Here is what I wrote in last week's blog.
And here is what my mom emailed me in response:
He laughed. He copped to trying to come up with a prank on the spot. No, he said. No Parkinson's.
My mom swept into the room. Why had he seen a neurologist, then, if he didn't have Parkinson's?
My dad said he had floaters in his vision. Dr G sent him to a neurologist. The neurologist did a carotid ultrasound. It wasn't because he had Parkinson's.
And I swear to you this was my mom's response: Then why did you see a neurologist?
My mom is crazy smart. And she is most certainly not demented. This is just how my parents communicate. Don't knock it. They've been happily married for 47 years.
I can't say I was relieved by my dad's denial - I knew he didn't have Parkinson's. Just like I know he has his rationale for not refrigerating condiments and the cat's food. Just like I know I don't want to know his rationale for not refrigerating the condiments and cat's food.
I gathered my things to leave. As I walked to the door with my mom, she told me she hoped my dad remembered the gas card because he didn't know she had it. Go ahead. Read that again. I'll wait. It won't make more sense if you read it again, but go ahead anyway.
How is Daddy supposed to remember the gas card if he doesn't know you have it? I asked.
"That's what I'm saying!" my mom sighed as she walked off.
At least we know exactly where to find the oregano.
The Binge
A few documentaries to satisfy the inner film critic:
Blackfish discusses the history of killer whale captivity before exploring the deaths around Tilikum, the orca who killed a trainer in 2010. Controversial - do your homework before jumping on the bandwagon - but chilling to watch. Follow up your viewing with articles by Tim Zimmer and the book by John Hargrove, a former SeaWorld trainer.
Room 237 delves into the conspiracy theories surrounding the Stanley Kubrick film The Shining, based on Stephen King's book. All I can say is buckle up.
My Amityville Horror catches up with one of the Lutz children, the family both the book and movie are based upon. Watch for an appearance by Lorriane Warren, one half of the couple from The Conjuring.
West of Memphis reveals the work of Eddie Veder (yep, the Pearl Jam guy) and others to free three men from prison. There's staunch defenders on both sides of their innocence, and the crime they are accused of is pretty heinous. The HBO documentaries Paradise Lost 1, 2, and 3 are excellent supplements to your viewing, as is the book Devil's Knot. The book was made into a movie in 2014.
* This non sequitor on Friends1 & 2 is too long to discuss here and, on the surface, unsavory when you don't know the whole story. We'll talk later.
And here is what my mom emailed me in response:
"Unlike Aunt, I am not mad. I only need to point out a few corrections. Not even Mom-Mom was a Control Freak when it came to housekeeping, although she taught you to think she was. Look at Aunt’s family album closely, and you’ll see crumbs on the floor of the kitchen.
Second. I am a control freak. Just not about housekeeping. However, my spices are kept in alphabetical order (the only thing I learned from a conference on organization). And, my refrigerator does have a system. Like you, eggs are on the second shelf on the left, against the fridge wall. Jello and pudding are right above. Any Jello or pudding not on that shelf is meant to be an indication that they are older and need to be eaten first. Bread is on the bottom shelf on the right. Milk is in the door, with the remaining milk on the top shelf on the right. Yogurt is on the second shelf on the right, and even Daddy puts it in date order (hah! I’ve trained my husband better than you!). There are three containers of cool whip in there because when Daddy puts groceries away, he fails to remember he got them from the freezer section of the grocery store and so stores them in the fridge. I’ve given up on condiments. I don’t use condiments. Daddy does. And like your Husband, he sees no sense in putting them back in the same place. In fact, he sees no sense in refrigerating them, so he leaves them on the counter. Along with the canned (open) cat food. I’d worry about either of them getting food poisoning, but apparently Daddy needs to eat 20+ year old jelly canned by his long deceased mother to even get sick.
Anyway, I’m not mad. So you can’t be either. Everyone who knows us both agree that we are both control freaks. So there."
Husband suggested that I remove the punctuation, to make it sound crazier.
I think it does OK on it's own, so the above is an exact reproduction - cut and paste from my email.
Since last week's post, I've been subjected to a barrage of things my mom is a control freak about.
Actually, no. That's wrong. She just keeps telling me she's a control freak because she alphabetizes her spices.
I think control freak is an approach to life, not spices.
