The Trash

The Trash

This morning felt hopeful.

It was one of those mornings when the moon is still hanging in the sky while the sun is just beginning to wake up. The air was cool and the light had that soft feeling that makes everything seem possible.

In the beginning of all this, I hoped my dad would get better.

Now my hope is different.

Now I hope he can enjoy a little more time on earth before his mind disconnects completely.

Knowing he’s moving in with me gives me hope he can. It’s becoming harder and harder for him to orient himself to reality when I’m not there. I’m noticing it more and more.

The day before had been a good day.

He was chipper that morning. At one point he even offered me coffee as if we had met at a café. It was one of those moments when I caught myself thinking,

Holy cow. He’s getting better.

But not this day.

When I walked in, he was sitting at the table eating soup.

The heaviness in the room hit me right away. Roscoe wagged his tail when he saw me, but my his head was down and when I pet him -he just leaned all his weight into me for a moment.

“How’s the day going so far, Dad?” I asked.

“Eh,” he said. “I woke up and have nothing to do. Like I have no purpose. My soup is bland and I’ve got nothing going on.”

His wrinkles looked deeper that morning. The house felt darker somehow.

I asked if he wanted to go to the store with me.

He pushed the bowl of soup away. It was still mostly full.

“That might be nice,” he said.

After the store we stopped for burgers at his favorite place.

Then the groomer texted that she was on her way.

That’s when I realized my mistake.

I thought the appointment was the next morning.

We met the groomer at his house and Roscoe jumped into the van. I stayed another hour after that, getting his pills ready and writing down the evening plan in the notebook we’ve started using to help keep the day organized.

Burger at 11.

Trash out before bed.

Orange pill and bed at 4:30.

We talked again about the routine—simple tasks, early rest—anything that helps his brain settle.

Then I drove home.

I made some crackers and cheese and sat down at the counter.

Before I could even take a bite, the phone rang.

“How come I didn’t know about the groomer?” he asked.

His voice sounded unsettled.

“I feel like I’m late to the party,” he said. “Everyone knew but me.”

He told me he heard the door open and when he looked up the groomer was standing there with his dog.

I paused for a second, trying to find the right way to answer.

“That sounds confusing,” I said gently. “Some memories must have dropped.”

He kept trying to piece it together.

The notebook wasn’t telling him what had happened.

I directed him to the page where it said Groomer 12:30 and explained that I had written it in the wrong place because I thought the appointment was the next day.

He listened carefully.

Then he asked again.

“But how did Roscoe get with the groomer?”

We walked through it again.

The store.

The burger.

Getting home.

Handing Roscoe to the groomer.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said softly,

“Oh wow.

I don’t remember any of this.”

“That must feel strange,” I told him. “Everything’s okay.”

We went through the conversation a few more times before we hung up.

I took a bite of crackers and cheese.

Then the phone rang again.

Now he was in the garage.

He was trying to figure out the trash.

I could hear bags rustling while he talked.

He started explaining the system he’s created—the cardboard from Roscoe’s dog food deliveries cut into small squares, the black bag he tapes inside the bin so Rosa, the house cleaner, doesn’t throw her small gray cleaning bag into the wrong place and mess everything up.

“There’s a sticky note on the bin,” he said. “It says empty March first, put trash in. I must have written it so I wouldn’t be confused.”

He paused.

“It’s about clear as mud,” he said. “This trash is going to be the death of me.”

“Damn trash,” I said.

We both laughed.

I reassured him he had done everything perfectly.

He has never once messed up the trash.

He can still wheel it out to the curb.

A few minutes later I heard the garage door open.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s wheel her out. Right side of the driveway?”

He hesitated.

“I know we’ve done this before,” he said. “Why am I so hesitant? The neighbors put theirs on the grass.”

“I’m right here,” I told him. “Wheel it out.”

“Okay. Here we go.”

Through the phone I could hear the wheels rolling across the driveway.

“Woohoo!” I yelled.

We even talked through the neighbor’s trash being on the grass while his stayed on the driveway.

But the trash made it to the curb.

When he went back inside he saw Roscoe.

“There’s my dog,” he said. “He looks so good.”

“Hi Roscoe,” I said through the phone.

He laughed.

“That’s so cute,” he said. “He just licked the phone. He heard your voice.”

I guided him back to the notebook.

“Let’s write ‘done’ next to trash out before bed.”

He paused.

“Did we do that?” he asked. “Did the trash go out?”

“We did,” I said. “Write ‘done.’”

Then I reminded him to take his orange pill and head to bed.

He teased me about being bossy.

I told him I was a bossy lady.

We laughed.

We said goodnight.

I took another bite of crackers and cheese.

Then I called the attorney to see if we could move our appointment sooner.

Because now I know.

This can’t wait.

I have to get him moved in.