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Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Weird Science Indeed

 
I'm confused.
Please Note:

This entry was written by Past Erik. Not Present Erik. It was written at the exact moment of its occurrence, so it's in first person. In other words, it's not happening right now, though it did at the time, so I wrote it right then.

So let's listen to Past Erik from Saturday, May 3rd, 2014, shall we?




I am currently writing a longer post (found here), one that has taken a long time to refine. I am at the computer and Miriam is in her wheelchair next to me. 

The communication device, attached to her chair, scrolls through various choices. Miriam feels the need to choose everything negative.

I'm bored.
Entertain me!
Something hurts.

I want to lay down.

"Sorry," I said. "You need to stay in your chair right now. You've been in your bed all morning watching cartoons."

No.

"What?" I respond with an exaggerated loud voice. "Are you being sassy with me?"

That is scary.

"Sorry," I say, dialing it down with exaggerated shame. "I was just teasing."

She says a few random things for a while as I continue to write, though I respond as if she meant to say them. Sometimes she likes to use the switch to rest her head. 

After a few minutes, she clicks:

Listen to music.

"Listen to music?" I ask. "Sounds good."

I start up the 80s library on iTunes. Weird Science starts playing.

What is that?


Before Tim Burton came along.
"Oingo Boingo," say. "Danny Elfman. He's great."

After a few minutes, she adds: 

Sing a song.

I start being silly, singing along. She starts laughing and yelling.

That's my favorite.

I sing a lot to her, mostly silly songs I make up as we get ready for bed. She always enjoys it, and Dad does too, because after a long day at work it's often the only time I have with her. I hate being away; sometimes it takes her time to process who I am if I don't see her for a while. She'd rather look at her caregiver, which can be disheartening.

No issues with that today. I am singing in a goofy voice, pretending to play the guitar, clapping. She laughs and screams and laughs again. Nobody else is home, so we can shout and be crazy and enjoy each other's company.

I feel. Happy.

I pause. 

I've never heard her say that before.

"So am I," I reply.



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