6th November 2006 - A tale of two slippers

I went in at 6:20 this evening. I thought there was a residents relatives meeting at 6:30 but I had the date totally wrong, it’s 20th November. So I stay for a visit. Dad’s dressed in his pyjamas and robe with his outdoor shoes on. No socks, just what he’d describe as a stout walking shoe. In brown. He’s surprised but pleased to see me, although as it turns out he thinks I’m my sister. He starts telling me how Jeannette (me) couldn’t come in to see him today so he was ‘extra pleased to turn round and be me’. Unfortunately, my sister phones me while I’m visiting and asks to speak to him. Obviously this is very confusing for Dad. He’s far from comfortable using any phone, and a mobile phone is particularly difficult, I have to hold the phone to his ear because he wants to speak into it as if it were a star trek communicator. She tries to talk to him for a couple of minutes then gets him to give the phone back, which he does asking whoever he thinks I am to give the phone to Jeannette. Moira tells me she’ll be up on Saturday.
Dad’s trying to get his shoes off so I ask him if he wouldn’t be better with his slippers on, he doesn’t understand but I tell him to stay put while I go and get his slippers. I eventually find a staff member with a key and race off to get them. Under his bed there is one slipper, one ‘stout brogue, black’ and his Italian slip on shoes. He doesn’t like his Italian slip on’s. He once told me he blamed them for everything. I wasn’t clear what this meant so – quite reasonably I thought – I asked what he meant. “For goodness sake, it’s obvious isn’t it? There called slip-ons aren’t they? Why else do you think I fell?” Ah, it is obvious, he’s right, I am stupid. But only one slipper. So I take the offending slip-ons thinking them better than the stout brown shoes he’s wearing. Across from him Ruby is taking her jumper off, then her vest. She’s taking the trousers off too. The new lady tries to help her but gets snarled away. A carer notices and comes to dress her again. He puts them on and I promise to buy new slippers and bring them in tomorrow. “What day will that be then?” he asks me. “Tuesday, this is Monday”. “So, Moira’s coming on Saturday, so I’ll just have to wait ‘til then for a visit”. “No Dad, I’ll be in tomorrow and the next day. Every day, I come in to see you every day unless Moira or Colin are coming” I reply. “Yes but I need to wait ‘til Saturday for a proper visit” he smiles. I’m imagining the glint in his eye I know I am, but I can still see it, a vicious glint as my resigned face settles and slumps as I confirm “Yes, you’ll get a proper visit on Saturday”. I look at his pyjamas and think they are a bit shabby too, so I’ll get him some new ones tomorrow too. At the same time I’m thinking “Fuck you, that’s it. I’m not coming back, you can lie in your own pish, you can die in your own pish for all I care. You’re not even my Dad, why do I put up with this ritual humiliation? No more old man, I’m fucking off and I’m not coming back. I can walk out of that door and never come back, never have to smell this smell again, never have to see another old woman’s shrivelled tits when she strips in the dayroom or her grey mouldy twat as she goes to the loo without closing the door, never see another old man fumbling for his wizened old cock, never have to listen to grababagrababagrababa or Bertha screaming for her Mammy. I can choose to never come back”. So I stand and kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll be in tomorrow morning at 10:30 or so, abashed at how nasty I am in my head - this terrible dichotomy between what I think and what I say.