Dad's pic edited

…with his hearing aids! It’s like he’s been hit with shrapnel the way he suddenly rips them out of his ears and flings them onto the closest piece of furniture.
“Can’t hear a thing with these things,” he grunts.
I’m sure anyone with parents in their “golden years” can relate. Which brings me to this past August when dad’s hearing aids officially became enemies of the state.

We picked up Mom, Dad and my sister Carol from Hamilton to bring them to our place in London for a week. To begin with, I’m sure they don’t bring all that stuff with them that we crammed into the van when they go on their bus trips all over the globe. Anyway, my mother begins to recite her mental checklist while we’re sitting in their driveway.
“Do you have your hearing aids, Earl?”
“What?”
“Your hearing aids. Your heeeearing aids.”
Dad reaches over his shoulder to get his seatbelt and nods his head, “Yes, it’s fine.”

We’re making good time on Hwy. 401 and we’ve already tumbled out of the van at our usual Tim Horton’s in Brantford for a coffee and a bathroom break. We’re about 20 minutes away from London when Dad starts fidgeting around in his seat.
“What did you lose, Dad?”
“Nothing. I can’t find my hearing aids.”
My mother does one of those ‘Linda Blair in the Exorcist’ head turns and hisses, “You what?”
“I must have left them at home.”
My mother studies him for a moment and I know she’s going to choose her words carefully because I too have been frozen by that icy look.
“We’ll ask John to bring them when he comes on Monday.”
“What?”
“WE’LL ASK JOHN…oh this is just silly.”
With a wave of her hand, the discussion is ended.

Patience is a Virtue
My mother has made peace with the fact that she has to wear a hearing aid. She even took a course in lip reading at the church so she could better understand what people were saying. But Dad’s hearing aids are still a challenge for her.
“Your mother’s really the one who needs a hearing aid,” he whispers to me.
Oh Dad, I beg to differ. He’s sitting in his favourite chair in the living room and mom and I are sitting on the new couch (that’s how my mother affectionately refers to the 10 year old couch).
“I can’t believe Gideon (one of my yorkies) peed down the heat grate in the kitchen,” I say shaking my head.
“Oh the dirty bisom,” says my mother (I gather that a bisom is someone undesirable because my old Scottish Granny used the term frequently to describe some of Grandpa’s old friends).
“Who peed on the drapes?”
“Not the drapes, Earl. The grate.”
“I have blinds, Dad.”
“Well what were the grapes doing on the floor anyway?”
“NOT GRAPES, EARL! The heat graaattte!”
“Do you have your hearing aids in, Dad?”
“Can’t hear a thing with those things in,” he grunts.
“Really,” I reply with a smile, “who knew?”

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