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As usual, my father called several times today to keep me apprised of his ever-changing plans.
“Your mother is really getting worse. I don’t know why,” he told me the first time he called.
“Oh Dad,” I sighed. “Remember she’s had several mini-strokes? That’s why she’s so weak on her left side.”
“But I do exercises with her every day! She should be getting stronger by now… but she’s not!”
I thought of the long e-mail I had received from their managed care facility while I was away last week. This was the opening I had been waiting for. “Isn’t Mom still working with that physical therapist?” I asked, knowing that he had sent the woman away and informed her that she had better not tell me.
“That’s a bunch of BS,” he said. “It doesn’t do anything. I’m much better at getting her to exercise.”
“But they’re trained to work with stroke victims, Dad. The nurses feel that you push her too hard, that she falls a lot on your walks with her,” I said, wondering if he even knew what “BS” meant.
“I been taking care of her for years by myself, so I guess I know what I’m doing!” he said indignantly.
“I offered to have you two come live with us,” I said, feeling eternally guilty that my father and stepmother live in a managed care facility, while all of their Korean friends follow the ancient custom of living with their kids, or at least close enough to see them almost every day.
“I don’t want to be a burden to you… although it would make me so happy if you moved to California.”
I couldn’t have kept my mouth shut, I thought, swallowing the urge to point out that THEY had moved to the West Coast from New York, not us.
“The nurses also feel you’re exhausting yourself because you won’t let them do their job.” I needed to get through to him while I had his attention.
“The nurse is here with my insulin. I have to go.”
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“Your mother is really not doing too good. I just don’t know what to do about it,” my father complained the second time he called.
“Maybe we should talk about putting her in the memory unit, Dad,” I said, as if we were talking about this for the first time, instead of the hundredth.
“Those rooms are so small!” Dad was almost yelling, out of frustration or because he had thrown out his hearing aides a few months ago, saying he didn’t need them. “I’m thinking about putting her in the new memory unit being built across the street. It’s going to be beautiful.”
“I know. Remember I looked at it last month when I was there? You said you wanted to move into the biggest suite with Mom.”
“I never said that! I’d never move out of this apartment. I’m right by the nurses’ station, and I have everything I need nearby. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
“But you told everyone you wanted to move in with her because you can’t cross the street to visit her alone, since your eyesight is nearly gone.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not moving out of this apartment. I love it here. And I never said I wanted to move.”
“But you did, Dad. You can ask the nurses and the social worker. You said you wanted to reserve the big, sunny front suite for you and Mom.”
“I did not! I would never say that. I'm happy here. She’s the one with dementia.”
“Okay, okay. I never said you have to move with her. You’re the one who said you wanted to. Don’t you remember?”
“The aide is here with our lunch. I have to go now.”
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“The head nurse just told me that the patients are always falling down in the memory unit,” he told me the third time he called. “I made the right choice not to put your mother in there. She’s much safer with me.”
Exhausted from my trip, I really didn’t want to discuss the topic yet again. Besides, whatever he decided would only be temporary. Inevitably, he would change his mind.
“No one takes as good care of her as I do. I’m the only one who knows what she needs.”
Despite the little voice in my head telling me to keep my mouth shut, I heard myself talking… “But she’s always falling with you. The nurses call me almost every day some weeks. Don’t you remember they’re required by law to notify me every time she falls, even if she just sits down in the hall and won’t get up?”
“Don’t change the topic. I know what’s best for her. I’ve been taking care of her for years now.”
Jet-lagged, I struggled to be sympathetic. “You do take good care of her emotional needs, Dad, but you really should ask for more help. You’re in the highest level of managed care, yet you insist on doing everything yourself.”
“I told you I stopped giving her showers… I’m letting them do that now,” he exclaimed defensively.
“Good for you,” I said, thankful that she hadn’t fallen on the slippery tiles during the many months he had been showering her – before he admitted that he did so on the days that the aides didn’t. Getting him to stop hadn’t been easy. I tried persuasion and then begging. I finally got him to stop by pointing out that if she fell on the hard bathroom tiles, she could die, and it will be all his fault. I still feel guilty about that one, but I was desperate. “And you really need to press the call button for help getting her dressed, and also changing her during the day if she needs it.” I didn’t want to press my luck, but I couldn’t help myself, since he seemed to be listening. “And you should really sign up for some of the activities, Dad. You really need to make some friends. You’ve always been so social.” I thought of all the welcoming faces greeting us on our walks when I went to visit my parents.
“I have to go now. The nurse is here to do my blood test.”
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“I might put Mom in the new memory unit when it’s finished, since it costs the same as if she stays here with me,” Dad announced the fourth time he called today.
“It’s going to be a little more, Dad,” like twice as much, I thought. “But you can afford it. We’ve talked about this.”
“I told you, I don’t want to dip into my principal. That money is for your husband… oh, and you… so I leave you something when I’m gone.”
Oh no. Surely he wasn’t still feeling guilty that he didn’t give my husband a dowry when we were married thirty years ago. “Dad, the best way to make us happy is to enjoy your golden years and not worry about leaving us any money.”
“Okay, then it’s for my grandson, since I don’t have a son to leave it to. And my granddaughter,” he added, “since girls need to have their own money these days.”
“But Dad…”
“I have to go to the health station. The nurses are late for my 4:00 blood test!” I looked at the clock. It was 4:01.
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“Your father is not cooperating. He really feels he needs to be in control. He thinks he knows better than we do what is best for your mother.” The physical therapist was venting to me over the phone. Despite the many times I had said basically the same thing to my husband after talking to my father, I found myself defending him.
“You have to understand, he grew up in a culture where men were always in charge. He lost his whole family in the Korean War. He was an interpreter for the U.S. Army and then put himself through college and graduate school here in the U.S. He’s lived through so much and been so strong… He just can’t let someone else run their lives.”
“Of course you’re right,” she lamented. “He’s only doing what he thinks is best.”
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“I’ve decided your mother should do physical therapy after all,” Dad announced into the answering machine for his fifth call of the day (when I was out walking the dog.) And I’ve decided to put her in the new memory unit when it opens next year. “Just wanted to tell you about my decision. Let’s talk soon. Love you.”
