At the rehearsal dinner Griffith Lloyd stood and put spoon to a water-glass.
Griff then raised his glass and said, “I have a word of advice for the bride”.
The loud laughter quieted those gathered at the table looked up at the man standing at the head of the table, and fell silent waiting for him to begin to speak.
“I have a word of advice for the Bride”, he began again, “it was advice I was given myself many years ago upon the occasion of my marriage,” He looks toward Hilda, his wife.
Hilda doesn’t smile, a quiet woman, not prone to toasts or jokes, she is serious and she would have made a perfect poker player if she approved of poker that is.
“Here we are all gathered to celebrate the upcoming event, the night before my son marries,” he clears his throat.
All within ear shot have stopped what they are doing at the down town Chicago pub, waitresses pause, bartenders stop tending, other diners and drinkers watch waiting. It’s the accent I think, a standing man with glass raised is a spectacle, but a standing working class man from Liverpool with a rather Beetles like accent tends to draw a crowd. He likes this, and with chest puffed, starts again, even louder this time.
“So this being the night before my son marries, I would like to give a piece of advice to the bride”
“There is something you must do,” he says looking right at me.
“I want you to get a jar, a big jar, the bigger the better, something like a pickle jar.”
The entire pub is on the edge of their seats, thinking that a worldly man of wisdom is speaking, and something learned will no doubt follow. I think a few people even put pen to paper.
” SO you have a jar, a big jar,” He can’t fully gesture as his Guinness would spill.
” what you do next is very important, are you listening?”
“I want you to put a penny in the jar every time you have sex for the first year of your marriage. One penny now, no more. But a single penny goes in the jar every time until your first anniversary.”
“And then after the first anniversary, every time you have sex, I want you to take a penny out….YOU’LL NEVER EMPTY THE JAR!”
The pub exploded with loud back slapping beer spilling laughter.
Laughter and Griffith Lloyd reined that night.
Although I never officially had a jar, or placed pennies in it, he was absolutely right.
There are no toasts anymore, and Hilda left us first.
He sits now, almost always sits. His breakfast, lunch and dinner are carried to the couch.
Through it all he remains seated, but always says, “Oh this looks tasty!”
He rises only when he has too, bathroom breaks, and when he shuffles off to bed.
The couch back and seat remain in his shape, a placeholder, empty until morning when his physical form fills the space and we begin again.
He is melting before my eyes, each smaller pair of pants eventually begin to gather and sag his limbs lost in the folds of fabric.
His undies, are the same. I have not seen undies this small since my son, long now grown, was in grade school.
It’s the Multiple System Atrophy, arguably part of Parkinson’s, arguably not.
I really don’t give a shit what you call it. I see what ever you call this, in action. He is smaller and smaller each and every day, with less movement, shuffling steps, curved hunched over shoulders, and such dizziness upon standing and movement that he passes out.
Autonomic Dysfunction. Things that are supposed to work, breathing bladder, bowels, walking and blood pressure just don’t work anymore.
Friday night he stood in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, and his eyes rolled back into his head, and passed out. He was caught, and the glass taken away, and placed upon the floor, choking.
Yes, one can not swallow in the middle of being passed out.
He regained consciousness and always embarrassed, never seeks an audience now, always says, “I’m ok… I’m ok..” he says.
But He isn’t, and he wont ever be again.
A while ago I noticed his small form is no longer comfortable on the big downy couch, he folds pillows sticks them behind him, under legs and across his neck.
The box came before Fathers Day. Huge sitting on the front stoop, he sees it and says, “There is a box here for you Mrs.”
“No…that box is for you.”
I open the double doors, slide the box inside, a picture is on the side, a chair is inside, a leather recliner in a european style that spins on a cherry wood base and has a separate foot rest, all in wonderful toasted brown butter soft leather.
“Its your Fathers day.”
I know he wants to put it together, I also know he really doesn’t have the energy anymore, nor the eye sight, or strength.
“Why don’t we wait for Gary?” I suggest.
“No, this is easy I’ve done this kinda chair before,” he replies.
Shit. I worry about his frustration, like giving a child a toy way beyond their ability, but he is not a child, he is a man I remind myself.
I know then my days plans have just been put on the back burner, he will not wait for Gary.
6 hours later the chair is together, we had to stop for breaks, lunch and snacks, and I tried to read the instructions in my best non bitchy manner, but after the first three hours I took the instructions out of the clear wrapper and read them aloud to him.
“Oh I get it now!” he said.
It was done before Gary came home, and he was happily sitting and spinning, in the soft leather chair that fit him like a glove.
No longer does he need the pillows placed, no longer does he have the hanger pain across his shoulders from muscles worn out holding up his head, no longer, for now.
Like Captain Kirk, he sits front and center, his remote and tools at his right, newspaper crossword, eye glasses; spinning and traveling in his chair that fits like a glove.
For how much longer I can not say.