My father is now in an assisted living home since performing a half gainer down the basement steps, breaking a hip and smashing his face to the tune of 12 stitches.  He calls the place the assisted dying home, or The Prison.  Thankfully, the home is only about a mile from Hell's Half Acre, so I'm able to go see him every day, and I call him at least once per day. 

Physically, he's doing better than expected.  He gets around pretty well with the aid of a walker.  Emotionally, he's not doing very well at all.  He's becoming depressed.  I can't blame him.  The home, nice as it is, is not home.  Being there strips one of self esteem and independence, and on some days it takes a real toll on him. 

I went by to see him yesterday afternoon.  He was in a good mood, talkative, and relaxed.  We had a 45 minute visit and discussed the gas prices ('goddam Bush!') politics ('goddam Bush!') the economy in general ('goddam Bush!') and the war in Iraq ('goddam Bush!'). 

It was a good visit.  I called him later that evening and was talking to a totally different person.

Yip:  Hey dad!  How's it going?  You reading the paper?

Dad:  They're not giving me my pills 

Y:  What?

D:  My pills.  They're not giving them to me.

Y:  You sure?  I can't imagine them not giving you the pills, dad.  I mean, they have forms they have to fill out, you know, record everything.

D:  Well, I asked for them.  They said I already took them, but I didn't.  They're probably hoarding them to sell on the black market or something.

Y:  Is there a big demand for Lipitor on the black market?

D:  Maybe they're making meth or something like that.

Y:  Well, I'll talk to them about it, but I can't imagine them purposely not giving you the pills you're supposed to have.

D:  What?

Y:  Your pills.  I'm sure they're giving them to you.

D:  Oh yeah.  They just came by a few minutes ago with them.

Y:  So.....you got them today?

D:  Yup.  Just took them.

Y:  I see.  Ok. 

Hey, I'm thawing a pork roast.  I'll pick you up at about 4:30 tomorrow afternoon.  We'll have dinner here at the house.

D:  Oh, don't do that.  It's so much trouble.

Y:  No it's not.  I'm fixing dinner anyway, and it'll get you out of that place for a while.

D:  You sure?

Y:  Of course I'm sure.  I'll see you around 4 or 4:30.

D:  That sounds good!

Y:  Ok dad.  I'll talk to you tomorrow morning.

D:  Thanks, son.

I hang up the phone and can't stop the tears welling in my eyes.

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