My father has always referred to himself as a child of the
depression. Born in 1938, he was, in
fact, a child of the recovery, but his mindset has always been one of frugality
and rationing. Couple that “a penny
saved” outlook with a lifetime of skepticism and what you’ve got is a man who,
not unlike other older folks who have been in rent controlled apartments or who
have “just always lived there,” lived in an apartment in someone’s house for
nearly twenty years without a lease. He’s
from the days where a handshake and a person’s word were good enough to make a business
deal. Unfortunately, that doesn’t
translate to today’s thirty page lease agreements and financial disclosure
paperwork required by most apartment companies.
I had to get my father a place to live.
When I asked him about his plans, his intentions, what he
envisioned for himself, he said he was staying here, that he was never
returning to New York. He had made a
rash decision, if it was a conscious decision at all, to get on a plane and
come to my house, but he was going to live with it. What that meant, of course, was that the
consequences of his actions became mine.
And I had to find him a place to live.
There are two apartment complexes in town, neither of which
was up to his standards. One is newer
construction with screened in porches and a large pool and the other a bit
older, sturdier, and closer to my house.
Both are sufficient. Neither, of
course, would do. He wanted to live as
he had, in an apartment without a commitment of a year or more, without people
with dogs, cats, kids and cars missing mufflers. He wanted to be left alone and yet he wanted
to be taken care of. He was in regular contact with his landlord in New York
but refused to tell them he was not returning. No option was taken off the
table, yet nothing was there from which to choose. He was a mess and, quite frankly, so was
I. Learning to change roles was
difficult, particularly without warning.
I went from daughter to care-giver, solver of problems, fixer of things,
jumper of conclusions. I was always
trying to stay one step ahead of what might come next, trying to fix the unfixable
before I even knew what it was. I lived
my life as one giant “what if.”
What if he leaves again?
What if there is something really, really, wrong?
What if I can’t get him an apartment?
What if he disappears?
What if he refuses to sign a lease?
What if he needs more than I can give?
I was a wishy-washy, grasping at straws kind of care-giver
in the beginning, primarily because I had no idea how to care for him. No diagnosis had been given, no illness
identified. There was just this man who
I felt I hardly knew, who had arrived at my house without a plan, who clearly
needed help. The one thing I knew in my
heart was that I could not let him move into my house. And that was tragic.
