BetweenthethreedaysinShelley’shomeeachweekand
the pieces of a life Lou put together the rest of the
week—the assisted living home’s fecklessness
notwithstanding—hewasmanaging.Doingsohadtaken
months.Atninety-two,hegraduallyrebuiltaneveryday
life he could abide.
His body wouldn’t cooperate, though. His postural
hypotension worsened. He passed out more
frequently—notjust whenhe hadabrandy.Itcouldbe
dayornight,walkingaroundorgettingoutofbed.There
weremultipleambulanceridesandtripstothedoctorfor
X-rays.Thingsgottothepointwherehecouldn’tmanage
the long hallway and elevator to the dining room for
mealsanymore.Hecontinuedtorefuseawalker.Itwasa
pointofpride.Shelleyhadtostockhisrefrigeratorwith
prepared foods he could microwave.
Shefoundherselfworryingabouthimalloveragain.He
wasn’teatingproperly.Hismemorywasgettingworse.
Andevenwiththeregularhealthaidevisitsandevening
checks,hewasmostlysittinginhisroombyhimself.She
felthedidn’thaveenoughsupervision forhowfrailhe
was becoming. She would have to move him to
somewhere with twenty-four-hour care.
Shevisitedanursinghomenearby.“Itwasactuallyone
ofthenicerones,”shesaid.“Itwasclean.”Butitwasa
nursinghome.“Youhadthepeopleintheirwheelchairs
all slumpedover and linedup in thecorridors. Itwas
horrible.”Itwasthesortofplace,shesaid,thatherfather
feared more than anything. “He did not want his life
reducedtoabed,adresser,atinyTV,andhalfofaroom
with the curtain between him and someone else.”