A Good Day to Die
I want to tell you about a show I’m going to play in a few weeks. I’m really looking forward to as an artistic outlet and bringing out some live code music again.
But I also want to talk to you a bit about my dad, Conrad. And about Kentucky. And maybe about a chipmunk.
On March 28, 2024 my mother fell down a flight of stairs in their home. They replaced three pints of blood and (I think) one pint of platelets. I watched my father obsess over cleaning the blood stain out of the carpet, and I threw away the cleaning instructions my sister had given him to try to help him stop doing it so often.
When my mother fell, I was in Finland. I was about to send my sister a text for her birthday (3/29) when she texted that my mother was in the ICU. I was in Kentucky about 48 hours later.
My mother was my father’s caregiver of about a year and a half since he stopped working the labor jobs he picked up after closing his jewelry business and was officially diagnosed with dementia. With mom in the hospital, no one was home to make sure he took his medicine. My sister left him alone with a pill organizer and came back the next day and it was empty.
To recap: I flew to Kentucky, saw my mother in the hospital, and stepped into a full-time caregiver role for my father with dementia.
For the three weeks my mother was in the hospital and in rehab, I drove him to the hospital to see her every day. We went to senior centers and tried activities and saw that he needs more care than “Go to this place by yourself, Conrad.”
Since I’ve been here, I’ve cancelled at least three flights to Philadelphia, which A+ booking flights with points so I can do that without effort. I have an anticipated return to Philadelphia (again!) and am afraid to believe in it. Booking the show is one way to anchor something to be in Philadelphia, and Philly Dyke March and Pride being the following weekend.
But this particular moment … if you’re going to get stranded in Kentucky, watching the trees go from winter to spring, and now practically summer, is certainly a moment.
My dad loves to garden and I discovered an old green lawn chair in the garage and set it out in the yard to sit in the sun. Sometimes to read, but more often to just sit around, and dad was less anxious if you’re easy to find.
I found out the rumor is true that cars will flash their lights to warn you the cops are coming if you’re in the park after hours, when I was sitting in the car looking at the Big Dipper through the moon roof.
Most mornings, fewer now than when mom was still in the hospital, dad asks me if I’ve seen my “lil buddy” – a chipmunk eating the bird seed he sets out on stones in the backyard everyday. When the fixation was more consistent, I started taking my breakfast into the room with the window towards the stones so I could be visibly looking for the chipmunk. But it’s also not so bad to get excited about seeing a chipmunk.
Since my dad was diagnosed with dementia over a year ago, I’ve been starting that strange process of grieving someone while they’re alive. Dementia being a terminal illness and all, and whenever dad mentions that, I always say “So is living.”
I started this email with a photo of my dad checking out the book A Year to Live. I brought it with me while we were waiting to transfer his car’s title to the friend-of-a-friend I sold it to, since he’s agreed that he’s not driving anymore and changed his driver’s license to identification-only last week.
He happened to open the book to “A Good Day to Die” and I snapped a picture.
He says some deep things when we spend time together, walking or in the car. Earlier today he said he was sad that he was losing his memories.
I asked him to think about when he was 17 years old. Does he think he is a different person than he was at 17? (oh yes, absolutely). Well, that’s interesting, because I saw a picture of him the other day, and I could see his smile was the same. That somewhere between 17 and 72, he’s still the same person. If you don’t have your memories, aren’t you still you? (hmm, maybe)
You may be thinking: what happened to your mom? She did get out of the hospital. There was one scary turn after a fall during the hospital stay, after which I took her phone and told anyone I could think of that she was in the hospital so she would get prayers and visitors (she said not to tell anyone, oh, don’t worry about me…).
There’s serious conversations about their (mom and dad) futures. I’m thinking about it. Also thinking if I want to be in Kentucky more, and what shape that might be. But leaving some things undecided as they go. There’s enough decisions to make without rushing towards them.
I realized after I wrote this up that I’ll end up posting a version of this to my substack as well. So, you might get a double of the essay portion.