Sandy’s Girls (by Andrea Wiebe)

“Another beautiful day out there.”

I make conversation with Sandy in the morning.

“Any day you’re alive is a beautiful day.”

He replies.

Sandy’s routine is always the same; get dressed in front of the window that overlooks the valley, boil himself two eggs, eat a bowl of cereal, and turn on the tele.

ablog1

Sometimes I tell him about the blog and the people who comment.

“I’ll sue the lot of you.”

He says, blowing his nose into a hanky.

We both laugh and know that as long as we don’t make the daily paper, we’re safe!

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Sandy used to walk down the hill to get the paper every morning. Lately, it’s one of us making the trek for him. The view pans out to Brentwood Bay the closer I get to the end of the driveway. I’m lucky to live here.

When I return, he’s watching CNN on 45 as he breaks into a coughing laugh.

“Say, have you seen this girl?”

He yells to me again over Nancy Grace.

“She stabbed her boyfriend 27 times,”

He laughs,

“Slit his throat,”

Laughs again,

“And shot him in the face.”

Near fatal coughing laughs. Dementia! It’s fun for the whole family!

ablog3

“You know the Mormons were around after the civil war. There were so many casualties that there were far too many women and back then they couldn’t do anything so it made sense to have four wives. It was more about saving society and less about some horny old bugger. People don’t know this.”

They do now.

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“I always thought one wife was bad enough. Joan used to complain that I never wanted to talk to her. So, I started waking her up at 2am saying: ‘Talk to me, talk to me. How can we have a meaningful relationship if you don’t talk to me’. Well, that shut her up. ”

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“I used to see Barbara on Fridays. But now I see her at the potlucks on Sundays.”

Barbara is his old girlfriend. The Camilla Parker Bowles of his life story.

Naturally, Joan is Lady Diana; serving others, always travelling, misrepresented, and eventually banned from the stinking palace.

“Bar-bra-”

he says in his teasing voice.

“Bar-bra is coming to get me on Monday.”

Like a smitten school-boy who has only twelve strands of hair.

Three times a week, he speaks to her while alone in his chair. He calls out to her, chats to her, you get used to it.

“As soon as I win the lottery, Barbara and I are out of here. Won’t even shut the door.”

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He shuffles over to the calendar and holds the camping mega flashlight up to it.

“Dr. Martin today. Guess the Warden will be picking me up. Lovely day to fly side saddle on her broom.”

He laughs and goes to get his sweater.

He comes back complaining that “his ex wife” must’ve put it in the bloody wash. I find the duplicate sweater that Katie bought so I could wash this one.

“Yes, you know how Joan is.”

I reply.

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He had a cold last week but he seems to have kicked it. I bring him his Ovaltine.

“Hey, have you seen this girl on TV?”

He asks me laughing with his whole face.

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About Morbid Optimist

My name is Katryna Mary Brooke Ormiston. I am 35 years old and after living in Vancouver for a decade, I am returning home to my 81 year old father’s hobby farm on Vancouver Island to care for him in the final stages of his life. This blog is to document my journey, process my experiences along the way and hopefully share and feel connected to a community beyond the three and a half acres I find myself on. A message in a bottle in the cyber-sea.
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