livingwithalf

Alfzheimers?

I am fifty percent sure he is doing it on purpose. There ins’t a destination on this island for which Alf hasn’t made up his own name. Either that or there isn’t a destination on this Island for which Alf can remember the name.There are other areas of Alf’s memory that are decidedly selective but I don’t think I am seeing dementia here.

At any rate, I am in no position to judge. I regularly find myself wondering why I started telling a particular story and have no idea where I am headed with it. Usually it is when I am in the company of a good friend or a close colleage, the very people who are likely take the piss of course. Although, I was once speaking to a random man at a party, having a first (and turns out only) conversation with him, when I referred to someone as a celeriac instead of a celiac. He never recovered from his chortling to properly speak to me again after my unwitting scrambling up of an auto immune desease triggered by gluten and a knobbly, odd-shaped vegetable.

I don’t notice Alf forgetting where he is headed in conversation. I do know that if he says he is off to First Castle, he means First Tower. If he offers to drive you to Red Oaks, you will be dropped at Five Oaks, where you were headed. If he talks about Five Houses, read Red Houses.We can easily decipher BQ as B & Q and Hotel Fraaance as Hotel de France. Our early efforts to put him straight were met with a childish “whatever”. For reasons I don’t understand, it is irritating for the island to be called the Isle of Jersey instead of Jersey. I can even empathise with his way of thinking. Alf lived in the United States. If he requested any information from Google on Jersey when he was there, he almost certainly would have been met with a host of New Jersey related responses. It shouldn’t be irritating, BUT IT IS! Don’t sweat the small stuff I tell myself, particularly as I am sure this one is one hundred percent genuine.

When Alf first arrived, he bothered to learn the numbers of all the A and B roads. Unfortunately no one else on the island has, so attempts to tell anyone about his travels proved fruitless. I think most islanders would draw a complete blank if asked where the A2 is. The road going from St Helier to Bel Royal will always be called Victoria Avenue. Alf has since learned not to waste any further time on this but he will still quote the odd road number occasionally with an expectant look on his face. He takes tremendous pleasure in our exasperated reaction.

There are of course the usual US / UK pitfalls into which Alf will still fall. On coming in from working in the garden he declares he needs to change his dirty pants. That one is a big hit. He tells us he bought a rutabaga to cook for dinner. We can never remember what that is so we wait for dinner in order translate for ourselves. Having spent my first 19 years in the States, I remember zucchini, (courgette). I remember eggplant (aubergine). I remember arugala, (rocket). I can’t have had rutabaga as a child. It certaily doesn’t sound like a vegetable but then neither does celeriac. My husband imagines that a rutabaga would be more fitting as a car. It’s true. I would not be at all surprised to come across a 1957 Rutabaga should we ever revisit the Transport Museum in Coventry when we next visit Alf’s brother, Pat. For the absence of doubt, it is in fact, a swede.

It became clear to me while writing this and noting the difference between Alf’s demeanor when he flubs a landmark to when he refers to the Isle of Jersey, that he is in fact having us on. Alf is by now fully aware of the names of these places but what would be the fun for him in not getting a reaction?

A Wee Shot

Alf travels to Prague to have his cataracts done. My husband accompanies him to have his lenses replaced which is virtually the same procedure. Their first day at the clinic is dedicated to their pre-op health checks. Alf feels the clinic is a bit stuffy. Hmmmm.

At their apartment on the next morning, Alf brings out two sample bottles and passes one to my husband. They are meant to bring urine samples with them that day. Alf’s eyes light up mischieviously when he realises the clinic has already had a sample from my husband. He fills one with a mix of orange juice and water.

The arranged car journey on the way to the clinic brings a South African couple, also bound for the clinic, into the joke.

It unfolds ideally with a nurse immediately greeting the four in the packed waiting room and requesting their samples. Alf raises his eyebrows and adopts his “just a minute” face. He brings out his concoction, unscrews the lid and knocks it back in one!

The jaws of the nurse drop. The four who are in on it crease up at her reaction. As the penny drops, the room is in fits. This week in Prague is shaping up, thinks Alf.

Jack Shit

For several months now, anyone accompanying Alf on a drive will inevitably end up at what has come to be known as “The Shit Skip”. All paths from destination to home end up in a visit to The Shit Skip. The skip full of shit is positioned at the edge of a field. On every trip, the skip is worthy of pulling up near it to ponder the destination of its contents. Alf is a keen gardener, spending much of his days propagating, planting and transplanting.

Questions from the drivers seat include: “Would the collectors of the shit miss a bit”? Would they welcome someone taking some away”? “Would they like it bagged up and taken to auction”? Alf isn’t one for waste. Well, clearly he is in one respect.

