My father’s brain is falling apart.

My father’s brain is falling apart.

Lord, grant me patience.

My father’s brain is falling apart.

I repeated this to myself all the way to Costco. When I got there, I felt a little better.

It was cold and windy as I walked across the parking lot. I shivered a little in my short sleeves.

The weather changed suddenly today. It was supposed to be in the high 70s the whole visit. I had thought about bringing a jacket just in case, but then didn’t because I figured I could just borrow one from my Dad.

I knew I would need a jacket before I left for Costco. I put it on and it smelled. I tried another one. It smelled too. I gave up. My father rarely showers these days, so I figured there was no use trying the other one.

That’s what all the yelling was about earlier. His caregiver arrived, woke him up, and tried to get him to take a shower. He did get out of bed, but he would not shower.

He told my mother he had just showered. She tried to reason with him. She showed him the dry shower curtain and the dry towel. She sometimes forgets that he has become immune to reason.

Eventually, my mom and the caregiver gave up. They all came downstairs. I went over with my mom what she wanted me to get at Costco.

My dad was in a better mood. He was telling the caregiver that I inherited all my good traits from him. I thought he was joking around, and I said, “Well, I got this belly from you, that’s for sure.” I looked over at him with a smile.

He did not smile back.

“No,” he said. “You are fat. But you are fat by choice. It has nothing to do with me.”

My mom and the caregiver both admonished him, but I shook my head.

“I started it,” I said.

And then I left.

And now I’m sitting in the parking lot. Ed just texted me that dinner will be ready in 15 minutes. I need to turn the key in the ignition. I need to get on the road.

My father’s brain is falling apart.

My father’s brain is falling apart.

Lord, grant me patience.

My father’s brain is falling apart.