Caring For Mary (7 page)

We live happily in beautiful Lehigh Acres, Florida. Mary continues to annoy and amuse—even as her memory steadily declines. She went from only knowing about five names without prompting to, on a good day, one—mine. Physically, she is doing well, but her mind is losing the battle.

Mary (holding picture of late husband): It’s sad, isn’t it, honey?

Nicholas: Yes, it’s sad that he’s dead, honey, but everyone dies.

Mary: Do you think I’ll die soon?

Nicholas: No one knows, honey. But stop with the sad already. You think everything’s sad.

Mary: That’s not true.

Nicholas: Really? Frank, Dean and Sammy are all dead and that’s sad. You had to move away from your house and that’s sad. You wish you were beautiful and that’s sad. The only not sad is that Momma and Daddy and Pavarotti are still alive. Why not try to be happy? Name some happy things.

Mary: Well, you’re my dear friend and I’m happy about that.

Nicholas: Yes?

Mary: I … have … daughters.

Nicholas: And?

Mary: You’re my dear friend.

Nicholas: No credit for that—you said me twice.

Mary: I don’t know what to say, honey.

Nicholas: Try thinking about happy things. You’ll see Jackson, Frank, Dean, and Sammy in the Resurrection. You’ll be young and beautiful again.

Mary: Really, honey?

Nicholas: If the Bible and the Word of God is anything to go by, yes. Hey, guess who’s singing on TV?

At least we have Pavarotti.

About the Author
 

P
inhead
about sums it up. I was never a man with common sense. The first real sign of this appeared when, as children, my father bought car model kits for my two younger brothers and me. I was nine. Garry was seven. Danny was four. Dad turned us loose on our little Mustang kits and checked on us after an hour.

Garry had framed his out nicely. Danny had successfully attached a door to the frame. I, staring disconcertedly down, had managed only to attach the tailpipe to the roof of the car, facing the wrong direction—not like it mattered.

Dad asked, “What are you doing?”, equally disconcerted.

“I have no idea,” I responded with the usual fear that comes with not pleasing your dad.

This was to be the issue of my life. Dad and I made up years ago (killing hope for the requisite sequel
The Popi Years
). No, I simply don’t think like other people. What I could do was act, sing, dance, and perform comedy. It wasn’t much—especially if you’ve seen my bank account—but it was what I did. And I did it well enough to eke out a living.

I ended up in the Pocono Mountains, plied my trade occasionally as the in-house act at Mt. Haven Resort in Milford, Pennsylvania (yes, now I expect free food), and then landed this gig. Beth is my dear friend and—along with Taisia—allowed me the opportunity to help them. It ain’t easy, but with the right attitude,
anyone
[re-read paragraphs 1 & 2] can do it.