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Besides sharing a mutual love of baseball, my mom and I also had a similarly warped sense of humor when it came to the relative discomfort of others.
Please allow me to explain.
Once upon a time, when our family parrot named Columbus was just a spring chicken of around five or six years old, someone, most likely me, forgot to change the water in his cage. It must have been about a week considering how many discarded seeds had accumulated atop the water's surface. My dad must have noticed this fact or perhaps he sensed Columbus' steely-eyed gaze burning a hole in his water glass sitting next to his dinner plate. Whichever the case was, he held the glass up to the birdcage and let the little green parrot quench his pelican-sized thirst. And quench that thirst he did -- for over a minute straight without coming up for air. When Columbus finally finished drinking the ice-cold water, he just sort of sat there, motionless and bloated, for at least another minute or two, allowing the life-giving liquid to flow through his parched birdie body. Witnessing this, as if on cue, my mom and I started giggling at our poor little family pet, which eventually transformed into out and out side-splitting guffaws. He was back to his can't-sit-still-for-a-second self a few moments later but that didn't change the fact that we had seen it, were extremely amused by it, and would never ever forget it.
Another time, summer of 1986 to be exact, Grandpa Frank, Grandma Marie, my mom and I were driving north from the Bay Area to Vancouver, BC, Canada to visit family and to check out the World Expo. We stopped for a bite to eat after an especially harrowing above-the-speed-limit ride down some mountain courtesy of my lead-footed grandma. Before we had a chance to speak with our waitress to order our lunches, Grandma Marie lifted the glass of water from the table in front of her, put it to her lips, and proceeded to thoroughly and meticulously empty every last drop of the two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen from her glass. Upon finishing, she just sort of sat there, motionless and bloated, and just like Columbus, for at least a couple of minutes as she allowed the life-giving liquid to flow through her parched human body. Without hesitation, my mom and I started giggling and then, more quickly than the last time, laughing hysterically and uncontrollably. When she snapped out of her daze, we tried to explain what was so funny but I don't think she got it. At least not to the extent that my mom and I did.
So why am I telling you this story now in my blog? Well, I am reminded of the amusing anecdote every morning when I get my first tube feeding of the day. I don't know exactly why this is, part of me wants to blame it on my sped-up, ALS-induced metabolism, but immediately following the completion of the last drop of Boost down my tube, I go into at least a ten to fifteen minute food coma where I sit motionless and bloated, allowing the life-giving liquid to yada yada yada.
The funny thing is that every single day this happens, and it's been about a month now, I can almost hear the sound of my mom and my grandma laughing at me from somewhere above as Columbus squawks and screams in the background.
