Not Even Fifteen Cents

She pushes the noodles of her Vietnamese mixed bun bowl around. "Look, there's nothing here!" She has already given most of the meat and imperial rolls from her meal to my grandfather and my dad.  All that's left are the noodles.

My dad asks me about work and we chat a little bit.

"This wouldn't even cost fifteen cents," she says angrily, pushing the noodles around in the bowl some more. "Look at this!"

My grandfather joins in.  "Everything is just warm, not even hot."

"I'm never coming back here. Ever!" She pushes the noodles around continually, demanding that we look at it.

My father just smiles at her. "You're going to forget in three minutes anyway."

She doesn't hear him.

"I don't even think it will be three whole minutes," I reply to my dad.

"Not even fifteen cents!" she mutters again.

"Wednesday is better because then I have time to forget what it's like.  When it's Tuesday, it's too close and it's like BANG two days later, and I don't even have time to forget," my dad says, referring to the sad state of my grandparents.

"Oh, you mean from Sunday dinner," I say.  I haven't been to Sunday dinner in a few weeks.

"Yeah," he says.  He's still smiling and calm, and I'm glad.

"Look at this!" she mutters again, mixing the bowl of noodles.

"Are you and mom going to be like this?" I ask my dad.

He looks a little bit concerned.  I answer for him.  "I don't think you will be. They've always been kind of picky like this. You and Mom aren't like that."

"Well," he says. "We have our weird little food things."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Mom doesn't like anything creamy," he replies.

"Yeah, but that's because creamy things make her sick," I defend her.

"And I don't like hard boiled eggs in anything," he laughs.

"Or Brussels sprouts," I smile.

"I just don't want to eat them if there's other stuff there.  I'll eat it if there's nothing else," he says.

"I wouldn't even pay fifteen cents for this.  Look!" she complains venomously, overturning the noodles in the bowl. "Look at this!"

I finally take her bowl away and put the rest of my five spice chicken in front of her so she'll stop with the noodles.

"I don't want to eat it, it's all fat!" she says, her face the same one of anger and disgust.

"No it's not," I argue, pulling huge chunks of meat off. They're cooked so that parts are chewy and crunchy, just like she likes it, with lots of flavor.

"You eat it then!" she seethes.  She continues to pick at the skin with a grimace on her face and throws the piece of chicken on my other plate with the leftover bean sprouts.

"God, you're crabby today!" I say finally hitting my breaking point.  She doesn't hear me.

My grandfather just smiles back at me, knowingly.  He deals with this every day, and I pity him.  I suppose it is a gift that he is starting to forget so much too.  However, this gift is now paid with the price of his doctor telling them they should move into assisted living.  Said they probably should have done it a couple years ago.  This is what my dad tells me when I ask him what he did today and he tells me about how he took them to the doctor.  Sunday's dinner gave him some sort of food poisoning and he ended up falling in the bathroom and hurting his arm when he was vomiting.  My dad said it looked pretty bad.

He also tells me that he had to pick up my dog, Ruby, too and that she jumped in the back with them when she was supposed to sit in the front seat and they screamed.  She reacted by jumping up and standing on the center console.  Finally my dad was able to coax her into the front seat, where he intended for her to sit originally.  It sounded pretty amusing.

Dinner is soon over and my grandfather pays the bill because it's "Stacey's Day" where he treats me to dinner.  Of course, he leaves too little tip, and when he and my grandmother turn towards the door, my father sneaks behind me and leaves more money on the table.  I give them hugs and thank them.

"I hope your arm feels better soon," I tell my grandfather.

"Oh, it's nothing," he smiles at me, holding my grandmother up as they hobble to my father's car.

I look back at them as I go to my own car, filled with hope that next week won't be quite so upsetting.

When Ketchup Catches Up With You

Tuesday, April 16, 2013 Dementia Dinner

"You know, I'm the only one using this ketchup. Don't you guys need any?" my grandfather said, dipping a piece of pork loin in the little Pyrex dish filled with the familiar tangy red sauce.

Ketchup in the upper left

"No, the rest of us don't need any ketchup," my mother replied.

"Maybe this is why they always look at me weird at restaurants when I ask for it and then they don't have any," my grandfather sighed, his brows furrowed.

