My father is officially a resident now of the Legacy Retirement Center — which is where he wanted to be — and I think I may have my life back.
At least temporarily.
It's never certain when you're dealing with the geriatric generation. He could return tomorrow, cane in hand, frowny face part of the deal.
But for now, he's with his wife (my step-mom) and in Salt Lake and I have the run of the estate.
I can clean the carpets, put the furniture back where it belongs and hose down the bathrooms. (You don't want to know.)
It's been a grueling few months as Dad moved out of the rehab center and waited to get better enough to check into independent living.
No one here could take him full-time so my brother and I split the time between my home and the Value Place motel which he affectionately calls his jail cell.
I tried to keep him here as much as possible and sent therapists and nurses to the motel where they worked to get him more mobile and passed judgment on our plan.
I've led a multi-task life as I tried to do my writing, participate in my grandkid's lives, feed and love my husband and still get dad's rent paid, his banking done, keep his refrigerator stocked and his clothes clean.It seemed every time I thought we had everything all worked out, Dad's needs would come along and blow my plans apart.
Everything geriatric takes longer...walking, talking, eating, answering the phone, picking up a tissue.
And everything is somehow my fault..."you made my bed and now I can't sleep," "your banana bread fell out of the plastic when I tried to take it from the fridge and fell on the floor," "my tummy stings from the insulin shot I took with the syringe you gave me (It was new, never opened.)."
Today is my birthday and my Independance Day.
Subconsciously I know I'm not done here. Dad's health will only get worse and the day will come again when we'll have to make a new decision for him and because of him but for now, for today, I'm free.
I think I'll go have a good cry.
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