In My Parents' House

In My Parents’ House

In my parents’ house there is a room.
We used to call it the “rec room,”
For two reasons:
It was usually a wreck, and
Because that’s where we all went
For R & R.
For refreshment and recreation.
For re-creation; to come together as a family.

Now there is no refreshing thing there.
There is no
fresh thing there.

Now, there are only
Stale, smelly things there.
Great big, grown-up diapers.
Trays full of antiseptic odors.
Cups with seldom-used teeth in them.

There is decay and deterioration, now,
in that room.
In that house.
In my parents’ house.

Now there are machines in that house;
Machines to keep my mother alive.
To keep her breathing
While she sleeps.
To monitor her heart’s deathward journey.

Machines to keep my father’s
Back, legs and butt
From getting sores on them
Which might become abscessed
And kill him.

There are lots of wheels in that house, now, too.
Wheels on the carts
The nurse uses to bring them
All the pills that they take
To keep them alive.

Wheels on the chairs they sit in,
Because they can’t move
Without help.

There are wheels on the machine we use
To lift my father
From his
Bed with wheels
To his
Chair with wheels.

There are more clocks there now,
And calendars.
So we can remind them
What time of day it is.
What day, month and year it is.
So they’ll know that time
Is marching right along.
So they’ll know
They’re still alive.
I guess.

Neither of them can move much, or walk.
But between the two of them
their two brains and combined functions
kind of – just kind of,
equal one
thinking, human being.

Mom can’t remember anything that happened, anymore,
Unless it was less than
Two minutes – no, one minute ago,
Or more than 50 years ago,
Including whether she ate today,
Or not.
Including the names
Of her children and grandchildren.

Dad can’t speak at all.
No words; just gibberish.
But he’s lucid.
He understands us
And we’re pretty good
At guessing what
He is trying to say.

We use picture cards with him,
Like he did for us
When we were little
And he was trying to
Teach us how to read.

There are pictures of
Each one of us,
So we know who
He is thinking about.

There are pictures of
The stuff he likes to do, or eat.
The T.V.,
A certain book he likes to have read to him,
See’s chocolates (the one with sprinkles).

There is also a picture of a toilet
Even though he can’t use one.
This is how he tells us
That his diaper needs to be changed.

There is a picture of someone crying.
That is how he tells us
That he is in pain
And needs one of his
Pain pills.

Sometimes Dad points to the “pain” card
And then to a picture of
One of my sisters,
Or my brother,
Who don’t visit
Very often.

At first we were confused
When he did this.
But then, he started crying
While he held their pictures,
And the “pain” one,
Close to his heart.

Sometimes he points to
The picture of the piano,
And the nurse thinks
That he wants to hear the stereo.
But he puts up a big fuss,
Like a small child
Throwing a fit.
So the nurse calls me or my sister
Because she doesn’t know what to do
To make him stop.

We go over to my parents’ house,
And my sister plays the piano,
As he taught her to do
For years and years,
And we sing his old, favorite songs:
“I’ve Been Working On The Railroad,”
or “You are my sunshine,”

and he sings, too.
Every word, perfectly.
And he is content.

But then we have to play
A game with Mom,
So she won’t feel like
We’re “playing favorites.”
We have to teach her
How to play Yahtzee
Again…every time.

Oh, the things you won’t do
For your parents.


Mary Westlie-Jones
February, 2004
Huntington Beach, California