"Well, I put it out for the sausage that I made earlier," my mother explained, referring to the appetizer she put out on the table to keep my grandparents occupied while she finished cooking. "And then you guys ate it all."

My mother held her hands out to show about a foot in length. "I made this much sausage and they ate all of it," she said to Afram and me.

My grandparents' eyes got large and then they laughed.

My grandfather continued dipping other pieces of dinner in the ketchup dish - potatoes, pork, chicken.  "Maybe I'm the weird one and that's why places never have ketchup when I ask."

"Some places have ketchup.  Hamburger places always do," I offered.

He repeated this over and over that night, suddenly coming to the realization that he's the one that has been unreasonable this whole time, not these crazy restaurants.

I was shocked, never expecting either of my grandparents to ever become slightly more self-aware, versus continuing to become the opposite over time.

We tried to make him feel better.

Of course, my grandmother kept wanting to go home as usual, but I finally figured out the connection.

"What are you going to do at home?" my mother asked.  "Why don't you want to spend time with us?"

"Are we going home home tonight?" she asked. She never remembers that they're only a 15 minute drive from my parents' house.  She always thinks we're all on vacation somewhere and need to drive back a long distance if we are going "home home" versus "hotel home."

"No, we have to go pick up our luggage," my grandfather teased her, as he's done every time since she asked him once. Sometimes he tells her they have to catch a train. My grandfather loves to visit with us.

"He just needs a break from her," my mother often tells me when they're not listening.

She punched him in the arm and laughed. He jumped, smiling.  So all this time, she just worries they'll get home late since we're obviously in Reno or something.

"We have to have dessert first, then you can go home," my mother said.

After my mom served her angel-food cake, we let them go.

"Thanks for everything, everyone! Have a safe trip home!" my grandmother announced, shuffling out the door with my grandfather.

Haircut

"Don't worry so much; they haven't bathed in this long.  What's the worst thing if they don't?" Afram asked me on our way home from the gym yesterday when I was telling him about how I couldn't stop thinking about trying to get my grandparents to bathe while I was on the treadmill.

"I don't know... I guess you're right," I sighed.

"I'm not trying to argue with you, I'm just trying to get you to think logically about it."

"Yeah, I agree.  They're fine not bathing..."

"Baby steps.  If they don't agree to bathe, you can at least do some laundry like you said," he replied, patting my leg.

I felt better.  If it really upset my grandmother, it probably would be fine if at least I could just trick them into some clean clothes.

*                *                *                *                *

I talked my plans over with my mom before I called my grandparents, since they probably weren't awake yet  this morning around 9:30a.

"Well, if anyone could get them to do it, it would be you," she said.  I told her that I was going to try and trick her into thinking that she was the one who requested I help. I was still skeptical.

I called my grandparents around 10:30 and chitchatted with my grandmother about nothing in particular and told her I was coming to visit to get her into a good mood.  When she offered for me to talk to my grandfather, I tried to let him in on what my intentions were.

Big mistake.

"I'm going to try and help you get Gramma to let you wash her hair so I can cut it. Don't talk to her about it, I just wanted to tell you," I said, stupidly.

"She always yells at me! She won't let me! She hates when I try and wash her hair! And then I make an appointment to have her see Alice so she can cut her hair! But, she won't let me!" he complained.

I heard her yelling from the background.

"And then afterward, she always messes it all up! It looks so nice and she sticks her hands in there and musses everything!" he continued in concert with my grandmother's refusal to have her hair done.

I sighed. "Stop talking about it. I only told you so that you'd know.  Forget it for now, don't talk about it anymore. I'll be over later."

"Okay," he said. "We're not going anywhere. We'll be here all day."

I watched a brief youtube video on how to give a child a haircut.  It was a small red-headed child, probably about four-years-old, who was remarkably well-behaved. He sucked happily on a lollipop in the kitchen as the hairdresser, who I imagine was his mother, explained how to measure, cut, and layer his hair into the camera.  She even accidentally sprayed his face with water and he only smiled, wiping his eyes.

"That kid is so cute," I said to Afram.  "I hope our kid is like that.  I'm scared our kid is going to be a monster."

