What I Could Have Said Instead

“Selfish!” he spat towards me as I stood to leave.

“Huh, I wonder where I learned that?”

Holy crap, I think to myself. Where did that come from?

I mean, it’s true. Dad was selfish and self-centered.

Now, his dementia puts him into a separate category of selfish and self-centered. He can only think of himself—just like a toddler. His hunger, his needs, his wants.

I am just finishing spending a week at his house to help with his care, closely inspecting anything found in the fridge—even the condiments—before ingesting it, throwing away black-market Viagra, snooping through his papers to see what his financial situation is, staying in the damp dark guest room making sure to always keep the door closed so his cats don’t pee on my suitcase. I have taken time off work, been away from my kids, my husband, and my cat who doesn’t pee where she’s not supposed to. And now that my sister has arrived to relieve me, I’m going to go home.

It’s my 47th birthday, which he has not acknowledged at any point throughout the day.

He just told me he wants to die and I am thinking about how I could help him even though I decide that I am not going to help him die on my own birthday. Of course, he doesn’t know any of this.

Selfish! I could have ignored it and said: “I love you, Dad. I’ll see you next week.”

Selfish! I could have bent to whisper in his ear: “Get your affairs in order, I’ll be back to help you.”

Selfish! I could have brushed it off: “Sure, Dad, whatever you say!” or “Oh, Dad, don’t be so dramatic!”

But what I really say: “I wonder where I learned that?”

Paula Burke

Paula Burke lives and writes along the Salish Sea. She is revising a memoir that is variously about old cars, family lingo, bad birthdays, and her father’s seven-year descent into dementia. Her work has been published in the Seattle Review of Books, Booth, and Hippocampus. Paula will always look at the dessert menu.