toldalongstoryhesometimeslostthethreadofwhathe
was saying. Other times, he seemed confused about
somethingthey’djustspokenabout.Mostofthetimehe
seemedfine,evenexceptionalforamanofeighty-eight
years.Hestilldrove.Hestillbeateveryoneatcribbage.
Hestilllookedafterhishomeandmanagedhisfinances
byhimself.Butthenhehadanotherbadfall,anditscared
him.Hesuddenlyfelttheweightofallthechangesthat
hadbeenaccumulating.HetoldShelleyhewasafraidhe
mightfalloneday,hithishead,anddie.Itwasn’tdying
that scared him, he said, but the possibility of dying
alone.
She asked him what he would thinkabout lookingat
retirement homes. He wantedno partof it.He’d seen
friends in those sorts of places.
“They’refullofoldpeople,”hesaid.Itwasnottheway
hewantedtolive.HemadeShelleypromisetoneverput
him in such a place.
Still,hecouldnolongermanageonhisown.Theonly
choice left for him was to move in with her and her
family. So that’s what Shelley arranged for him to do.
I asked her and her husband,Tom, howtheyhad felt
about this. Good, they both said. “I didn’t feel
comfortable with him living independently anymore,”
Shelleysaid,andTomagreed.Lou’dhadaheartattack.
Hewasgoingonninety.Thiswastheleasttheycoulddo
forhim.And,theyadmittedthinking,howlongwerethey
really going to have with him, anyway?
TOM AND SHELLEY lived comfortably in a modest
colonialin NorthReading, aBoston suburb,butnever