"God! What is wrong with you?! Our kid is not going to be a monster! Our kid is going to be awesome!" he replied, for the billionth time ever since we started talking about having kids.

I smiled sheepishly at him, as I always do, hoping that he would be right.

After a massive nosebleed (maybe it was stress-induced, who knows), I headed over to their house around noon with our dog, Ruby, for a distraction.

My grandfather was in the kitchen cooking lunch, which surprised me, since I didn't really believe he cooked anymore.  I figured I'd try and get her to accept a haircut first, after lunch, and then maybe coerce that into a bath.

I could tell my grandmother was already in a bad mood.  She was looking things over at the table, getting angry at everything.

"Don't try to have one of these!" she shouted at my grandfather and me from the living room.  She rustled a newspaper in front of us reading the headline.

"Expensive ceremony on yacht irks grads!" she yelled.  "The politicians are always trying to get your money.  So don't have an expensive ceremony!"

I looked at her quizzically, but just agreed.

Deciding to try and just stay out of the way until after lunch, I told my grandfather I needed to do a load of laundry and brought in the fleece zip-up from my car so I could trick them into letting me do theirs.

"Ba, I need to wash this. Can I use your washer?" I asked.

"Sure!" he happily complied, excited to be able to help me.

"But, it's just one thing. Can I grab some of your laundry so that we can do a full load?"

"Um... no, don't bother with that," he said, already preoccupied with showing me how their side-loading washer worked.

"No, you can't just wash one thing.  Here, let me go grab some stuff."

I knew I had limited time.  I grabbed most of the towels out of their bathroom and some dirtier things from my grandmother's pile of clothes in her room and rushed back out to the garage to my grandfather.  I shoved everything into the washer and he helped me put the soap in and start it up.

"I'm going to get rid of some of Gramma's clothes," I told him in confidence.  "There's too many and lots are stained and too big, and this way it will make it easier for you guys to put stuff away."

"Okay," he nodded, looking relieved.  "That sounds good, just don't tell her because she'll want everything."

"Yeah, I know," I agreed.

"So, have you bathed recently?" I asked, trying to not sound too accusing.

"Yes, I bathe all the time," he said, not sounding offended in the least. "I just wait until she goes to bed and then I do it."

I really wanted to believe him.  The bathtub didn't look as dusty and even looked wet when I saw it.  I decided to leave it at that.

"She's not the same anymore," he said, looking at me sadly, referring to her constant outbursts of anger. "She's not the same girl from a long time ago."

"I know," I replied, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"I can't do anything about it, she's just not the same anymore. I just deal with it."

Out in the patio, I found a big Bed, Bath & Beyond bag and started filling it with all the clothes from the huge pile and from in the first set of shelves that were either too big, too revealing, or too stained and old.  My grandmother walked in on me.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

At first I tried to be honest, but she wasn't having that.

"No, I want all these! If it's still here, it means I can still wash it," she said adamantly.

"Um, okay," I told her.  "I'm just putting them in this bag so that I can wash it, okay?"

"No! You don't have to, I wash my own clothes. I don't want you to help me.  I don't need help. I do my own laundry," she replied.

"Oh, well, my washer is broken," I lied. "I brought a few clothes over, but I need to do a full load. Is that okay? You're helping me."

"Well," she said. "Okay, then."

She left the room, continuing her now constant groaning with each breath, that she's recently started doing unconsciously.

Shortly afterward, I heard her screaming at my grandfather again.

"What is this?" she demanded, handing my grandfather a jury summons.

"Ed [my grandmother's brother] will take care of it for me!" he answered, immediately on the defensive.

"Ed?!" she asked, condescendingly.  "You can't have Ed do things for you! You have to do things yourself. Otherwise you'll never learn!"

"No, Donald [Ed's son] is going to do it for me. He just has to go online and then I don't have to go."

I ran out.  "Don't worry about it," I said, trying to diffuse things. "Once you get to a certain age, you don't have to go anymore. It's not a big deal."

My grandfather continued to repeat the bit about being able to go online and how simple it was, and my grandmother returned to her seat at the table, grumbling about how you shouldn't let people do things for you.

