The pill boxes were empty yesterday. Both of them. All 28 compartments. The D hadn't had his morning doses yet, so I sat down in the living room to do my thang. Then I remembered that the last time, I got him to help me. I counted them out and instructed him as to which side to put them in - blue for P.M. and red for A.M. I use an Excel spreadsheet to keep up. It was kinda like occupational therapy. For each and every pill, I'd tell him red or blue, and he'd touch the first one and say, "This one?" I had to do the blood thinner myself because the dose alternates every third day, but otherwise, it worked perfectly. I checked them at the end and there were no mistakes. It was very sweet.
Then Deb came over for their regular Saturday outing. He so looks forward to that. She's an angel. What in the world would I do without her? I shudder to think. She's going to stay here during my quickly approaching trip to Ocean City, MD. He'll love that. And so will I. I won't have a worry in the world. He could stay with my sister-in-law, but he's much happier at home. It just hit me that this is his home now. Not his and Mother's old house. It's just about empty, and I desperately need to put it on the market, but for some reason (avoidance, I'm sure), I can't get around to it. Just like I can't get around to going through the boxes on my carport.
Oh, well.
I did my once per week thing of making French toast for The Daddler this morning. A labor of love to be sure. A small one. But still. He's happy with his microwaved muffin and it would be easy to skip the FT thing. I admit it. I'm a nurturer. Sometimes. But I need some affirmation. Didn't get it this morning. A healthy dose of sarcasm, in fact. It never fails to sting. Hence my blog. I asked how he liked his FT. In addition to the egg and milk, I use a dash of salt, a splash of vanilla extract, and a healthy sprinkling of cinnamon. And I use real butter. Now, I never eat French toast, waffles or pancakes, (I'm not self-disciplined, just hypoglycemic) so I'm not sure, but I think these are probably at least "pretty good." Not just "all right." But why the fuck do I ask The D how he likes my creations? He wasn't in a generous mood this morning. I can't remember how he replied, but I do know it was a notch below "all right." I repeated his lackluster response, to which he said, "it's all right." I repeated that in the form of a question. Which triggered his sarcastic comment. "It's good." At least he didn't say, "It's swill and I actually flushed it down the fucking toilet and got a muffin instead." And I didn't say, "Fuck you. Fix your own fucking French toast, Old Man." Nope. Instead, I morphed into the little girl seeking, and never getting, her daddy's approval. Nothing was ever good enough. Or ever will be. But I know the truth. It's better than good. And he loves me. He just can't show it. He called Deb "honey" last week. Whoa. I've never heard him say that to anyone other than Mother.
The grouchiness continued. We were waiting on CBS Sunday Morning when I realized that they were just on the "B"s on the September 11th ceremony. I think there were 3,000 names. I didn't extrapolate, but I figured it would take a while. The guide confirmed my suspicions. Since I don't need any more fodder for depression, I asked him if we could change the channel. He said he didn't care. So I put it on Auction Hunters. The thing where they buy the contents of a mini-storage unit sight-unseen. The landlord sells it when the owner disappears without paying the rent. It's pretty cool when they find good stuff. Like Antiques Roadshow. Which I love. I thought he'd like it. Wrong. After about two minutes, right when they unearthed a rare treasure, he declared that he wanted to watch CBS. I switched it and retreated to my den. Whatever Daddy wants...
After he got ready for church, he did his usual thing of waving his offering envelope in my face and counting on his fingers how much he wants me to write the check for. Unfortunately, I've run out of checks for his account and can't find the box so have to write them on mine. I have to fill out the envelope, too. Drop what I'm doing. At 9:30, I told him that it was time to go (he usually asks me around then.) He pointed to his watch and told me that he had five or ten more minutes. Whatever.
One thing I know is that he'll be eating a two day old Chick-Fil-A chicken wrap for lunch.
But I'm ok. Because I know in a couple weeks, when I come pulling into the driveway after six blissful days out of town, he'll be waiting for me. And the love will show on his face. And that is what keeps me going. Mother would be proud.
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