My father is 86 years old.  Almost 87.  He's in fairly good health for someone his age, and gets around well.  My mother died 15 years ago.  He's lived alone since, taking care of the house, the car, himself, etc.  He cooks his own meals, with some help from me and one of my brothers who lives nearby.  My other brother lives part time in Georgia, part time in Branson, but is in town to see the old man about once per month or so.

He entertains himself by going to auctions and estate sales, and bringing home shit nobody wants. 

'Look at this!  It was in a box I bid on.  Got the whole box for 2 bucks!' he says, proudly holding up a dusty lava lamp with no electrical cord. 

He buys clothes at these sales, washes them, and donates them to local women's shelters and a home for wayward youth.  It's a sort of hobby for him.  It keeps him out of the taverns and lap-dance clubs, so I don't have any problem with him doing this, even though I'm continually telling him, 'No, dad, I don't need a pair of size 10-1/2 tennis shoes with no laces.'  or, 'Why would you buy 4 Igloo coolers when you already have 6?'

His washer and dryer are in his basement.  He's up and down the steps often, doing laundry and playing around in his workshop. 

Three weeks ago, he fell down the steps.  He broke his hip, rammed his face through the basement door window, and was generally banged up pretty badly.   Thankfully, he had his cordless phone with him.  Odd, because he NEVER carries it. It's always by his chair in front of the tv.  He was able to call my brother, who came over to survey the damage.  My brother immediately called an ambulance and they took him to a local hospital.   

Six stiches in one eyelid, six more in his lower lip, and one titanium hip joint later, he's out of the hospital and on a walker.  He says it's remarkable how little pain there is.  I hope he's telling the truth.  The real, real  bad part of all of this is that he's now in an 'assisted living facility', which is a politically correct way of saying 'warehouse for old people who have no family to care for them, or whose family can't be bothered'.

He hates it. 

I  hate it. 

We've GOT to get him out of there, ASAP.  He's not getting the physical therapy we were told he would get, and is surrounded by The Living Dead.

He calls it The Prison.  He's been there almost two weeks now.  When I took him there from the hospital, we were 'greeted' by 4 or 5 ladies in wheel chairs, gazing into space at nothing. 

'Hello!' 

No response. 

I got him to his room, past several people in chairs staring at the floor.  A television is blaring on one side of a large room with people in a semi-circle around it, looking at anything but the tv.  Thankfully, his roommate is somewhat verbal.  He can actually put words into sentences that kind of make sense.  Sometimes, anyway.

I'm helping him arrange his room when I look across the hall.  A woman is holding herself up with the aid of the door jamb.  She screams, 'Haaatteeeeeyyyy!!  BLAT!  Haaatteeeeeeyyyy! BLAT!   BLAT!! BLAT!!'  I don't know if she's welcoming us, threatening us, or introducing herself.  I wave and smile, 'Hello there!'   It seems to help, or maybe confuse her, but she stops screaming.  A few minutes later, 'Haaatteeeeyyyyyy!!  BLAT!'  (cough, cough, wheeze, caugh) «Haaattteeeeeeyyyyyyy  BLAT!!'  all over again.

My father looks at me, 'Do you think there are people here who know what year it is?'

'They're not all  like her, dad.'  I say, not really believing it.   'Besides, this is only temporary.  You'll be out of here in no time.'

'God, I hope so.  If anything would make a person want to go home, this place is it.'

My father is not the least bit confused or senile.  He's a little forgetful, sometimes repeats himself, but is more 'up' on politics and world & local affairs than most people half his age.  At 86 years of age, he's allowed to be a little forgetful.  He's earned the right to repeat random thoughts without someone condescendingly saying, 'Now now, it's going to be ok, Mr. Yip.'

We get his room set up, and walk around the building for a few minutes so he can practice with the walker.  The place is clean and tastefully decorated in muted colors.  The staff is - seemingly anyway - attentive and friendly.  We walk back to his room.   In spite of the cleanliness, the odor of urine and feces is never far away.  Lysol and shit.  What a combination. 

It's time for dinner.  An orderly comes to the room to help dad find his 'assigned' seat in the dining room.  'Can you please...please...seat me by somebody who can talk?' my father asks.  'Well sir, tonight we must seat you in a specific place, but maybe we can move you to another table in the future.' 

'Thank you.  I'd appreciate being with people who are able to talk and not just stare.'

I hug my father.  'I'll be back tomorrow.'  I say.  'Okay, son.  Thank you.'

To see a man who has always been so strong, fiercely independent, confident, smart, handsome and tall, reduced to stumbling around on a walker among people who cannot feed themselves, who drool continually and helplessly soil themselves, is more than just depressing.

I've got to get him out of there.  Nobody deserves a fake life like that.  Certainly not my father.

I went to the car to drive home.  After the stress of the day, out of my father's eyesight, I gave myself permission to cry.

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