Something you should know. I moved my 80-year-old Dad up here about 9 months ago. I rented a house up the street, and moved my 23-year-old son in to be Dad's "sitter." Dad does really well for man recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He dresses himself quite well (although, I'm never sure where he's grabbing the underwear from because the drawer never seems to be getting lower with fresh underwear. But I digress). He can feed himself, walk, doesn't wander, won't drive, doesn't care much to, flirts, sings, and can also be a bit cheeky when his wit is plugged in. Nonetheless, his presence has changed things for me, gradually but obviously. My eating disorder (anorexia) mysteriously showed up again, my boyfriend strayed, my income dropped, and well, life just started to spin, like a large but slow-moving hurricane, out of my control.
So, on this New Year's Eve, the dawning of something better to come, I wanted to cook a nice steak dinner for my beau of 8 years, yes, the one who strayed. I wanted to plan for a festive evening indoors, away from fireworks and crowds, for the dog's sake and for mine. I had something to prove, to everyone in the room, including myself. "Everyone in the room," you ask? Yes... Everyone. Me, the beau, the dog, and Dad. On this festive evening of proving my worth as a woman, my Dad would be there. Perhaps it is a bit more clear now as to why things are the way they are. How do you carry the weight of an 80-year-old man with dementia, while maintaining a career as a professor and ballet teacher, while also stroking the ego of your boyfriend who has recently found his greatest financial success and the attention of younger women? Oh! And did I mention Dad's divorce? Oh yes, there is that as well. His wife of 23 years is divorcing him and it has been a battle. But, all of this can take the back burner for one day. I pull up my cool jeans, plop a hat on my head (one that I have not had the courage to wear until recently), throw on some sensible heels, and march to the store, as though I have some sense of style and pride that even this slow-moving hurricane in my life cannot unfurl. Imagine the confidence there. See it? Now, place Dad in the picture with me, and see how that confident gait just slowed down to a shuffle with swagger. That is my life for right now.
Heading to the store, unaware that it is Tuesday or even December 31st, Dad asks, "Is this Saturday?". "No Dad, it's Tuesday, December 31st, New Year's Eve." Only a few minutes later he asks, "Is today the 4th of July?". "No Dad, it's Tuesday, December 31st, New Year's Eve." We live in Florida, and the day was a balmy 68 and overcast, so I can somewhat understand how the weather and the pops of firework displays at the grocery store may have thrown him. I stay calm and allow him to enjoy the sights of the store, but through the produce department I have to keep an eye on him; he likes to dig his hand into the bags of grapes and freely sample them. Like a child, I have to coax him away from this activity, while he announces pridefully that it is "completely acceptable to sample before buying." But, we aren't buying grapes... so there is that.
He pushes the cart as I dart from side to side of the aisles, grabbing all of the things we will need for the "festive dinner." An expensive cut of meat, potatoes, salad fixings, garlic, a cake, buy-one-get-one champagne; It's going to be swell! I begin to feel as though my confidence is filling the hat I'm wearing. I am regaining a sense of myself and my personal strengths. Yes, finding therapy anywhere I can, including the grocery store; this is how things work now.
Fast forward to 6:30PM. I have changed into silky tuxedo pants and a Fosse-like black crepe vest. My sensible heels have been replaced with horribly insensible 4" stilettos. For whatever reason, in this attempt to claim my femaleness, trying hard not to succumb to the weary caregiver who has been slammed by a hurricane, I keep wearing the heels that I put on the back shelf. The heels that make my feet furious, but lift me up into a near 6' height, and these days, I need a little help standing taller. So, the table is set, the candles are lit, the music is on, the dinner is planned, I feel confident. The beau enters; he has been at work all day. He seems to have missed my text about cooking dinner and asks "Where are we going to eat tonight? Let's go somewhere nice." Gobsmacked, I about want to throw the knife I'm holding at his head. But I stay cool. "We are eating here, and I am cooking. It will be nice." He seems to fidget a bit at this announcement. You see, I am a terrible cook. I rarely cook anything, much less prime rib! But, I got this. Remember, I have something to prove, and by golly I am going to prove it with style and success. At that moment, Dad shuffles through my front door, ready to join the party, but again, unaware as to what day it is. Surprised by the candles and table setting, he asks "Is it Christmas?". "No Dad, it's New Year's Eve."
Each man now has a drink in their hand. The chit chat is stale, so I insist they watch this movie I've been saving. It is the HBO documentary about Ralph Lauren. My thinking is that Dad will love the clothes and style, and the beau will appreciate the success story, sports cars, and models. As they relax their eyes and jaws on the movie, I get busy. Trying to remember how to cook a damn cut of prime rib. My ex is French, so I did glean a few good skills from that marriage, this kind of cooking may have been one, although I rarely do it. Salt, pepper, garlic, butter, sear, broil... for how long? I don't know. The potatoes come in a box, the salad from a bag. Hide the evidence of these two cheats. Throw in "home" ingredients to make them feel more "real." Done. Is the meat, ok? Still too red, just a bit longer. I've got this. Voila! It's done!
The meal is perfect! The gentlemen love it! They sincerely love it! The accolades keep coming and they are the salve I need to feel steady, to feel a sense of value. Why I am wired like this, I do not know. I am working on that. But for this day, Tuesday, December 31st, 2019, I am ok with it. I am better than ok. I am a woman wearing 4" stilettos cooking up expensive meat, wearing fancy pants, and calling the shots. It dawns on me. THIS is what 2020 can feel like. I can choose to stand tall and feel good about ME, with or without the accolades of these men. I am the muse and the master. I am amazing. I've got this. Bring it, 2020! I'm ready to kick ass!
Yes, Dad is forgetting things, and it can be a challenge, but in this wake of challenge, I keep remembering things. On this day, I remember, I AM AMAZING.
