Senility sets in...

     My father is very old. He is seventy five. Three quarters of a century. When you're twenty two (twenty three in ten days!) this is very old. My mother is not too far behind at the age of sixty six.
    
    Now, offspring generally cringe whenever they are in the presence of their parents, especially when their parents open their mouths. This sense of embarrassment increases as we become teenagers, and adults. Granted as we become adults ourselves we can let their ramblings slide a little more easily.
     
    But when your parents are senior citizens and have been for some time, you live in horror of what they may say or do.(You also live in fear that they won't wake up for breakfast the next morning, but that's another topic altogether.) You watch as these once sharp, healthy people slowly decay before your eyes. You see them shrink, you see them lose their hair, teeth, eyesight, hearing, physique. They wrinkle and sag. They forget how to do simple tasks, and most notably, they lose the filter. You know that filter? The one that stops you from saying something inappropriate in a social situation because frankly you're liable to offend everyone within earshot? Yeah, that can go big time. And you look at these people, your mother and father, and you stare at them and think, "Dear God, is this what I am going to become?"

      My father, whom I do love though I could strangle him sometimes, is a bit more advanced in his deterioration. There are times when I wish that he had a more stable filter. Like when we go into a mall that is situated in a neighbourhood made up predominately by Asian, Spanish and African-North American families and he'll say very loudly (because he's losing his hearing but won't admit it), "Where are all the white people?"
It's at this point that I either run away, or try to stuff a chloroform soaked sock down his mouth.

    Then there are the days when he does something so head scratchingly puzzling that I cannot, for the life of me, figure out his logic even once he's explained himself. For example, the other day he came to me, a look of immense pride spread across his face, and held out a tool he had created. The bottom was a flat piece of sharp metal, about three inches across, which was attached to the handle of a broom stick. Connected to the flat metal bit was a metal rod sticking out at a ninety degree angle, it too was about three inches long.
   "Do you know what this is?" he asked smugly.
   "Uhh...No. No idea. What is it?"
   "It's for digging out weeds."
   "........So, you've made yourself a shovel?"
   "No. No. It's for weeds. Because I can't bend down to pull them up."
   "Yeah. A weed shovel."
   "No. See, you push it in the ground, and you step on it (the metal rod) and you do it around the weed and it comes out."
    "..............You know, they sell weed pullers at the hardware store. They grab the weed with four pincers and you pull it out."
   "No. I don't like it."
   "You don't like what?"
   "What you say. I don't like it. I like mine. Mine makes sense. Plus, mine was free."
   "How much did you spend on material and how much time did it take you to make it?"
   "About $20, and a few hours."
   "Right, well you could have gone down to Canadian Tire, picked up that weed puller for about the same amount and been done pulling weeds hours ago."
   "..............Shut up. "

    Then there was last weekend when my mother and I went to see a movie. I called the house using my cell to see if my dad could come pick us up. I called, no answer. I try again, no answer. I try about ten times. My mother and I were both very confused. Maybe he had taken a nap and didn't hear the phone? Maybe he was in the backyard? Maybe he was in the garage getting drunk with the neighbours? Oh well, better head for the bus or call out a taxi. We go out the front door, and there's my dad, leaning against the wall waiting for us.
      "What are you doing here?" I asked.
      "You said  the movie finished at four, so here I am."
      "Well great, but we were trying to phone you."
      "No you weren't."
      "Yes, I was. I tried ten times."
      "Impossible." And from his pocket, he withdrew the cordless land line telephone that is normally in the living room. He genuinely thought it could be used as a cellular phone.
      "You nincompoop, that's not a cell," says my mother, "it can only be 500 meters away from the house before it stops working."
      "Really? Why? ....... That's stupid."

     Next morning, yet another incident.
     "JULIANNA! Where's the bread?"
     "On the counter."
     "Where? I don't see it."
     "For crying out loud. .... I'm coming." I got up from my computer, went to the kitchen and gave him the loaf of bread he was looking for. It was in front of him.
      I returned to my computer. My butt just touched the chair when, "Julianna! It's too big!"
      "What's too big?"
      "The bread. It won't fit. Do I cut it?"
      "What? It's bread. It always sticks out of the toaster a bit before you push down the lever."
      "But it's too big!"
      "What the......Hold on!" I marched to the kitchen. He had somehow managed to pick the one piece of bread in the entire loaf that was abnormally big. So, I cut it in half and handed them back to him.
        "Here you go." I go back to my room, when, "Julianna! How does the toaster work?"
        "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
        I went back to the kitchen and in the most overly dramatic manner I could muster up, I demonstrated how to work the machine.  
      "This is a toaster. This is bread which will become toast. Do you see these two slots? You plop the bread in like so and so. Then you press down this magical lever. And in a few minutes, it will magically spring back up! And you will have TOAST!!!! Whoa! But be careful! It will be hot! Use the tongs to take them out of the toaster! Do not use a knife! Then place the toast on a plate. Then butter your bread and enjoy. "

       Minutes later, in conversation with my mother discussing the upcoming election.
       "I should run for Pime Minister. I can't screw the country up worse than they can."
       "Apu*, as stupid as most politicians are, I think they can at least work a damn toaster."
       He laughed, thank heaven for that. At least in this case he realized how silly he was.
        
        Then there are the every day slips like calling me by my mother's name.
        "Now, Erika - Julianna - What's your name?"

         Then there's my mother. I adore and love my mother. She is someone I can tell anything to, and will listen. Most of the time.
         
          She tends to zone out if there's a conversation we're having on the phone. She'll start going "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh." I can always catch her when she's not listening because she'll start doing it even if I've stop speaking for a couple of minutes.

         Her filter is going too. We were on the train, when the conductor came into our car. He had to bend his head to get through the door, and even when he had come in he could not stand up straight because, even though it was bent, his head was touching the ceiling of the car. The instant my mother saw him she went, "Whoa!!!!" Very, I mean so loudly that other passengers turned to look at us.
        "Did you see how tall he was?!"
        "Mum, shut up, he's still in the car!" 
I did get to see him at full height. He was at least seven feet tall.

       My mother also has terrible eyesight. It's been years since she's gotten new glasses, finally we've ordered her a new pair and are waiting for them to arrive. But bad vision aside, I swear she has blinders on, you know, like horses do.
      
      She'll turn the corner in the super market, or switch from one side of the aisle to the other without looking to see if there is anyone there. She essentially cuts off people who are in mid-stride causing them to falter, if not fall. If she were driving a car, she'd be deadly, never checking her blind spot, not signalling her intent to change lanes. Thank God she doesn't drive. 

      I love my parents, I do, but when I realize that at some point I will become them .... I don't know. I just hope society will be able to put up with me.


*Apu is Hungarian for Dad. My father's Hungarian, that's what I call him.