"Ooh, what's this?" she said excitedly, picking up an envelope holding her tax refund.  "Three hundred and twenty-one dollars?! I'm rich!"

She laughed and stuck the envelope in her jacket pocket.  I knew I'd have to find that later and take it home to make sure it got deposited in their account.

I continued going through her clothes and prepared a pile for the next load of laundry and for the donation bag.  I also refolded and put away a bunch of clothes that didn't seem dirty, but were in piles in the shelves.

My grandfather never appeared to finish preparing the lunch he was working on, but I don't really know what he was doing while I was doing laundry.

I heard my grandmother yelling again.

"Turn the light off!" she screamed at my grandfather in the garage as he was looking at the washing machine. "You don't pay the bills, I do! And the electricity bills are very high!"

He stuttered in response, agreeing to turn the light off, just trying to calm her down.

"I pay for everything around here! You don't pay. You don't know. Always wasting electricity," she finished, caustically.

When I came out, her rant was over.  I just patted my grandfather on the shoulder again and told him not to worry.  He just shook his head, smiling his tired smile at me.

When I was done going through as many clothes as I thought I could, I went out to try and convince my grandmother to let me cut and wash her hair, and maybe give her a bath.

She was going through some photos that I had printed for my grandfather several months ago.

"What is this?" she grumbled. "Why are there so many lousy pictures of this?"

She showed me the pictures my grandfather took of workmen while they were replacing piping under their house.

"Ba took those," I said. I explained that he just thought it was interesting.

She grumbled some more, disapprovingly, getting angry again and again as she shuffled through the pictures over and over, never remembering that she'd already looked through them once, twice, three times...

I took the photos away and replaced them with a photo album.

"Here, tell me who is in these photos," I said, trying to get her into a better mood.  It was the photo album my Auntie Kathy and her family had made for my grandfather's 70th birthday party back in 1986.

She smiled, looking at the old photos of herself and my grandfather and his siblings, telling me who was who.  When she was about halfway through, I interrupted.

"Gramma? I was wondering if you'd let me cut your hair." I knew there was no way she'd let us take her to see the hairdresser anymore.  They always spray hairspray on her, and fuss for too long, and she hates it.  The fact that she remembers her feelings on seeing the hairdresser is a testament to how much she hates it.

"What?!" she said looking at me, horrified.

"I um..." I stuttered. "I've been wanting to learn how to cut hair.  So I was hoping that you'd let me practice on you.  Would that be okay?"

The horrified look dissipated slightly.

"Well... not too short, okay?" she replied, not wanting to disappoint her granddaughter who was only asking for a favor.

"Of course, not too short.  So, we can have Ba wash your hair first, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, without too much fighting.

"Do you think maybe we could just give you a bath instead?"

The horrified look returned.

"A bath?! No!" she shouted.  "It's too cold!"

She grabbed my hands so I could feel that they were cold.

This conversation happened two more times almost exactly this way, the last time minus the bath request, until my grandfather found his barber's kit and smock.  Then we had to find the safety pins after the smock was around her with no velcro, buttons or other abilities to attach it.  Everything happened painfully slowly as we searched their hoarder's paradise for one thing after another.  Thankfully the smock was already on her, so it would be difficult for her to forget what we were already in the process of doing.

We finally found safety pins and she happily obliged us by taking off all her jewelry.  I turned on the water to make sure it was the right temperature to her liking. My grandfather clumsily washed her hair in the sink, demanding that she bend down lower, while she screamed louder and louder as water dripped over her face.

Within a minute, we were done, her hair being as thin as it is.  My grandfather tried to dry her head, his hot dog fingers not rubbing gently enough, and she shrilly protested, telling him she could dry her own hair.

We got her into the kitchen and I picked out the scissors and comb I had seen in the video and proceeded to cut her hair all the same length, as well as I could.  She interrupted periodically to shriek comically.

"Did I scare you?" she'd ask, trying to trick me into thinking that I did something wrong.

I smiled at her, glad to see she was at least having some fun.  My grandfather asked over and over again if I wanted to dry her hair first.  The woman in the video said to cut the hair wet, so I just refused over and over again. I finished relatively quickly, and my grandfather brought out some curlers.  We put them in her hair together, and then used the blow drier to set the curls.  She was surprisingly non-combative about the whole process.