Actually, no. That's wrong. She just keeps telling me she's a control freak because she alphabetizes her spices.
I think control freak is an approach to life, not spices.
Case in point? Since she was discharged from the hospital in November, my mom has had to see her family Doctor every few weeks. He insists I come with her.
I don't argue.
But at the last appointment I made a request. I have a gym class on Tuesday Mornings that I love. I know -that sounds very suburban housewife-y of me. But I am, in fact, a suburban housewife. I also love wine, sing Adele at the top of my lungs, and drive an SUV. The one stereotypical housewife thing I refuse to do is schedule sex, like Kate Winslet's antagonist in Little Children. That's just a relationship death knell. Besides, you can't rightly ask a man to endure a horribly off-key rendition of "Hello" then not grant favors. Assuming he's still interested.
I don't argue.
But at the last appointment I made a request. I have a gym class on Tuesday Mornings that I love. I know -that sounds very suburban housewife-y of me. But I am, in fact, a suburban housewife. I also love wine, sing Adele at the top of my lungs, and drive an SUV. The one stereotypical housewife thing I refuse to do is schedule sex, like Kate Winslet's antagonist in Little Children. That's just a relationship death knell. Besides, you can't rightly ask a man to endure a horribly off-key rendition of "Hello" then not grant favors. Assuming he's still interested.
So I go to the gym on Tuesday mornings. Every doctor's appointment has been on Tuesday morning. And I missed 6 weeks of Tuesday mornings while my mom was hospitalized. Could we please, please, do any day but Tuesday?
My request was vetoed.
OK. Then can we please make it later in the morning?
Fine. 11:40? Eleven-forty it is. On the books for a month.
Eleven-forty I can do. Eleven-forty gives me enough time to do the class, shower, and grab us some Starbucks. And since my mom is now allowed to drive, I can meet her there - the doctor's office is, geographically, between our respective houses.
At 11:13, I'm standing in Starbucks, waiting on our drinks. And that's when I get a text. Can I pick her up?
It will take me until 11:30 - at the earliest - to get to my parents' house. We will just slide into the doctor's office on time, if we're lucky. It's not like she doesn't know where I live. Why was I getting that call at 11:13?
As it turns out, my mom's car was due for inspection in November, during her hospitalization. My mom and dad decided that this particular day would be a good one to get the car inspected. I mean, God forbid it wait one more day, right?
And where was their other car? Did my dad have it on some emergency? Was it sitting in the driveway with a flat tire, unexpectedly useless? Had it been stolen in the night by car thieves aching for a hooptie minivan? No. My dad had it at the volunteer group he has done every Tuesday morning for a decade.
When I point all of this out, my mom huffs that she knows they could have timed the inspection better, she knows she should have called me sooner. But she is not a planner. She is not, she says, like me.
Like me. You know. A control freak.
Like me. You know. A control freak.
Quite contradictory to the email, which makes me happy because I love being right. Being right is the control freak's raison d'être.
And the doctor's appointment. Oh, the doctor's appointment. Overall, these doctor's appointments have been adventurous. My parents share a physician, Dr G. He's a lovely gentleman who has known my mom since he was a resident and my mom was a staff nurse. Translation: nothing is off the table, especially when my mom has a very limited filter to begin with.
There was the appointment where my mom blurted out a complete non sequitor about Friends1 & 2.* There was the appointment in which we discussed my parents' sexual techniques and hygiene. And then there was this appointment.
My mom announced - to me and Dr G - that my dad has Parkinson's disease. He has had Parkinson's, she said, for about 2 years - although he takes no medications for it and has not seen a neurologist since he was diagnosed.
Cue the synchronized response from me and Dr G.
"What?!"
Yes, my mom insisted. My dad saw a neurologist a few years ago. That's when he was diagnosed with Parkinson's. My dad, my mom asserted, told her all of this.
So right away I'm suspicious because my parents never talk.
Dr G went through my dad's chart. (Don't get all HIPAA on me. We had my dad's permission. We've discussed my parents' sexual techniques - you think we can't look in my dad's chart?)
No neurology consult. No Parkinson's.
To which my mom responded that that was why she hated consults - they never make it back to the primary physician.
Because, yes, that's the problem here.
