Vodka

Boy, it can get messy at the end.  It's messy at the start, too, I guess, although a little more positive in tone as a general rule.  My father is not clear in his mind all of the time but he can clearly enunciate the word "vodka."

"Do you want some Coke?" I asked today.
"Vodka," he said.
"No vodka here, dad," I replied.  "Just Coke."
"I got vodka in my room," he pointed out.

I'm telling you the power of this disease is remarkable - the man calls my sister by my late mother's name most of the time but he could quickly locate the alcohol in his apartment if we took him there.

Yesterday he tried to climb out of bed.
"Where you headed, dad?"
"Happy hour," he said.  He knew it was Thursday and that it was four o'clock when the retirement home has a short happy hour, pouring weak bloody mary's, with a strict limit of two.
"It's Sunday, dad," I lied.  "No happy hour on Sunday."
That was good enough for him.  Not my fault any more that he couldn't get into the vodka.

At one point, out of nowhere, he came back from wherever he was, and remarked: "Oh, well, might as well drink vodka."