Some days are better than others
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!').

