A Bitter Pill and A Better Pie

I’ve had to make only a handful of really difficult decisions in my lifetime. But none proved greater than the decision to become my father’s full-time family caregiver. Dad is 82 and lost my mother 18 years ago. He lost a second wife almost three years ago. Over the past few years, he had grown more and more dependent upon me for a variety of tasks: laundry, computer help, grocery shopping and light bulb changing among others.



It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.


Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.


So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.


I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.


It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.


Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!


My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.