HIDE AND SEEK — PART II

“I got a new wallet for Christmas,” said my friend Wayne.  “Would you like my old one?”   I must have looked a little puzzled at his remark then he reminded me that I had told him about Ken and his missing wallet.  I had also mentioned how he  hides his disposable razor and toothbrush, and how I keep recycling them when they show up in odd places.  “You could recycle my old wallet,”  Wayne’s suggested.   I thought for a minute about all the stuff Ken carries in his wallet.  A few dollars, a photo copy of his I.D., some business cards, a calendar, a photo or two — nothing important.   Then I realized he doesn’t remember what’s in his wallet, except for the money.   That’s his worry.  “I don’t have any money,” he often laments.  Just as a purse is part of being a woman, a wallet is an important part of being a man, even if all he does is count the money.    Having back-up wallets would eliminate a lot of Ken’s misery at finding his lost.   I’ll check around and see if others might have an old wallet not in use to add to the supply.

While I’m talking about hiding, I suppose I have become as guilty as Ken.  With me, I hide things from Ken — most importantly — keys.  A few times I have been careless and he once took the truck for a ride.  Other times, if he is Mr. Hyde or Buddy, he will hide my keys from me because they belong to either his wife or his mother.    Consequently, I have become a fanatic about putting them in their own hiding place.  Not a convenient spot, but definately an out-of-sight place.

However, I hide other things as well, including dishes.  Actually, dirty dishes.  I haven’t always hidden dishes, but lately it’s become a necessity.  Shortly after he retired we came to an understanding that I wasn’t going to be his servent and he wasn’t going to be Lord of The Manor.  His household job was to keep the kitchen clean and that included doing the dishes.  If I cooked, he had to clean up.  He agreed and became a rather good tender of the kitchen.   Now, with his Alzheimer’s, I would rather he didn’t help in the kitchen, but I must have taught him well, because somewhere in his confusion, after a meal he insists, “I’ll do the dishes.”

With two years of lower than normal rainfall, the San Francisco Bay Area, at least our water district, has imposed water rationing.   Since his dementia, Ken washes  everything under hot running water, allowing the water to run and run and run much to my exasperation.  I have watched him rinse a glass for a minute and a half and all it contained was water.  He becomes very angry with me if I suggest, “Just put it in the dishwasher.”   “NO!” he growls, “This is my house!  Don’t tell me  what to do!  And this glass is clean,” or plate or pan or whatever.  So I try to get to the sink first and hide the dishes when he isn’t looking because I have only seconds to make them disappear. 

While I am cooking I fill a bowl with tools and cups, or other things I’ve used for cooking and shove them into the oven or into the microwave. “Grandma,” said grandson Sean, as he sat one of his children at the table for a snack, “Do you know you have dishes in the oven?”  “Yes,” I admitted, “and they’re dirty.  I’m hiding them from Grandpa.”  When you explain something that appears to be very foolish, it sounds very foolish.  Yet, I continued with my explanation, even though it doesn’t really make good sense — except to me.  “Okay,” answered Sean.  “Sounds good to me.” 

I’ve even carried plates unrinsed and unscraped into the nearby bedroom just to get them out of Ken’s sight.  Our granddaughter, Kristina, is staying with us for a while.   Finding a few dishes in her bedroom she simply stated, “Grandma,  I know you have a logical explanation about the dirty dishes on the desk so I’m not even going to ask.”  “Thank you, Kristina,” I answered.  “Hiding dirty dishes is a very long story, and I know you’re in a hurry.”  Case closed.