Dad's big move - for the winter? for a while? for the best.

My dad just moved to an assisted living apartment.  I feel all alone, again, with Dad not being at his house right next door.  He's lived there since 1996, when Ray bought the house for Mom and Dad to live in.  Mom had Parkinson's and her home was getting to be too much for her.  When it came up for sale, Ray was the first, and without any hesitation, to say, "Would your folks like to live in that house?" and then, "We could buy it for them."  I remember that both Mom and Dad cried when we talked to them about it, and within about a month they had moved in.

After that time, Mom was only around for 5 short years, and I miss her.  Dad and I got more acquainted than we'd ever been.  He has helped me in so many ways - whether it was mowing grass, building a giant leaf-collector, or helping bury my pets.  We've talked about politics (even when we disagree), finances (all about municipal bonds), and after I finally told him why Ray left, he drew the conclusion that "gay people must be born that way."  His understanding, although it went against all he'd known previously, was HUGE.  It has helped me to know he was trying to understand both me and Ray.  The talks we've had have made it possible that I'm closer to Dad than I ever was as a kid.

While Dad used to fix almost anything in his garage, he now has an electric scooter to get around, and walking over to my house for dinner is out of the question. At age 90, Dad is basically healthy, and he used to stand nearly six feet tall - even was imposing to some - he's now at least six inches shorter.  Macular degeneration has claimed one eye, and damaged the other.  He can no longer get around his home without a walker or cane, and preventing falls is continually a concern.  He has fallen, and twice he's been alone for hours before he could call someone for help. 


My house is pretty big just for one person.  Maybe not laid out too well, because there is no bedroom on the main floor, and I have two steps up to the kitchen, down to the living room, and a whole, long flight of stairs up to other bedrooms or to the basement.  It was never a serious solution to have him live in my house, but it did cross my mind.  Altogether, and for many reasons, my dad gave up his driving last summer, reluctantly abandoned plans to winter in Texas, and investigated "a respite" (for 3 months) in the assisted living apartment complex.  Whether it will be permanent depends on how Dad gets along, and I hope he's happy at the new place.

Yesterday was the big move, and my brother, Lee, had orchestrated most of the move.  He did such a good job of getting Dad's paperwork done, getting the required tests accomplished, arranging to have a truck, and organizing what Dad needed to take.

My other brother, Kenny, sister, Nancy, and I were all around to pitch in, plus we hired young people to haul the furniture to a truck. At one point I heard Dad say, "There were enough people helping me that they could have just carried everything here."   By evening - with a few more trips back and forth from house to apartment - Dad was set up.  His bedroom looks amazingly like his bedroom from home, the cable TV is working, and neighbors have stopped to make friends. I hope he likes it, I hope he makes friends, and he mentioned, "I might find a girlfriend." 

All this goes on, and I woke up today with a big ache, and all the while I was ignoring the fact that I can go and come as I please - ignoring the fact that I can see Dad whenever I stop by his place - ignoring the reality that my kids are all nearby - ignoring the fact that I've got health and strength on my side - and really, ignoring the fact that this is a good move for Dad.

I just missed having Dad right next door.  I felt so alone, and I miss him.  The emptiness of not having my dad for my neighbor just makes me hurt and cry like a wound has been scraped open.  I sure hope Dad isn't feeling alone, dumped or abandoned.  I know it is a safe place for him, but I'm aching the loss.  I don't want him to fail.  I don't want Dad to be old.

Winter 2011 - some of the family joined Dad for a visit on So. Padre Island. 

Dad

All my life, my dad has been a strong man.  His career as a city fireman took him away from home for 24-hour shifts, and he worked long hours with his business as a heavy equipment operator.  Our home required the normal upkeep, plus we had a barn with horses, some beef cows (sometimes), and a big yard and a summer garden.  Granted, Dad always made sure that my brothers and I helped (mostly the brothers) outside, and Mom and my sister and I helped with "inside work" and summer canning.  (More stories later on how much we hated it then but wish we could do it all again with Mom.)  Always on his mind was that he had all of us, plus my two half-sisters, who depended on him.

Now Dad, who ran a strict household (understatement), is 90 years old.  He's a good dad, like always.  His time and his life was for work, but that work meant that we were cared for.  Mom was always the affectionate one, the sympathetic ear when we needed it.  But Dad made sure we all knew how to work, support ourselves, and live right in the real world.  His caring was shown in ways that meant discipline, rules, and responsibility. 

In 1996, my parents were getting ready to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.  I was planning a celebration that spring at their church, and the house next door came up for sale.  Mom, who had been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, was lonely and the 5-bedroom house was becoming more and more difficult for her to maintain.  When Ray came home from a weekend of concerts, heard from me that the house next door was for sale, he immediately said, "Would your parents consider living there?"   

We didn't even stop on the way from the airport, but went to Mom and Dad's big brick house to ask them!  Mom immediately said an enthusiastic "YES!", and Dad's eyes teared up with relief.  Within two months, we had purchased the house, Dad orchestrated the move, and Mom and Dad moved in next door.

Over the years I've been privileged to have my parents close to me.  Mom passed away almost 10 years ago today.  Dad and I have sat together so many times since then, and I've gotten to know my dad better than I ever would have in any other setting.  The things Dad has helped me with is HUGE, and too numerous to list.  We've discussed finances, religion, politics, and family, and many times we don't share the same views.  But sitting with my dad is a gift.

In January of this year, Dad turned 90 years old.  He's spent the winters since the '80s in Texas, and I'm still having a hard time convincing him that he has to change that tradition.  You see, Dad has to use a walker now, and he's been approved for a scooter by the Veterans, to replace the one that my brother, Lee, bought him a few years back.  Dad has a beautiful, shiny GMC truck, as well as a 1992 Lincoln, but he's decided to put up his keys and use the Lifestream bus to get himself to and from the senior citizen lunches each day.  He still cooks for himself, most of the time, but I share when I cook something.  Dad looks forward to the neighbor who brings in his newspaper and mail, and he's disappointed if the neighbor goes away for a trip and the paper has to wait until I come home from work.  It's all different than when I was a kid...and now I look out for Dad.

Today Dad has a list of errands, and I'm heading to do them with him. WalMart, Lowe's, the Post Office, and a few more.  I'm going to be tied up for a few hours with some Dad-time.