There were still a few strands that I missed that were too long, but all in all, I thought it looked much better than before.

Happy Grandma

I hoped my parents would be happy, since I think it upsets them the most that she refuses to cut her hair and wash it.  I think it's more that it's a reminder that she doesn't have the mental capacity for self-awareness.  I don't think she minds that her hair looks long and scraggly.

I waited for the second load to finish drying and folded all of it. Ruby was bored, and it was time to go.  I reminded them that I would be picking them up for my father's birthday dinner tomorrow, I gave them hugs, thanked them for letting me use their washer and dryer, and practice my hair cutting skills and I left.

Bathing

I was looking over my blog and realizing I haven't written since August of last year.  My grandparents really don't say much anymore, and there seems to only be a few stories left that they can remember.

I woke up around midnight last night and couldn't fall back to sleep for a couple of hours. It would be easy to blame the fact that we took a red-eye back from our Kauai honeymoon yesterday morning, came back and napped for a few hours until around noon, but it was my mind that was keeping me awake. We arrived back on a Tuesday, and my mom hosted our weekly Dementia Dinner, which is now my tongue-in-cheek name for dinners with my grandparents.

My mother was kind enough to cook Chinese dishes for us, and my grandparents were half an hour late.

I called them at 3p to tell them that dinner was at 5p - my mom was trying to be considerate of us since we were exhausted from our trip. She called them again at 4:55p and they hadn't left the house yet and still had to go buy a box of See's candy, which they always insist on bringing to these dinners when my parents cook and they can't pay.  They finally arrived at 5:30p to my mother saying, "See, aren't you glad we told them to come earlier?"

During dinner, my mother commented on my grandmother's hair.

It has been getting long and scraggly because, according to my grandfather, she refuses to let him wash it prior to a trip to the salon to have it cut.  "They can't wash it for her because she's too short. They even prop her up on books and stuff, but she's still not tall enough.  And every time I mention washing her hair, she screams at me and won't let me!" he always says.

"I do?!" my grandmother will say, shocked.

My grandfather will then continue to say the same things about her refusal, my grandmother having no idea what he's talking about.

Lately, I've begun to notice that they smell, and whenever we go to their house, their bathtub is bone dry and dusty from disuse.

My mother and my grandfather will then begin commenting about my grandmother's behavior and how she's much healthier than other women her age that we know or knew, which she will either ignore, or angrily pretend to not care about.

Yesterday was the latter.

"I don't care," she spat. "Do you think I care what they say about me? I don't give a shit. I'll just get up and leave. I don't care.  Not one bit."

"Do you even know what they're saying about you?" I asked her.  "They're not saying bad things."

"I don't care!" she seethed. "They can talk all they want. It doesn't bother me one bit!"

"I can see that," I said. "You really seem like you don't care at all."

"I don't. I'm going to leave right now. That's how much I don't care. I'm going to get in the car and drive away," she raged.  She then began pulling stuff out of her fanny pack, looking for her keys.

We watched her for a minute.

"What was I looking for?" she asked, looking at us.

"Your keys. So you could drive away," my mother reminded her.  I don't know why my mother eggs her on like this.  That's not true.  I know why.  She's frustrated and it's hard to be understanding and take care of someone all the time who doesn't appreciate it and only repays her in venom.  My grandmother will never remember, and it sort of feels less horrible if you can make a game of it.  My husband always feels guilty though, and never wants to make her feel bad.

She forgot again momentarily.

"You know, I tried to leave her a note to take a bath once a week, and she found it and called me and really ripped me a new one.  She really screamed at me!" my mother complained.  "So, never again. I just left it at that."

I told my grandfather and mother that I'd just go over to their house to try and get my grandmother (and hopefully my grandfather too) to bathe.

"Gramma, can I come over on Saturday for a bath?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, brightening. "You can come over any day.  What time?"

"I'll call you later in the week and we'll take a bath, okay?" I said.

"Sure," she said, not hearing me.

I wondered if I'd actually have to take a bath too, just to show that it was something we were all doing, something that I wanted all of us to do, one at a time of course.

