FIRST, YOU FEEL GUILTY

In the small California town where I grew up, there was a Catholic nursing home called Our Lady of Fatima. I was familiar with it because, as a member of the elementary school orchestra, I played Christmas carols on my viola for the residents every December. Then, as I teenager, I racked up volunteer hours for church working as a candy striper. I was never comfortable being there. Aside from the sharp odors and dusty decor, I did not like being around old people who needed me to feed them, or old men, mostly, who screamed at me to get out of their rooms. I detested seeing shrunken bodies under sheets and teeth laid out on metal nightstands. I remember telling my parents, when I was ten, that I would never send them to a place like Our Lady of Fatima. Ever. I proudly announced they would live with me when the time came. They laughed and smiled at me, so young, such a baby. The inevitability of my parents growing THAT old was as feasible to me as walking with dinosaurs or flying to the moon. Five years after his diagnosis of AD, my dad lives in a memory care facility ten miles from my house. It didn't play out as I thought it might - as I hoped it would - when I was a child. My dad sleeps in a wheelchair most of the day, waits for someone to change his diaper, and doesn't eat much unless someone feeds him. He screams at the young CNA's to get out of his room. He smiles at me when I show up and looks disappointed when I leave. In between, I tidy his closet, wipe his face, clean his glasses. I wonder what I could have done differently. I sometimes cry to the point of hyperventilating and give frequent karate chops to the universe. Mostly, I feel mighty guilty about my promise forty three years ago, and believe that I'd much rather walk with dinosaurs or fly to the moon.