I’m not gonna lie to you, a lot of times my motives are murky. Not in a sinister way but just complicated in a mix of desire and best-face-forward. When my dad moved into his new place at the GoldenO, I was very aware of a sense that he (& by extension, me) was the new kid on the block. He may also have had that awareness but on a level much less acute given he’s only recently stopped asking when he’s “checking out of this joint?” along with “where’s my car?” The acknowledgment that this is his one-bedroom apartment and I’ve taken possession of the car surfaces 98% of the time now.

I, on the other hand, entered into his living there as if it were a popularity contest and by-george, we were gonna win the prize for best new entry into an Independent Living home! In review: The week before he moved in, I told the general manager that my dad was really excited about the change. She looked at me surprised and said, Well that’s great given most folks are really resistant for the first month or so. I was smiling as if waiting to receive a first-place ribbon for Best Transition of Oldster Into New Shockingly Discombobulating Life Event. And while I heard her words, and might have given myself permission to relax and say, Phew, right? This is gonna be hard, instead I kept that hard smile on my face in order to convince her that we were different. We were excited. The truth? My dad knew he was moving, then he forgot he was moving, then he remembered, and by the time it happened, he’d completely blanked on how and why he’d ended up here. He raged against it. He capitulated to it. He repeated that cycle consistently for at least the first six weeks. His coping? See above re: Checking out. Looking for car.

I knew that would happen. People I love and trust told me so. I read a bunch of articles that explained it. My dad is human fer-fux-sake, of course. Yet me? I persisted in wrapping my own emotional cheerleader up inside of his experience. I really don’t care for my emotional cheerleader all that much. I mean, she’s OK in small doses but is very annoying when she takes over and blocks me from really acknowledging that pain, necessary emotion, is behind that door. Put down the damn pom-poms and step into the room. But still. In this case. Oy.

A few things: In my new role as emotional firefighter, I also realize that I’m very excited about driving around in my big (wholly mental) red truck and offering to give them rides. I can honestly say that the amount of smitten I feel about the folks who live there is my own deal. My dad often seems surprised when we go down to the dining room or for a walk around the grounds and I become some sort of crazy glad-hander, pulling people up onto the truck for a ride. I spot Dee, who I’ve been hair color consulting with given she’s looking for a subtle pink for her shock-white, spiky-do hair; and Felix, who needed a crossword, four-letter word beginning with D where you talk turkey (Deli) and I was more excited than might be normal to solve it. Margaret who delivers my dad’s papers every morning is someone I dream of leaving notes of thanks for; Mitch and his violin performances every Friday afternoon where I once clapped a little too loudly (I might have whistled even); Ethel and her little dog Fargo, who I’ve apparently offered to walk on occasion. I had the urge to offer up writing workshops to them all, because me having to work? Who cares about that? I’ve taken some breaks around this frenzy of friendly. Or at least I’m trying to.

I know there’s grace and joy and pain and sorrow in all their stories. I hear when Helen talks about how much she misses the home she had to move out of near the beach because of the car accident that killed her daughter-in-law. She struggles. Norma, whose pretty sure the food has gotten better since the new owners have taken over but still doesn’t care for the new decor and Alan, who has really taken a cotton to my dad and keeps inviting him to card games. Then there’s Frank, who is one of the caretakers. He is completely committed to making sure my dad is present, accounted for, and taking part. My heart flushes with a lot of emotion as I walk through the front door, passing those who are sitting outside in the sun or in the lobby in the AC. Various waves of emotion there. The acknowledgment that we are here. Did we ever think we would be? As Felix said over lunch yesterday, I never did figure I’d be in a place like this. It’s humbling.

I’m the one who leaves. Gets in my dad’s-now-my car and drives back to my apartment. Where is he in this? He’s exactly where he needs to be. He’s watching. Not always comprehending but yet available to himself in-as-much as I can tell. When I listen to him, not just his words, I see he’s taking in the things he wants for himself. Not what I want for him. When the talking clock reminds him it’s time to go to the dining room for a meal, he hears it. And he decides. This is not a popularity contest. This is his life. And I’m coming to relax my ego that I get to be there just to make sure he doesn’t fall, both physically and emotionally. Last night he called to say a whole bunch of people brought him dinner in his apartment. He was laughing about it. Enjoyed the scene. I smiled to know that Frank and Odeena were there to jolly his scene up and then he went back to watching the odd baseball game on one of the many (many, so many) sports channels available to him. And for now, that’s his story.