As they were getting ready to leave, my mother pulled me aside and said, "You're a better person than I am.  I could never do that."

"Well, I'm going to let Ba do it.  I'm not going to actually bathe her."

I hugged my grandparents and tried not to breathe too deeply.

After they left, I tried to explain to my mom why I think my grandparents listen to me and think I can do no wrong, other than the fact that I'm their granddaughter.

"I think they just don't respond well to... to..." I stuttered.

"Nagging?" my mother asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well, I don't know any other way to do it," she said with an air of finality. "I've tried, I've really tried."  And I know she has.

My mother, always a manager, was never really gentle with anyone other than me when it came to getting things done, and that wasn't even all the time.  When something needed to be accomplished, there were no kid gloves. It was tough love and then tender love once you did what she wanted or what was best. Never the other way around.

I've tried to explain to her that she should try and be more understanding, but she gets frustrated too easily.  I understand her side too.  She feels like she has to do everything, and she only ever gets derision from my grandparents and my grandfather only fails more and more frequently.  It's the opposite of every task or project she's ever undertaken. The more and more work she puts in, the worse the results become.

We talked briefly about what we should do about my grandparents, knowing they'd be unwilling to go into a home when they can no longer keep up with taking care of themselves at even this borderline unacceptable level.

"What about a caretaker?  Is that more expensive than a home?" I asked.

"No," my mother said. "It's actually cheaper."

"I bet they wouldn't accept that either though," I sighed.

"Maybe if it's the only other option to being in a home."

"I don't know if it's the medication," my dad said sadly (referring to the pills he's been taking for his recent knee surgery that have been giving him some bouts of anxiety and depression), "but I don't think I could bear to watch them be put in a home.  I just couldn't do it."

So, I lie awake last night, wondering how I'm going to trick my grandparents into bathing, and knowing that it will only be an uphill battle, and one of many. This will only be one bath, assuming I succeed. It will be even harder next time, if there actually is a next time, unless I'm too heartless to try again after whatever happens this weekend.

Dad's Autobiography

I was going through some old papers that my mom had given me to scan and look at, which I always find entertaining.  When my dad was ten years old, his teacher assigned the class to write their autobiographies.  As luck would have it, it's survived 55 years since my father wrote it, to be scanned and shared with you today.  It was assembled with blue construction paper, binder paper, tape, and photos.  :)  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

My Autobiography - Gary Warren - Past Present Future

Unaltered transcription:

Gary Warren	October 21, 1957
Room 21	Grade six

My Autobiography

 The Easter Bunny bought me bright and early on Easter morning 1947.  I weighted seven pounds and two and one half ounces, had dark brown eyes and hair, oh yes I forgot to tell you my name is Gary Warren.

 I got my shots Oct 21, 1947 after shots I was very cranky and they rode me all over town to sooth me. 

 I first smiled at six weeks, laughed out loud at seven weeks I was very cheerful and I always laguhed and talked to everybody.

Had cavities so Mom took me to the dentist after couple of appointments I was scared to go to the barber shop. 

 I first started to creep backwards, Mom says I upseted everything I got my little hands on. 

 I first located sounds at one month, first sucked thumb at one and one half months, first focused eyes at two month, first sucked figners at two weeks, first noticed hands at three months, and first rolled over at three and one half months. At Christmas I was more amazed in the wrappings and the ornaments than everything else. My first words were "fishy fishy" because Dad would put me in his lap and say "fishy fishy" in a week I shocked everybody by saying "fishy fishy". 

 Every wonders why I had natural curls, at five I had very soft curls. When Mom took me for walks everyone would ask if I was a boy or a girl. 

 Entered a baby contest at 15 weeks and won a satin robe, blue ribbon, and trophy.

 Second grade I just came to Martin School. I wasn't used to Martin so I always came in late because I could not find the room. I don't remember hardly anything from third grade. The only thing I can remember clearly is when I was in third grade, Martin only went up to third grade and the boys in my class used to walk around like big shots.

 In fourth grade I was kind of bad I was spanked a couple of times too.  I remember Mr. Redsun told Bob not to look in the back of the room and after a while Bob forgot and looked in back of the room turning his face from a lesson and Mr. Redsun threw an eraser at him and hit him on the shoulder.

