Page 50 of Woman on the Verge

He didn’t answer my question, so I took it upon myself to get out of bed and go around to his side. He didn’t protest as I pulled his arms to help him sit up. I put his slippers on his feet and then helped him stand. He was wobbly and tipped into me, quickly overwhelming me with his weight. I was able to set him straight. He had a crooked smile on his face. He seemed both embarrassed and amused.

“We need to get you a cane,” I said, adding that to my mental list.

I helped him walk to the staircase. He was okay once he got going, but the steps presented a significant challenge.

“We’ll just go slow,” I told him.

And we did. We took one step at a time, pausing on the landing of each one to assess our next move. In just a week’s time, he’d gone from walking strangely to barely walking. There was no way he could continue sleeping upstairs. He had to be in the downstairs bedroom.

When we got to the bottom, I’d broken out in a sweat. I walked him to the kitchen table, and when he sat, he said, “Ahhhhh,” as if he’d just settled into a lounge chair at a resort pool in Maui.

Merry brought two mugs of coffee—one for me, one for him—along with a plate of toast with butter and jam. I watched my dad’s hand shake as it reached out for a piece of toast. He was able to get it himself, no problem, but at the rate things were going, I didn’t think that would be true next week.

“Do you want one of those smoothies in the plastic bottles?” Merry asked him.

He nodded, so she brought it to him. He took one sip and said, “This has a funny taste” and put it down. Merry looked put out, as if she’d made the smoothie herself as opposed to buying it at the store.

I bit into a piece of toast and then decided we had to get down to business.

“Okay, so, plan for today,” I said, clapping my hands together like a motivational speaker and then immediately hating myself.

Merry sat across from me, holding her mug of coffee with two hands.

“Dad, I think we need to get you set up downstairs in the bedroom,” I said.

“Downstairs?” he said.

Merry interjected: “Nicole, do you really think—”

“Yes, I really think it’s necessary. Dad, I’ll set up a TV in there. You won’t have to deal with the stairs anymore.”

It occurred to me that I was using the tone of voice I use with the girls when trying to make something sound fun that isn’t fun:Look at these colorful floss picks we got! Aren’t you excited to brush your teeth tonight?

(Yes, I’m back to the teeth brushing.)

“The bed in there is a queen,” Merry said. “That’s not going to work.”

“Mer, I think Dad can fit in a queen bed.”

“What about me?” she asked. “I’ll be sleeping with him, won’t I?”

I hadn’t thought about that.

“You two can’t fit in a queen bed?”

“Nicole, with the spasms, I need as much space as I can get.”

“Spasms?” my dad asked.

We both looked at him. He truly had no idea what was happening to his body.

“This is delicious!” he blurted out suddenly, in reference to the smoothie.

“Did the funny taste go away?” Merry asked him.

“What funny taste? These are delicious!”

Merry and I looked at each other. Her eyes were pleading with me—for what, I don’t know.

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