Caring For Mary (6 page)

Nicholas: Do not say that. There is no swearing in here.

Mary: I am not swearing; I am only saying, “Do it in Naples.”

Nicholas: Do
what
in Naples?

Mary: It doesn’t matter what.

Nicholas: So then you would say it to Jesus if He were here.

Mary: Of course not—it’s not nice.

Nicholas: But you just said it doesn’t matter what you do. It could mean ‘Go play tennis in Naples, right?

Mary: It doesn’t mean that.

Nicholas: No, it doesn’t. It means go screw yourself in Naples—and you know it.

Mary: Don’t say that, honey. It isn’t nice.

Panel 4

Naturally, I needed some heavyweight intervention from two dead Sicilians. The second two letters addressed the swearing
and
Momma and Daddy’s ages, since Mary does not believe she can possibly be eighty-seven. Four lines up from the bottom, Momma pointed out that she was 107 years old. A wake-up call, you old…

Panel 5

This letter curbed her good. Daddy, who called her “Chickie,” let her have it.

She said, “I can’t believe he yelled at me.”

I pointed out that he also noted a little more than halfway through that he was 110 years old. This did not impact her nearly as much as the tongue lashing she had just gotten. And it worked. Somewhat. Yes, she still says it occasionally but when I give her
the look
—because I know it’s coming—she has enough sense to not say it. Mostly.

Second Lesson Learned:
You may not be able to teach an old broad new tricks, but enlisting the support of the dearly departed can occasionally pay off. Occasionally.

Popi, have you seen my gloves?

Mary napping with the Wink

[caution: kitty appears larger than actual size]

Low tech security of fridge to prevent the occasional spill,

drops and miscellaneous breakages that accompany

misplaced makeup, lipstick, etc.

Mary reading letters from Momma e’ Daddy

Cozied up for the night

uuuuhhhhh, no.

The Popi Factor
 

M
y father Nick, a.k.a. Popi or Wiley or more often, Wiley-ass, bless his heart, plays a very important role with Mary. He is still active, but his memory is fading. Wherever we go, he holds Mary’s hand, helps her in and out of the van, buckles her seatbelt, and makes her laugh with his special brand of toilet humor and spoonerisms.

Somewhere along the line, he thought that switching the first letters in words was funny. The problems are two-fold. First of all, they are
not
funny—except to him. Secondly—and more importantly to me—Mary doesn’t get them.

Wiley: Statch your wep.

Mary: What?

Wiley: Statch your wep. He he he.

Mary: I don’t understand what you’re saying.

Wiley: S t a t c h y o u r w e p. [you know, saying it more slowly is like yelling loudly, slowly and gesturing at someone who doesn’t speak English.

Mary: [confused look]

Popi: Watch your step [hehehe]

Mary (oblivious): I will, Popi.

Day in and day out, the same spoonerism, the same reaction, the same stick-a-screwdriver-in-my-right-eye wish from me.

We go out daily to Wal-Mart, Dunky, or Perkins [Perky]. The outings are important for my sanity more than anything else. And Popi is always ready with, “Statch your wep.”

Lesson Learned:
Tolerance wins the day.

Epilogue
 

O
nce, when I had Mary in the hospital, the staff asked me what my hours were. I told them I was twenty-four-seven.

They said, “You don’t get a break?”

“No”, I replied. I think about the people all over the world who care for elderly parents without respite and really feel for them—but it’s about attitude.

Someone has to take care of them and Mary is blessed enough to have two daughters who trust and believe in me enough to allow me to relocate to Florida to keep her warm and save them money. Popi and I treat her like a mom—only better. We tend, as a society, to treat non-family members better than family members—like it or not. This is just an observation—not based on actual statistics.