How to Get My Grandfather's Business

I finished my javascript class today and then Afram and I drove home early to have dinner with my grandparents. I told them I wanted to go to Cheung Hing again.  We find a spot in front, but my grandmother is having an easier time walking again, so it doesn't matter too much.

We sit down and deciding what to order goes like this...

Ba: What do you want to eat?
Grandma: I don't care.
Ba: Pick something!
Grandma: I don't care. I'll eat anything.
Afram: Get something with mushrooms or broccoli.
Grandma: (laughing because she hates mushrooms and broccoli) He knows me too well!
Ba: You gotta pick something.
Grandma: I don't care!
Ba: They don't have I don't care on the menu!
Grandma: (looking at the menu) Okay... I want... the "I don't care."

My grandfather says he's going to get flounder, much to my delight and surprise, but then he ends up ordering fried calamari again, and then I'm sad.  Afram and I order gai lan, e-mein with dried scallops, seaweed tofu soup, and general's chicken (which turns out to be too hot for my grandfather, even though he used to like spicy things and it's not very spicy).

As we ate, I tried to think of stories for my grandparents to tell.

"Ba," I said. "Tell Afram why you don't like yams."

I was expecting him to talk about being poor and how yams were cheap in China and as a result, they always mixed it in with the rice to stretch it.  He ends up telling us that yams were prevalent in Northern China and that he prefered American potatoes.  He tells us that the Chinese word for potato actually translates to "foreign yam." While we are talking about it, the cute young Chinese waiter comes over and talks to my grandfather about China.  My grandfather tells him that potatoes are hard to get in China and the waiter is confused, saying that he never had a problem finding potatoes when he was in China.

"Well, this was like eighty years ago," I explained. There are looks of recognition and laughs all around.

After the dishes arrive, my grandfather asks the head waiter for soy sauce and ketchup.  The head waiter smiles and says that he will bring the soy sauce, but that they don't have any ketchup. My grandfather is shocked and appalled.

"You don't have ketchup?!"

It's as if the waiter told him they don't have water.

I imagine that this will be the end of it, but then later when we are almost done eating, he calls the head waiter over again.

"You know," my grandfather is practically yelling at the waiter, "You'd get a lot more of my business if you just had ketchup! I live five or six blocks away! I'd come here a lot more often if you had ketchup!"

The waiter laughs good-naturedly and says he'll talk to the boss about getting some ketchup.

"Or maybe we can just get a few packets from McDonalds," the head waiter offers as I cover my face with my hands.  At least they seemed to take it well.  Guess that's the good part about being 96. You can yell at people about not having ketchup and people just think you're cute.

My grandfather pays the bill and they bring us a red bean tapioca soup dessert.  He continues to rant about the absurdity of them not having his favorite condiment.

I mentally decide to start carrying around ketchup packets in my purse where ever I go out with my grandfather so that he won't continue to dislike places with good food just because they don't have ketchup.  Suddenly, I realize why he likes Beijing Buffet, even though it basically consists of repulsive old steam-table food: they have unlimited self-serve ketchup.

I don't know where those pills came from

May 1, 2012

I called my grandparents at 11:30ish today to remind them to take their pills like I've been doing for the past few weeks.  My grandfather said they were just getting out of bed.  I asked him if he'd still like to have dinner tonight and he happily agreed.  I told him I'd come pick them up at 5:30 and was planning on taking them to Cheung Hing, the new restaurant my mom showed me a couple weeks ago when we all went out together.

My grandfather called me at 4:15 telling me that my grandmother wasn't feeling well and he didn't think we should have dinner anymore. I told him that I'd just bring over food.  He and Grandma passed the phone back and forth talking to me until they agreed that I could come over and bring food.  I talked to my mom and she said she'd come with me and I told her I'd order food from Ming's. I got most of the dishes right, but I think my pronunciation as well as my understanding of "steamed chicken," which turned into "boiled chicken" by the time I tried to order it, ended up turning into foil-wrapped chicken. At least it tasted good.  All's well that ends well for the white girl in a Chinese body.

