Hi, Dad, Susan and I chime as we enter our father’s nursing home at The Pines across the breezeway from The Woods, where he has temporarily left his semi-independent assisted living apartment. For now, Dad has been moved to The Pines after finding himself stranded in his independent living apartment, unable to lift himself out of bed.

Hello, my two lovely daughters, Dad says as we help him put on a jacket and scarf, his hands shaking, whole body wobbling. We are going to venture all the way across the breezeway—all of one hundred feet—to the dining room at The Woods to have lunch together. Tasks such as getting himself up from his recliner to his walker and into his electric wheelchair have become monumental.

The contrast between The Woods and The Pines is also monumental. From the lovely, semi-independent space where he has lived since my mother died, Dad has been transported to a dismal nursing room. Everyone at The Pines sits in a wheelchair and appears almost catatonic. For most of the month of January as I’ve been down here visiting, Dad has also been under enforced quarantine because COVID was going around his unit. That means he has had to eat all his meals alone in his room, which is like a death sentence for a star like him.

My stomach doesn’t feel good, and I haven’t been hungry, he confides in us.

You mean, since you’ve been having to eat alone in your room here? Susan asks.

No. For a long time. I just have a problem with food. I miss Mommy’s cooking. Our mother has been dead for ten years.

But now that the quarantine has been lifted, he is allowed to enter The Woods to eat.

Dad seems to come back to life in The Woods’ formal dining room. It is clear he is popular here as we settle into our reserved table for lunch. Ruth, one of his ninety-plus-year-old “girlfriends” at The Woods, stops by our table and gives him a prolonged hug and kiss on the cheek. I miss you! When are you coming back from The Pines? Ruth exclaims. Her apartment is just across the hall from Dad’s at The Woods. They have shared frequent happy hours, watched movies together in the evenings, and enjoyed their daily companionship, conversations, and who knows what else.

The physical therapist is working hard to get me strong again, he tells her. We haven’t had sex in three months, he smirks, glancing around at us with his tongue hanging out.

No, it’s been longer, she kids back and turns to Susan and me. I just adore your dad. He’s the best! She saunters off slowly, swaying her skinny, drooping behind.

So, what’s this meeting with the staff about next Wednesday? Susan asks. I just listen and observe.

Well, Dad starts in a subdued tone. I know you’re not going to like this, but I’ve decided. I’m not going back to the apartment. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I just don’t feel good there anymore. I feel more secure in The Pines where there is someone right there all the time to help me in case I can’t get up or I fall. To make sure I eat enough. And I just like having people around.

After a slight pause, Susan pipes in. Well, maybe that’s the best decision, Dad. If you go back home, it will only be temporary anyway if you can no longer get up by yourself. It sounds like you are ready to let go of the apartment now.

Yes, I’m ready. This is not a big surprise even though he thinks that Susan, Clare, and I are all pushing for him to fight, to rally, to stay independent. This is his final defeat, not ours, not mine. He is surrendering graciously to a regression back to infancy—to being pampered, fed, changed. He is embracing it happily.

Clare and I had joked several weeks back, They should put a sign above the entrance of The Pines nursing facility that says WELCOME. LET US PAMPER AND BABY YOU TO DEATH. There goes the last chance of us inheriting anything, we had laughed, though I didn’t really think it was funny.Although Dad is ready to face losing his independence, he still insists on his audience, and he will make sure he always has that. As long as he can still wheel himself across the breezeway to the dining room at The Woods. If he can’t, he’ll be eating in the small, depressing Pines dining hall with mostly mute, wheelchair-bound residents in medicated dazes. None of the residents there has a fan club; instead, they are assigned to their tables of four.

While we are eating our Reuben sandwiches, several other Woods residents stop by to tell Dad they miss him and ask when he is coming back. Dad can eat only half of the half-sandwich he orders. He usually just nibbles at his entrees, waiting to fill up on the desserts, of which they offer two decadent choices at both lunch and dinner. Desserts with lots of whipped cream, rich butter icings, puddings, and chocolate sauces. The dinner menu offers entrees with thick gravy, heavy on the meat and carbs.

As Dad spoons down a chocolate pudding-like substance, Susan points to his face as she instructs him, Wipe your mouth, Dad. With his napkin tucked into his collar like a bib, he dabs at the drips around his mouth. Thinking he’s being funny and cute, he pouts, My mommy isn’t here to do it for me. We don’t laugh.

Even Susan has lost patience with Dad in the last few months. Dad would stick out his tongue and slither it back and forth when she visited him in his room, a gesture that turned our stomachs in disgust. Susan told me that she warned him, If you don’t stop doing that, I’m not going to visit you anymore. Dad responds well to behavior modification, complying when necessary but without awareness or remorse.

Now, since he has revealed his decision to Susan and me, he begins to tell his friends who are passing by our table. I’m not coming back. I’m going to live my life at The Pines from now on, he announces, clearly relieved at having made his decision. But I will try to come over here for dinner if I can wheel myself, he reassures his unhappy audience as he glances past the responses on their faces.

I watch their faces more closely, particularly the way the light dims in their eyes as they register another loss.

Share This: