Day #8 Writing Through Covid-19: Cracks in Our Fragile Teacup

The honeymoon lasted four days.

Since Saturday, my parents and I have tiptoed around each other, perfecting our roles as mellow guests and five-star hostess. They thank me profusely for each small kindness; I dream up small kindnesses like it's my job--which I guess it is.

But we are human, and yesterday I saw the first hairline evidence that our arrangement is not rock solid. How could it be? My parents really don't want to be here. A mere seven days ago a once-a-week phone call and a once-a-month face-to-face visit felt right to all three of us.

Now I am their lifeline to the world, bringing each meal, the newspaper, their medicine, their lone human contact. I am also the one (speaking for all their children) who said they needed to be here for now. How could then not resent me just a bit?

So yesterday I was more bemused than surprised when we hit some rumble strips.

First it was the coffee. I'd brought my dad a mid-morning cup, but he was napping, so I left it on the table hoping he'd wake up before it grew cold.

At lunchtime I asked if I should have woken him when I came down earlier. "Well," he said, "I don't like cold coffee." I registered the first tremor of irritability I'd heard since he arrived.

In the afternoon I found my mother in wandering mode. "I'm looking for another bathroom," she said.

I showed her again both bathroom options.

"I was hoping to find one with a taller toilet."

I told her (again) that I had ordered a raised seat and to be sure to use her walker to help her stand up until it gets here. She agreed (again) that should work.

But then I saw the damp towel on the bathroom floor and realized my dad had taken a shower, despite me asking them not to shower until the shower chair arrived. "I have a shower chair coming, too," I reminded him, "so you won't be as likely to fall."

"I STAND UP when I shower," he snipped.

What I refrained from saying was "You have terrible balance and I do not want to pick up your brittle bones from the shower floor."

Of course he wants to shower standing up; of course I want him to use a chair.

I said, "I'll take this towel upstairs and wash it."

----------
Later I offered to play accordion music while they ate dinner. I played "Blue Skirt Waltz" and "Little Annie Rooney." I made some mistakes. And that's okay.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison