One Tuesday morning, I had to ring the Old Man’s number three times before he answered the phone.
“Where have you been?” I asked him. I had been worried.
“I thought you were in bed,” he replied.
“At this time?” [It was twenty minutes after the normal time for my first phone call of the day.]
“When did you leave last night?” [He meant, when did I leave his house.]
“I wasn’t with you yesterday, Dad, this is Tuesday. I was with you the day before yesterday.”
“I must have been dreaming.”
The Old Man and I were not sure whether he would be taken to the hospice or to St Griselda’s on Thursday 12 November 2009.
When I phoned him in the evening, he told me that he had been taken to the hospice. Of going to St Griselda’s, he said:
“I think that’s just a story.”
One morning I was arranging for the Old Man to take his levothyroxine. I had already said “levothyroxine” to him at least twice, and told him to look for a little grey box. Then he asked me:
“What’s the full name of it?”
“Good morning! It’s time for your lansoprazole capsule.”
“Where are they?”
“In the sandwich-box, Dad.” [Which is where all his pills / tablets / capsules are stored.]
One morning, I told the Old Man what his next tablet was:
“What on earth’s that?”
Then a few moments later I told him:
[Original postings 1 December 2009]