We brought the food over and my grandfather didn't answer the door.  I knocked loudly and yelled into the mailbox slot, but no one came and the house was quiet, not even a blaring television to break the silence.  My mom got her keys out and opened the door. My grandfather didn't look surprised at all to see us and was completely engrossed in replacing the toilet paper roll.  I went in to find my grandmother still in bed.  She said she was feeling better though, and wanted to get up and have dinner with us, which made me smile. However, it took her a really long time to get out of bed. My mom discovered my grandfather was still trying to make her wear the hard to use diapers that had some sort of belt attachment instead of the pull-on underwear kind that my parents had bought for them.  He claimed that he didn't know he had the other ones, but we knew he just didn't remember.  My mom was really frustrated.

I helped my mom put the mattress pad she'd brought for them on their bed, and my grandmother went to the bathroom saying she'd change into the new diaper herself.  We still don't know what happened to the diaper in there, but she wasn't wearing it when she came out of the bathroom.  She insisted on going into my grandfather's old room as well and shutting the door to the patio even though she was huffing and puffing and was obviously weakened significantly from the effort.  She finally agreed to sit down at the table and my mom began to go through their pills while we served dinner from the takeout boxes.

My mom started yelling at my grandfather because she discovered that he had found some strange old triangular pills and had added them to my grandmother's daily routine.

"What are these?!" my mother demanded.  "Where did they come from? Why are you putting extra pills in here?!"

My grandfather, just as stubborn and angry, shouted, "It said 'Lily Warren' and 'AM!' I didn't know what it was and it wasn't in the sample, but it had her name on it so I put it in there!"

"Why are you doing that? You should NOT be adding pills! I set it all up for you! Why are you adding pills? You know that's probably why she's sick! Because she's taking pills she's not supposed to!"

It went on and on like this, back and forth.  My grandfather not taking any of the blame, and not admitting to wrongdoing.  My mother just wants him to listen, and he just wants to explain how it wasn't his fault.  Lots of yelling later, I think he finally understands and my mother and I go on a search for any old pills to make sure it doesn't happen again.

My grandmother finally gets to the table and she's groaning periodically between bouts of amazement at the food on the table.

"Ai-ya... ai-ya... ai-ya..." she says, with a grimace on her face.

"Oh my goodness! Look at all this food! And it looks so fresh and good! And I'm so hungry!"

She eats a few bites and then goes back to staring into space, muttering in pain.  Then she gets excited again and starts talking to us about food.  At one point, it's like she's waking up from a coma and she asks about everyone.  I think it's because I'm wearing an abercrombie & fitch shirt (yes, I know, shh) and she keeps asking about my dad's old friend, Charlie Fitch.  Then she starts asking about my grandfather's brothers, and it's a long list of the dead.  It would be more depressing if it didn't happen all the time.  My poor grandfather.  He remembers.  My grandmother will forget again in another few minutes.

My mother and I discover that my grandparents are all out of 7up and juice (the only things my grandmother likes drinking) and they really don't have much food around.  I periodically wonder if she get sick / weak from just not eating because my grandfather forgets that he didn't feed her and she can't remember to eat herself.  We offer to go pick them up some juice and soda and finally my grandfather agrees.

We drive to Safeway and my mom and I talk about alternatives for my grandparents, but there doesn't seem to be anything we can agree on.  She is convinced that he can still take care of them and just slips up sometimes, and I think they need constant care.

"You have to get a doctor to write a prescription for that," my mother says.  So far I guess they haven't been able to convince the doctor that my grandparents need this help.  It probably doesn't help when my grandparents are constantly refusing help with unwavering stubbornness.

We return to their house with some snacks and many boxes of juice and cans of 7up.  My grandfather insists on giving us a hundred dollar bill because he already feels bad that we paid for dinner.  When we leave, my mother insists that I keep it.

"You'll probably end up buying more groceries for them anyway," she says.  I shrug and drive us back to my house so my mom can pick up her car.  I hug her goodbye and I briefly take a mini mental vacation where I fantasize about winning the lottery so that I don't have to think about work and how it prevents me from taking care of my grandparents.  I try not to let thoughts of this happening to my parents sneak in there, but they do anyway and I think about how I should have two kids so that it's not just one of them having to worry about old incapable me all alone.