I had such a different idea for this writing today. One thought was to focus on all the characters my dad and I have met at his new place over the last almost-two weeks. Danny&Fanny and Mitch&Judy (who I’d brought up in last week’s post), Char&Ernie, Billie&Kennie(her dog), Ethel&Fargo(her dog), Norma, Wayne, Sarah, Helen, Marilyn, etc. Or maybe I was going to write about the ongoing emptying of his old place where I found all my second- and third-grade composition notebooks up in the closet, then lost it because two things hit me at once: He was the one who kept all my stuff and he was the age I am now (give-or-take) when he decided to put all these albums and what-have-you up on this shelf. A vibrant man on his way to mix a martini, set a tee time, or pick up a book by his favorite author (TC Boyle or Annie Proulx).

So those were the topics kicking around in my head. Then he fell, hit his and everything turned: the topic, time, the temperature in my body. Dennis and I had been deciding on what to have for dinner when Golden Oaks called and told me he’s fallen in the hallway on his way back from dinner and that one of the care team nurses was tending to him in his apartment. She said, “I didn’t call 911 but he hit his head and scraped himself up pretty badly.”

Because we’d installed a tiny camera in his place yesterday, I was able to tune in and see Odina, the care nurse, patching him up. When I called his place and she answered, she said she was just trying to stop the bleeding.

Adrenaline is a thing I’m really so well acquainted with in the last few months. I fly on it. I recognize the sound of it, the blood rush in my ears, a bit tinny. The constant motion of my fingers worrying whatever piece of clothing I’m wearing. Last night, as Dennis was driving, I’m pretty sure that the one area of my t-shirt’s hem that I worked over and over in the passenger seat for the 20-minute drive might be a smooth spot that will always remind me of that stretch of goddamned, traffic-choked, rush-hour Cali freeway as the sky turned dark and I just didn’t know what to do with my mind. That crazy combination of helpless and urgent.

So, yes, on the one hand, it’s turned out OK in that he didn’t break a bone. He has a black eye from a bump and abrasion above his right eye, a scratch on his shoulder, peeled-back skin on his arm, scab on his knee. He looks startling but he said he wasn’t in pain (and still says it today) so that’s good too. He says his ego’s bruised. Well, sure, but more than that, as wise people have told me, my moment is to figure out how can I help him help himself. As I’ve turned into the person who patches him up much as he did when I needed it.

The other things that are turning are the wheels on his walker. We took it for a run around the building today. He’d been resistant (because, ya know, of course he has). He’d decided it belonged to Dennis given he was the one to bring it over and show him how it works. There is a new sign on his door, eye-level, outgoing, “Take Your Walker” (maybe there’s an exclamation point). He sees that 96.5% of everyone there has one. We’re trying to get him excited on the kind of flair he might attach to it…rainbow streamers for the handlebars may not be his jam, maybe a picture of Duke Ellington laminated on the front. Who knows. First, though, to roll. To roll with the situation, to stop staring at the security cam (he’s currently watching a Dodger game in his fave chair. OK, OK, I’m closing the app), to turn toward some breathing and to know I can’t stop the flood of feelings but instead give us the tools to succeed. Whatever that looks like for the both of us.