The Circle of Life

Tomorrow makes me sad. Tomorrow makes me anxious. Sis, Dad and I are meeting with a care manager, because it looks like our Dad should move into assisted living now.

He will be 87 on April 20. He has fallen a few times recently, and that has the administrator at Sunrise Independent Living [where residents have their own apartments] asking if we've considered the switch to assisted living [AL]. Sunrise has AL right on the same premises in Cresskill.

"If he falls in Assisted Living, there are people who can pick him up," she said, sitting at the desk with the fresh flowers. Where he is now, there are no nurses or aides to pick him up. He presses the magic button on his black emergency call watch--the one Sis thoughtfully got for him--and the operator calls 911 and the ambulance guys call me and Sis from his apartment. They take him to the hospital to make sure he is okay. So far, he's been okay.

"That man should not be living alone," his doctor said to Sis when he reached on her cell yesterday. He does have a helper, named Pepsi, from 9 A.M. to 1 P.M., Monday through Friday.

But why do I feel that preserving his independence as long as possible is a way to extend his life?

Who's Afraid of Assisted Living?
Here's what scares me. I think of people with Alzheimer's being in AL, people like the main character in The Notebook. Or people in wheelchairs. People who are bedridden. People who can't think clearly. People hooked up to oxygen tanks. People who can't go out for a lunch of chicken with cashews. None of these people are my Dad. As smart as my Dad, as funny as my Dad, as Dad as my Dad. Please forgive me if your loved one is in AL and does or does not fit the descriptions above. This is my fear speaking.

Perception vs. Reality
Friends say AL isn't that bad, that I'm picturing the worst. I guess it's true. I drove my Dad a few years ago to visit Bill M., who lived in AL near Ramsey. He was my Dad's boss at Lederle/American Cynamid when my Dad was a young chemist there.

Bill's space was small, but still felt independent. He didn't have a kitchen, just a little fridge. That seems right in a dorm room or as a mini bar in a boutique hotel, but not for someone who is almost 90 years old.

Still, we had a nice visit with Bill. We laughed and talked, and they shared memories.

My Prayer for My Dad
I want him to be safe. I want him to be happy. I never want to lose him.

I'm crying as I write this. I can't imagine my life without him. He has been there for me, for all of us, in big and little ways. He is a good, good person, even if he has been cranky and depressed a bit over the last few years.

The John Garbarini Good List
I think it will make me feel better if I list some things I love about him. I will probably realize that those things won't change if he is in AL. Here goes:

1. He's smart. So smart. Knows Latin, Greek, everything about everything. He won the General Excellence medal in eighth grade, even though his parents spoke only Italian. He helped develop some important antibiotics in the 1950s and 60s.

2. He's loving. He cares. He loves his kids, Figgy, our dogs, Will's cat. He has always been very good at keeping in touch--at sending Christmas cards to a longish list, and other holiday cards [Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter] to me and Sis.

3. He has a rich memory. I've told him he would have been a great writer. He still remembers very specific things from his childhood, like the time he came home from school to see a big, burly man sitting in the hallway eating a meal on the radiator. "Ma, what are you doing?" he asked, frightened. "Shhh....he's hungry," she told him, as she hurried back in for more food. "And she gave him everything, a whole meal," he says. " She figured if he was hungry, she'd feed him."

4. He's honest--almost to the point of discomfort. I think it's hard for him to lie about anything.

5. He's funny. He came up with quirky nicknames for me and my brother Will when we were kids--I was Schmadsen [he still calls me that sometimes] and Will was Schmidlo.

6. He's an independent thinker. When I was a girl, he invented some plant food that he was going to market, until he inquired at Better Homes and Gardens Magazine for the ad rate and balked at how high it was.

7. He's a can-do person. For most of his life, he rarely hired anyone to do anything. He painted the house, cleaned the gutters, mowed the lawn, trimmed the shrubs, tarred the driveway, changed the oil in the car. He grew tomatoes, asparagus, irises and roses. He had a peach tree and a compost pile.

8. He's generous. Incredibly so. He and my mother lived humbly all of their married lives and squirreled away enough money to build a vacation home on Cape Cod. He has held onto that home since 1979, even though he hasn't been there for at least five years now. He has kept it so that we can go with our families. It's been quite a big expense for him, from the oil tank to the siding, the electric bill to the property taxes. But he has given me and my family a beautiful gift we will never, ever forget--the privilege of weeks by the sea, the lighthouses, the wildlife sanctuary. The quiet under the stars, the sand under our feet. A destination to drive to, a family vacation home.

9. He is my touchstone. He has always been there for me. I can't imagine not being able to call him up with good news, or bad. He has almost always managed to help me feel better, to see things in a different light.

10. He holds our family history. And his family history, and my mother's family history. He knew all four of my grandparents when they were young, all five of my uncles when they were kids.

11. He works hard. He's diligent, dedicated. He wasn't handed things; he earned them.

His Mother's Son
Another thing that makes me sad as I go into this meeting is--what would his mother think? This is her baby boy, the one she gave birth to in April 1923. He followed Anthony and Aldo and closely preceded Joseph, the little brother who died as a baby. [My Dad still remembers everyone coming over to the apartment when Joseph died. He remembers being placed in his crib with a roasting pan and a deck of cards, to keep him busy.]

Rosie, what would you think? What do you think, from heaven? He was the baby you held and loved, the little boy you nurtured and raised. You tied his shoes for him--now we have to sometimes. You gave him drinks--now we bring them to him if he asks when we're there. You diapered him. Now we buy him diaper-like underpants from CVS. As a mother myself, I can't help wondering what you would want for your little boy.

Not the least of it is, what does my Dad want? I guess we'll work through the steps tomorrow.