroom that dated back to the ‘50s.  I’ve
written about it before in my other blog so I wouldn’t go into it here.  It has served us well over the years.  It was a refuge for an immigrant family
struggling to make it in this new country.  Now over time, it has started to break
down.  I’m angry at the house for failing
after so many years of faithful service. 
Why now?  I’m angry at all the
costly options and fixes that we may have to put in.  

Throughout that evening, my dad was confused and
nervous.  I would give him quick updates
on how much water was in the basement and what had happened with the eaves
trough.  I was cold and soaking wet.  My boots had also failed me.  I was angry at being called out from my nice,
warm, cozy condo to deal with this mess. 
I was angry at the house and wanted to sell it right there and then.  He looked confused.  He slowly thumbed through the Yellow Pages
and said maybe he could call one of these eaves trough repair services.  I nodded my approval. 

I’m angry at him getting old and frail.  He used to be a take charge type of guy.  He took care of everything.  There was always food on the table and a roof
over our heads even during the toughest times. 
He somehow got us through it.  I’m
angry at the whole aging process and how cruel it can be.  He gave me Strunk’s Elements of Style, the
Oxford Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus when I was in school.  But now he struggles to find the simple words
and I finish his sentences for him.  I’m
just angry at time marching on, trampling at everything in sight – no exceptions.