This is an excerpt from a personal memoir chapter: about caring for my dad after his stroke.
One evening after work, Jennifer calls. She’s agitated. Her voice is angry, scared. My sister’s family is typically over-dramatic. In our Jewish world, that’s really saying something.
“Papa’s screaming at the washing machine!”
“Excuse me?”
“Papa’s in the garage, screaming at the washing machine!” She’s yelling and crying at the same time. “He’s scaring me!”
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s gone with her boyfriend for a week. They’re on vacation in Santa Barbara.”
“And she left Pop with you?”
“I told her I didn’t want to take care of him, but she left anyway.”
I take a deep breath. It’s a habit I’ve developed when talking with my family.
“Okay. Now let me get this straight. Your mom’s gone on vacation for a week, and she left Pop in your care. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you told her you didn’t want to take care of him, but she left him with you anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to take care of Papa?”
“He just yells at me all the time. He makes me feel worthless. He does weird things and scares me.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. That’s okay. I understand. Is he still in the garage?”
“Yeah,” she says, in a tone of voice like she wonders what I’m up to now.
“Is he still yelling at the washing machine?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you tried to talk to him, get him to stop?”
“No. I’m scared.”
“Okay. Listen. You know he’s had a stroke, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Um, kinda.”
“That means part of his brain has been injured. He can’t think straight, like he used to. He sometimes doesn’t know what he’s doing, like maybe he’s always half asleep. You understand that?”
“Yeah…” More question than definitive answer.
“Do you have Suzie’s number?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t want me to call her unless it’s an emergency.”
“Well, what would you call this?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay. Can you put him on the phone please?”
She does. A brief, muffled sound of clunks and fumbling and her voice in the background. Then his voice. He sounds really agitated, frustrated.
“Hello? Who is this? Jeffrey?”
“Hi Pop. How ya doin’?”
“Somebody’s using our washing machine. It’s full of some stranger’s clothes. I can’t get them to stop it.”
“Pop. Nobody’s using your washing machine. It’s okay. Calm down. You’re scaring Jen.”
“What!? What do you mean I’m scaring her?”
“You’ve been yelling at the washing machine. I could hear you over the phone.”
“What!?” Then, more calmly, now scared himself, he continues, “Really?”
“It’s okay Pop. You remember having a stroke?”
Softly, he responds, “Yeah.” Then he starts to cry.
The only time I ever saw him cry, besides when mom died, was in another lifetime. I had just finished telling him that I hated my own mother. Which happened to also be his wife.
