Things He Repeats, Part Two

In an earlier post, I took you on a tour through my dad's repetitive questioning, due to his Alzheimer's Disease. Each month when I go to Indiana for a visit, the questions have slightly shifted. He keeps the most popular, such as "Candy, where do you call home?" and "Do you like it there?" and "Weren't you a valedictorian?" in his repertoire, drops a few, and adds others. There were two main characters in the latest new additions:


Dad: Candy, did you ever know Mutt Hickey?

Candy: Nope. Never did.

Dad: What ever happened to him?

Candy: I don't know, Dad. I never had the pleasure of meeting Mutt Hickey.

Dad:

Candy:

Dad: Say, did you know a guy by the name of Mutt Hickey?

I think you will agree with me when I say that "Mutt Hickey" is one of the most idiotic names ever spoken.

We do know that Mutt Hickey once existed, because I remember hearing my dad talking to a friend of his, Orville (now deceased), around 15 years ago about having known Mutt Hickey when they were young. (Apparently Mutt was not a member of Mensa.) So Mutt Hickey is not imaginary. But we can't locate even the slightest tidbit of information about him. My brother has googled himself numb over it.

It has become customary for me to change my answers to my dad's many questions, not only to offer a variety of responses with which to entertain him, but to keep my own brain from splattering like a robin's egg under a medicine ball.

Dad: Candy, do you remember Mutt Hickey?

Candy: Yep.

Dad: What ever happened to him?

Candy: He hauled off and died.

Dad: Oh? He did? How come?

Candy: It was just Mutt Hickey's time to go.

Dad: How come?

Candy: I don't know.

Dad: Whatever.

[Note: It has been my practice for years not to accept any whatever-ing from my father.}

Candy: WHAT did you just say to me?

Dad: Whatever.

Candy: WHAT?!

Dad: I said 'I don't know either.'



My favorite new line of questioning concerns an old, old bit of family history. Around 45 years ago, at a family gathering, my dad's Aunt Ida (Idie, as she was called) was in attendance with her toddler granddaughter, Nancy Ann. At some point during the day, Ida detected a foul smell and exclaimed "Nancy Ann! I think you've shit yerself!"

The framework for the questioning takes a familiar form.

Dad: Candy, did you know Nancy Ann?

We are sitting at the counter with my mother, eating lunch. Broccoli cheese soup and chicken salad croissants.

Candy: I heard about her once.

Dad: Did you know she shit herself?

Candy: Yes.

Dad: Where IS Nancy Ann?

I crumble crackers into my soup. My mother sips hers from her spoon.

Candy: I don't know where she is now.

He takes a bite of his croissant.

Dad: Nancy Ann shit herself. Did you know that?

Candy: I heard something to that effect.

I take a drink of ice water. Dad looks into his soup bowl as though it is a crystal ball. I wish I could go inside his mind just for a minute. Better yet, I wish he could come out.

Dad: Say, did you know Mutt Hickey?

Mom: I wish you had Mutt Hickey up your ass.

Dad: How come?

Sometimes it's hard to remember that "how come" is like a period on the end of Dad's sentences. He usually doesn't expect or even care to hear an answer.

Mom: Because I'm sick of hearing about MUTT HICKEY!

Dad: Whatever.

I let it go. I can't battle every single "whatever" he utters. It used to be an easier banter between us that he played with vigor. But he is losing interest.

Mom picks up the remote control and turns on the TV. Montel Williams is discussing his daily consumption of 64 ounces of vegetable juice. Then he says he's giving each audience member his favorite juicer to take home with them.

Mom: He's getting just like that damned Oprah. Buying people with all that shit he gives away.

Candy: I want to drown them both.

Dad is almost done with his soup.

Dad: Candy, did you know Nancy Ann?

Mom: Here we go again.

Dad: Did you? Did you know Nancy Ann?

Candy: Not very well.

Mom finishes off her croissant, wipes her mouth with a napkin.

Fifteen seconds of silence.

Dad: She shit herself.