Laughter Saves the Day: A Short Excerpt from Loving Zelda

Journal entry, October 10, 2005:

Z talks of napping but instead entices Dad into a short walk, then plows through an entire serving of my shrimp eggs foo yung and rice and still has enough energy to shop for groceries. As this “quick trip” turns into an hour-long ordeal, my own endurance flags. So many aisles to trod, so many decisions to be made as the Parkinsonian slowness plagues her every movement.

Once home, fatigue-induced confusion shrouds Zelda. Are the leftover eggs foo yung in the top drawer of the dining room buffet? Are we upstairs or downstairs? “We are already up,” I say lightheartedly and repeatedly as she gathers grocery items in her arms and heads out of the kitchen with them.

On the fourth reminder, her head drops forward like a tulip on a broken stem. “Oh, Suz, this is so pitiful,” she whimpers.

“No, it’s not,” I lie, pity flooding my chest. “You’re just tired. You haven’t rested all day.”

And, arm in arm, we find our way to the nest of bed and pillows where restorative sleep will work the magic I have promised her.

Promises. I promised [my stepsister] Joan I could manage Zelda’s personal care. So . . . how to tactfully ask another adult when they last bathed or shampooed? Take a stab. Mission half-accomplished. She agrees to a shampoo, fending off the insult with a frisky attitude and making up rhyming lines for every situation. (“If per chance I have dampness on my pants.”) A wobbly duet of the Whiffenpoof Song—We are poor little lambs, who have lost our way—gets us through her rinse cycle.

Worried that her wet hair threatens pneumonia, she kneels in front of the bathroom heat vent, pushing her sparse, short do forward from the roots until it stands on end—dry but misdirected. So coifed, she seeks out Pa in the kitchen and asks if he’d like to have her sing for him. “If you must, I guess,” he responds tepidly. Before mock umbrage has fully overtaken her face, Dad adds, “Your hair looks funny”—sending Zelda and me into uncontrollable spasms of glorious, nostril-flaring laughter.

And a day that started with a heated discussion about “what happened to October ninth” ends better than it began. Let’s try and remember how we got here.