August 23: Clowning, My Father, Alzheimer's

There at the corner, in the front of pedestrians, was a surgeon who had been operating all day.  He was a civilian, but his posture was military.  He had served in two world wars.  The sight of Billy offended him, especially after he learned from the guards that Billy was an American.  It seemed to him that Billy was in abominable taste, supposed that Billy had gone to a lot of silly trouble to costume himself just so.

The surgeon spoke English, and he said to Billy, "I take it you find war a very comical thing."

Billy looked at him vaguely.  Billy had lost track momentarily of where he was or how he had gotten there.  He had no idea that people thought he was clowning.  It was Fate, of course, which had costumed him--Fate, and a feeble will to survive.

"Did you expect us to laugh?" the surgeon asked him.

The surgeon was demanding some sort of satisfaction.  Billy was mystified.  Billy wanted to be friendly, to help, if he could, but his resources were meager.  His fingers now held the two objects from the lining of the coat.  Billy decided to show the surgeon what they were.

"You thought we would enjoy being mocked?" the surgeon said.  "And do you feel proud to represent America as you do?"

Billy withdrew a hand from his muff, held it under the surgeon's nose.  On his palm now rested a two-carat diamond and a partial denture.  The denture was an obscene little artifact--silver and pearl and tangerine.  Billy smiled.

The surgeon hates Billy because he thinks that Billy is attempting to turn war into some sort of comedy.  He's offended by Billy's attire.  In turn, Billy has no idea what he has done to upset the surgeon.  As usual, Billy is pretty oblivious to his present.  His mind is in the past or the future, unstuck in time, just like his body.

Well, I haven't spoken much about my father since he was moved to the hospital in downstate Michigan.  I just heard from my sister that his doctor has diagnosed him with Alzheimer's.  That explains his outbursts.  His tendency toward being physically aggressive.  Now, the question is what to do.  The hospital wants to come up with a discharge plan.

My father's mind is sort of unstuck now.  He can name the President of the United States.  He can look at a clock and tell you what time it is.  Yet, he can't write a complete sentence.  He uses his cane like a billy club when he gets frustrated.  He's stuck between who he was and who he's becoming.  Present and future. 

I'm not sure what's going to happen.  He'll be returning very soon.  Where he'll be returning is the issue.  I don't think it's safe for him to come home, and I felt incredible guilt when I typed those last words.  My father's the surgeon, standing on a street corner, indignant, angry.  I'm Billy, trying to figure out what I'm holding in my hands.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for the fact that his dad is safe tonight.