Every day Don asks when am I going home or announces he’s going home. His mantra of departure, by at least one of us, has weathered my patience. Today he’s asking what we call this house. Odd question, as most houses don’t have a name.
Kristy: Huckleberry House. Don’s House. Kristy’s House. Whatever.
Don: It’s BIG!
Kristy: Yes, it is; thus, I’m readying it to sell. It’s too big for us now. All you need is this room you are standing in. All I need is a kitchen, an office, and a bedroom.
Don looks up, down, and all around as if assessing my analysis.
Don: Do your cats know how to get here?
Kristy: Your cats live here and, yes, they know how to find their way home.
Don: Huckleberry what?
Kristy: We named it Huckleberry House on Airbnb. Remember?
Don: Yeah.
Kristy: I didn’t move here to run a 6-bedroom long-term care facility. We moved here so we could run an Airbnb B&B. Yeah, that worked out well.
Don: Wrong.
Kristy: My cats? We brought Max and Mickey here for you so you would shut up about wanting baby kittens.
They aren’t kittens anymore. Mickey now weighs about 12 pounds, which is why I call him Mickey Moose. He’s a hunting and killing machine. He brings home birds, chipmunks, mice, moles, and bats. Sometimes dead, sometimes alive. I helped a chipmunk escape this morning.
One constant thread for Don has been to never accept the home he has been living in since stroke as his home. Even more interesting is he appears surprised that it’s mine. Today must be one of those days he thinks I am the hired help.
Kristy: Do you think you could make it easier on me by not asking when I’m going home several times per day?
Don: Make things easier for you? What about me?
Note to Self: How foolish and selfish of me to think he understands the concept of making my day easier when it’s all about Don every day, all day long.
Leave a Reply