Comments from the rest of the car include: “Same shit, different day”. “Full of shit”. “What a load of shit”. “Deep shit”. Finally, on the day we arrived to find the skip had been emptied, “No shit, Sherlock”, followed by “Ah well, shit happens’ and then untruthfully “I don’t give a shit”.

The level of shit rises again and one day Alf meets the girl in charge, who he describes as a feisty red head who must be 80 pounds, soaking wet. She takes Alf to the place where the shit is bagged up and lets him help himself. He is as happy as a pig in shit.

Alf had a brief stint smoking cigars, the smell of which never fully left his car. He claims I will be delighted that his car no longer smells of cigars. I am less than delighted at the replacement smell.

He has taken his fill of shit for personal use. We suspect he has other plans, maybe to collect some shit for friends and neighbours, as he has yet to properly clean the back of his car. If you see a white Renault Megane that looks like it needs its bottom wiping, you have found Alf. Flag him down. He is sure to give you some shit.

The S Word

Alf speaks to an anonymous man at a beach kiosk. They exchange several sentences within my earshot. As I wander down the slipway, I am amazed that there has been no mention of the S word as yet. I miss the final bit of the conversation and turn to see the man laughing heartily with his head thrown back. Alf fills me in on what he considers to be his best line at the moment, “She brought me here to die.” Thanks for encouraging that one, kiosk guy. Still, on the bright side, no S word.

Wherever we go, the word crops up. It is been said to a Social Security clerk, rabbited to restaurateurs and declared while driving a carload of Island Games players home from the airport. I completely understand that after a lifetime of work in his specialist field, the word is bound to crop up. The thing is, it crops up really early in a conversation. I mean Alf can go from “Hi. How are you?” to “I used to collect bull semen.” faster than one can say premature articulation. There is no requirement for a “What do you do for a living?” in between. It needn’t have crossed their minds. As I await the moment of the icebreaker, I am used to registering high on the AAA scale. Easily, I reach between 7 and 8 depending on my perception of the listener. The word “collect” is a worry. It is said as if he went out searching for it with a bag in his hand, as I do my sea glass. One lovely beach side lady responded amusingly that what he did for a hobby was up to him. So, perhaps unexpectedly for those who don’t know him, I give you the S word….. semen.

Alf was a farmer, specialising in artificial insemination of cattle. It was all around us growing up. The nitrogen tanks built to store ampules of pedigree semen were used to chill shrimp at my parent’s parties. Fruit from the orchard was frozen in long plastic gloves, tied off at the shoulder. It wasn’t uncommon to happen upon the odd artificial cow vagina in our utility room where one might more usually find a pair of wellies. The large company vehicle in the drive spelled it all out in no uncertain terms.

A friend from work books her first driving lesson during her lunch hour. She foolishly tells us it will be happening, so naturally when the time comes we rush to the window to watch her pull away. On her return, she claims that having us all watch her in that way must have made hers the worst first driving experience ever. I immediately raise one arm and two eyebrows and stare at her doubtfully. I’m sorry, I say to her confidently. I am certain that this perverse accolade belongs to me. Alf gave me my first driving lesson at sweet sixteen. I drove his mobile laboratory which he used for the processing of bull semen. Dependa-Bull Semen Collecting Services read the large letters on the outside of the camper style vehicle. He claims if I can drive it, I will be able to drive anything. It is a test of my character, not just my ability to drive. I am horrified, but I will hide it. I must fail neither test and I do not. I am gratified after telling my tale that my work friend sympathetically allows me to keep my title. As an adult, I have had a lot of mileage from that anecdote. I retell it to our CEO at a staff party one day. It is the only time I have seen him laugh with tears rolling down his face. He semi-recovers and asks if I had queues of boys running after the vehicle yelling “Stop, stop! I want to make a deposit!” I add this line to my story in future tellings. I try to capture his Belgian accent which emphasises the “de” in deposit which I feel is a quirky little enhancement.

If, on our island you meet a man who throws the S word into a conversation before it feels comfortable, you are probably speaking to Alf. If not, please send me their contact details so I can arrange for them to meet up and discuss such matters…. preferably deep in the forest.

Legend or Liability

According to Alf, it was my idea. Possibly it was. I know at 78 years old, I wanted him to work less labour intensively, have more time to pursue his interests and to have a broad social life more aligned with his unstoppable interest in everyone and everything. In any event, it has happened. Alf, my father is now living with me, my husband and two of my step-daughters and life as we know it, will never be the same.

I haven’t decided yet whether Alf will be given the courtesy of previewing this before publication, but if he does, I will bet my beloved sea glass collection that he will say of the third sentence above, that I can put a full stop after the word broad. Yup, there are people who still use that word.