The moment I was back at my parents' house, I questioned my dad. There was a moment, the space of a breath, when "if looks could kill" and "a picture is worth a thousand words" collided. A silent conversation played across my dad's face. He doesn't have Parkinson's. But he saw an opportunity to mess with me. He just couldn't pull something together that quickly.
"I...don't...know...what...to...say...," he said, staccato and protracted, obviously stalling.
I gave him my best maternal I-know-what-you're-up-to look. It's a yes or no answer I pointed out. Let's have it.
There was the appointment where my mom blurted out a complete non sequitor about Friends1 & 2.* There was the appointment in which we discussed my parents' sexual techniques and hygiene. And then there was this appointment.
My mom announced - to me and Dr G - that my dad has Parkinson's disease. He has had Parkinson's, she said, for about 2 years - although he takes no medications for it and has not seen a neurologist since he was diagnosed.
Cue the synchronized response from me and Dr G.
"What?!"
Yes, my mom insisted. My dad saw a neurologist a few years ago. That's when he was diagnosed with Parkinson's. My dad, my mom asserted, told her all of this.
So right away I'm suspicious because my parents never talk.
Dr G went through my dad's chart. (Don't get all HIPAA on me. We had my dad's permission. We've discussed my parents' sexual techniques - you think we can't look in my dad's chart?)
No neurology consult. No Parkinson's.
To which my mom responded that that was why she hated consults - they never make it back to the primary physician.
Because, yes, that's the problem here.
The moment I was back at my parents' house, I questioned my dad. There was a moment, the space of a breath, when "if looks could kill" and "a picture is worth a thousand words" collided. A silent conversation played across my dad's face. He doesn't have Parkinson's. But he saw an opportunity to mess with me. He just couldn't pull something together that quickly.
"I...don't...know...what...to...say...," he said, staccato and protracted, obviously stalling.
I gave him my best maternal I-know-what-you're-up-to look. It's a yes or no answer I pointed out. Let's have it.
He laughed. He copped to trying to come up with a prank on the spot. No, he said. No Parkinson's.
My mom swept into the room. Why had he seen a neurologist, then, if he didn't have Parkinson's?
My dad said he had floaters in his vision. Dr G sent him to a neurologist. The neurologist did a carotid ultrasound. It wasn't because he had Parkinson's.
And I swear to you this was my mom's response: Then why did you see a neurologist?
My mom is crazy smart. And she is most certainly not demented. This is just how my parents communicate. Don't knock it. They've been happily married for 47 years.
| Nope...no picture of my dad in the dictionary. |
I can't say I was relieved by my dad's denial - I knew he didn't have Parkinson's. Just like I know he has his rationale for not refrigerating condiments and the cat's food. Just like I know I don't want to know his rationale for not refrigerating the condiments and cat's food.
I gathered my things to leave. As I walked to the door with my mom, she told me she hoped my dad remembered the gas card because he didn't know she had it. Go ahead. Read that again. I'll wait. It won't make more sense if you read it again, but go ahead anyway.
How is Daddy supposed to remember the gas card if he doesn't know you have it? I asked.
"That's what I'm saying!" my mom sighed as she walked off.
At least we know exactly where to find the oregano.
The Binge
A few documentaries to satisfy the inner film critic:
Blackfish discusses the history of killer whale captivity before exploring the deaths around Tilikum, the orca who killed a trainer in 2010. Controversial - do your homework before jumping on the bandwagon - but chilling to watch. Follow up your viewing with articles by Tim Zimmer and the book by John Hargrove, a former SeaWorld trainer.
Room 237 delves into the conspiracy theories surrounding the Stanley Kubrick film The Shining, based on Stephen King's book. All I can say is buckle up.
My Amityville Horror catches up with one of the Lutz children, the family both the book and movie are based upon. Watch for an appearance by Lorriane Warren, one half of the couple from The Conjuring.
West of Memphis reveals the work of Eddie Veder (yep, the Pearl Jam guy) and others to free three men from prison. There's staunch defenders on both sides of their innocence, and the crime they are accused of is pretty heinous. The HBO documentaries Paradise Lost 1, 2, and 3 are excellent supplements to your viewing, as is the book Devil's Knot. The book was made into a movie in 2014.
* This non sequitor on Friends1 & 2 is too long to discuss here and, on the surface, unsavory when you don't know the whole story. We'll talk later.
