Early this morning I checked in on dad. He was up before 6:00 and all
dressed for day care. I'd seen him going into the shower last night, too. The
webcam is proving extremely useful.
I made a call to him at 9:00, reminding him not to go to day care at the
usual time. Before I arrived at about 10:20 he had called me back twice to ask
what the new arrangements were.
Mum was fast asleep and I didn't give much for my chances of getting her up
and out for a party in half an hour, but we did manage it. Of the 40 minutes it
took her to get ready, over 30 were spent sitting on the bed fiddling with
underwear.
Although five minutes late, we were among the early ones. We were ushered
into the nursing home adjacent to the day care centre - an anodyne, forbidding
place of flourescent lighting, suspended panel ceilings, off-white palette, and
characteristic odour. I didn't like it at all. The prospect of ending up in a
place like that appalls me. I seriously would rather be dead. And that was
before the festivities started.
Music was being strangled by a tinny portable stereo sitting on a table.
Justifiably homicide, since it was all smaltzy ersatz muzak versions of
Christmas standards. First item on the programme proper was a Christmas quiz.
The quizmistress didn't understand half the questions, and mispronounced nearly
all of them. One chap in the front row, porky and florid, kept making lewd
suggestions to her. Dad jerked a foot towards him and leaned towards me.
'None of the blokes like him very much. Very uncouth.'
Quiz over, we all moved to the tables. I was not enjoying myself. Actually,
it was an ordeal. Mum was still fairly composed, and dad was pretty much in his
element, since he is familiar with nearly everyone there now. I was dreading
the food. A picky eater at the best of times I was hoping that I wouldn't have
to make excuses for not eating.
The fare was warm turkey, beef and ham slices, smothered in gravy, lightly
roasted potato and pumpkin, processed peas, beans and carrots. A dollop of
Cranberry sauce sat in a sea of gravy. I'm a vegetarian for a start.
I don't mind cold food and I don't mind wet food, but I baulk at cold wet
textures. I don't like gravy or Cranberry sauce. Pumpkin is edible as long as
it is hot and salty. There was no salt on the table. Still, I was the first to
finish. Some had barely started the random repositioning of food on the plate
that seems to be a necessity in the later years.
Conversation was hard work, but I was more concerned with watching mum for
signs of restlessness. She managed to eat all her lunch - quite an unusual feat
for her. What she left, dad cleaned up anyway.
Next, we moved back to the lounge to listen to a latin quartet:
marimba, accordion, guitar and singer. They managed passable versions of songs
drawn from the repertoires of Glen Miller, Edith Piaf and Harry
Bellafonte, notwithstanding arthritic guitar solos and toothless
percussion. Only three or four of the audience fell asleep. The band redeemed
themselves with quite a clever arrangement of Rodrigo's Aranjuez guitar
concerto - surely one of the most achingly beautiful pieces of music ever
written. While mum enjoyed the music she tapped her feet and kept the beat on
the arm of her chair, but a few seconds later, when the band changed their
tune, she might sit forward and start staring around with that 'what am I
doing here?' expression. I could understand this. There were moments when I
thought I was in a David Lynch movie, too. Soon, mum's restlessness got the
upper hand and we had to beat a retreat.
Back home the house was cleaned (Alison was in today) and the lawn mowed
(the lawnmower man made his monthly visit too). Cups of tea all round, and
that, for 2006, was Christmas.