deviousways

It was my father's birthday. And thiruvonam day as well. I called to wish him. "Happy birthday Acha", I said. "Same to you," he replied. Birthdays don't mean anything to him any more. Well, nothing much else, either. He cares about getting his meals on time, but doesn't remember if he's eaten. He's always hungry. He wants my mother around all the time, to look after him, make his meals for him etc. He doesn't care when she falls ill. It doesn't register, you see. My father has dementia. The part of his brain that remembers people, places, dates and occasions, is slowly getting eroded. He's old, 83 this year, but still spry. Yet he is not the person he used to be. In some ways, that is good. As a child, I remember him as extremely short-tempered. He used to shout often, at my mother, mostly. He's reduced her to tears many many times.  And he used to drink, more and more as I grew to adulthood. So no, I don't have too many