My Dad, the Wild Man Part V: Aging and Assisted Living

When my parents got older, my mom had mobility issues.  After much discussion, they got her one of those scooters. She would rarely use it, saying she’d walk instead.  But then we’d bring along a wheel chair just in case, and inevitably we’d end up pushing her in that.  So much for the scooter. 

But later my dad was diagnosed with PSP Parkinson’s-ism – a derivation of Parkinson’s such he had balance issues.  He started using the scooter when not using a walker.  First you need to know that he drove that scooter like it was a Porsche.  You also need to know that he continued to do around-the-house projects way past when he should have.

So there was the time he was working on the sprinklers on the side of the house, which was on a corner.  Of course he took the corner too fast on the scooter and flipped, and he was caught underneath.  It was a Saturday and people were out, so instantly there were several people jumping out of cars to free him.  He was fine and didn’t learn anything from that.

Later when he was in assisted living, he would use that stupid scooter not only around the building, but within his room.  As in, he would drive it a too fast within the apartment.  Well, once he cut the corner around his bed too close and knocked his bed off of the risers.  No problem, he would just crawl under the bed the put the risers back in.  But then somehow the other corners came off the risers, caught him under the bed, and knocked the bookshelf over on him, collapsing the bookshelf.  He was trapped.  He had a call button around his neck but couldn’t reach it.  So he pounded on the floor until someone heard him.  When the aid came in, it was a bit of a mess, and they called both the fire department and paramedics to free him.  He was fine except for a few bruises, and the generous firemen settled the bed back on the risers for him. I’m thinking he still didn’t learn.

Speaking of mobility . . . after my mom died, we moved my dad into assisted living nearer my sister.  When he moved in, there were two safety bars in the apartment: one by the toilet and one in the shower.  My dad asked if he could put up another one, since he was unstable on his feet.  They said okay.  Well, by the time he moved out he had put up twenty-two separate grab bars throughout the apartment.  We had to pay for them to not only re-paint, but also to plaster and repair the walls as well.  But then there was the carpet . . .

In the first assisted living place, he decided that the door to the room dragged on the carpet and he didn’t like it.  It made it too difficult to swing the door open. Really it was perfectly fine. But next thing you know, he is down on his hands and knees, trimming the carpet with his scissors. A manager walks by and sees it, and says nothing.  She just informed us that we would be charged for it and we said yes, of course, do what you need to do that’s just how he is. There’s nothing we can do about it.

Then there was the time I walked into his room, and he is sitting there with a two-by-four on his lap and a hand saw, and he is sawing on his lap. Great way to sever an artery. He was making a riser for his recliner so it’d be easier to stand up from it. I took the saw and wood, wedged it on the dining room table, and started sawing it myself.  Better the table than his leg.  Then my sister walked in the room and said, “What is going on??!! We are not doing wood working today! We are talking about your stamp collection!!” I put away the saw and wood, but I have no doubt he continued his project once we left.

The assisted living general managers got to know him well.  Remember the big satellite launch books?  Well, he read everything as if it were a satellite launch book, including the resident handbook at assisted living - generally a very flimsy rule book. He’d move in, read it, and schedule a meeting with the manager, at which time he would interrogate her on every rule and every possibility stemming from every circumstance.  My sister would have to beat him to it and meet with the manager to say that it’s not personal, this is just how it is, it’s how he thinks.  Just answer the questions as best you can and eventually, he will go away.

He even was worried about who would save my mom in the event of an emergency (earthquake, fire). They were living in separate apartments and he was down the hall.  He stated his intent to rescue her himself, even when they said they knew how to, and were perfectly capable of, rescuing everyone.  He then stated that he would fight them off to go rescue her, at which point they informed him that even the smallest of their personnel knew restraints and could take him down and that he should not do that. He didn’t believe them and my sister had to confirm that yes, they could take him down.  Especially since at this point his balance was so bad you could knock him over with a feather.

And his last complaint: apparently there was an owl somewhere outside his apartment; it was on the third floor and opened up to some trees.  Well, this owl was hooting in the early hours of the morning and disturbing his sleep.  He complained, literally standing there in the lobby making the whooo whooo sounds to demonstrate.  The manager said there was nothing they could do about it. My dad said, “Well, can’t you just shoot it?” Yup, that’s my dad, wanting to shoot owls at the old folk’s home in downtown Fresno.

My dad never had any intention of aging gracefully.  Oh no.  He would fight it and do whatever he darn well pleased along the way.  It’s rather legendary, actually. I hope to be like him.