At this early stage, if I had to predict what Alf would bring to our home, it would be interest, amazement, colour, noise (snoring for a start), anecdotes, generosity, casualness, gruffness, rudeness, energy, impatience (mine and his), countless questions and handiness but above all, entertainment. As laid back as he is though, he can bring out an anxiety in me that I don’t normally suffer. This usually comes out when we are together in the company of others. It could be my friends or acquaintances or it could be total strangers. I worry about his loose-cannonism, his loudness, his political incorrectness and his propensity to show off. I worry that he will have a few drinks thereby increasing the likelihood of one or all of the above. Most of the time my worries come to nothing and I admonish myself for trying to control this side of him. It is usually my bad. My fear is not always unfounded though. I’m not taking all the blame.

This seems an opportune time to introduce the Alf Anxiety Altimeter to which I will apply the mnemonic AAA and use as a method of scoring the level of my anxiety on a scale of 1 to 10 in any given scenario.

Since his second marriage broke down shortly after retirement several years ago, Alf has been helping some friends on their farm. Above all else, he has to be busy and I suspect this is true to an even greater degree when he is hurting. Since then, he has made several month long trips to the island where we live, to make sure there is enough to do to keep him occupied. We knew that he just needed to make the move and everything else would then fall into place. No matter what threshold Alf crosses, stuff seems to happen. This is a constant source of entertainment in our house.

On one of his trial visits, Alf got to thinking that a fishing boat was the way forward. It seemed a bit of a leap to us given he would first need two new knees and a new hip, but nevertheless, he took himself off to auction to have a look and bid on some items for the garden. We came home that evening to a whistling Alf busy setting the table for dinner and the smell of one his stews (formerly called Daddy specials), coming from the kitchen. As the story of his day unfolds, we begin to understand that he didn’t bid on anything at the auction but he did have lunch with a lady who he didn’t want to outbid for the garden items.

It was the end of April this year when Alf finally moved in. Not one for material possessions, he arrived with two suitcases full of his clothing, a few documents, his Kindle and his computer. The computer causes no end of amusement as he can’t help but hit two or three buttons at once with his farming fingers. In frustration he takes to dictating to his computer which then spells out every stutter followed by every curse uttered because of those captured stutters. He speaks to his computer like some of us speak to foreigners, very loudly in the hope of being better understood.

There is an immediate challenge to try to keep up with all the questions around registering him as a resident, bank accounts, cars, insurance and boats. We are horrified to learn that after 61 years of driving (66 if you count tractors, apparently), Alf has to take a local driving test before he is able to drive on the island. This lack of independence makes him regret his move already. He mutters and complains a lot but immediately books his theory test in 5 days time. He spends half his time studying and half his time researching a way around it. He finds no way around it and manages 90% on his test. Encouraged by his success, he immediately books 3 driving lessons followed by his practical test 5 days later. He is an exceptionally good driver but his outstanding driving record doesn’t mean that a few bad habits haven’t been adopted over the years. His driving instructor hits him in the arm when these come to the fore. She is the perfect instructor for him. We all go outside to take photos of him driving off in her car with the big L on top on the morning of his test. We all think it’s hilarious. He does too, but he makes a rude gesture with his finger anyway. Not very grandfatherly, I comment. He passes and later the same day leaves for Poland for a knee replacement. It strikes me that these two events probably don’t go hand in hand very often.

Dad’s moving in coincided with a visit from my mother. This doesn’t cause too much concern as they remained friends after their divorce which was the best part of 40 years ago. I have found it charming over the years that they have telephoned each other after one of them pays me a visit, to let the other know how I am getting on. I wish my ex-husband and I had managed this for our daughter. I am thrilled that my mum is here for US Mother’s Day. We take her for lunch and she thinks it is only right that Alf is there too as he caused her to be a Mum. It was nice. There was a lapse in all this loveliness though when on book club evening I come home to hear that my parents were not getting along. We all knew consciously that politics were to be avoided but for some reason Alf ventured into this arena. Although myself and my husband are more politically aligned with my father, we all agree that he was rude. Before she takes herself off to bed, Mum gives him a 4 word instruction which leaves him in no doubt as to what he can go and do to himself with no help from anyone else. I cancel my circuit class in the morning to mediate but when I go downstairs to breakfast, they are chatting amiably.

One of my closest friends is seeing another friend and colleague of mine. We are invited to his birthday barbecue at her house together with my father. I love the thought of this party and the fact that it includes all of us but it comes with a rating of 4.5 on the AAA scale in the time leading up to the party, followed by one or two 6.8s on the night. I receive a text after the party from my work friend saying his family thinks Alf is a legend. I laugh but there is an element of panic. He must not discover this. It will only encourage him.