I could hear a new voice from upstairs, a raised voice that began with “Hello!” and I knew that Sarah was giving Dad a long talking to. Through Marco Polo I had told her I needed professional advice on how to help Dad, and she had come with resources and with the right tone of voice, the tone of voice Dad learned years ago not to argue with or fight against, the tone of voice that said, This will happen!  When I thought the most important declarations had been declared, I thought I ought to join the conversation.  “Dad, you won’t ever get better.  Getting better is not the goal.  That’s the reality of where you are.  You should have begun using the walker a year ago, not never.  You should have begun using the wheelchair six months ago, not last week.  The goal is to keep you safe.  It’s time you ordered a motorized wheelchair.”  And he did not want to discuss an electric wheelchair.  “But Dad, when people see you zipping around in your motorized chair, they will think how young and active and motivated you still are, and how smart.  When they see you hanging on Roger and leaning on your cane and stumbling all stooped, they think how old you are and how you’re going downhill and how decrepit you’ve become.  The wheelchair is not a humiliation.  What you’re doing now is a humiliation.  The wheelchair is a tool of triumph, and will extend and improve your life and give you new energy and independence!”  And I agreed with every word she said, because they were all true.  She was not angry or rude, of course, just insistent that we face our reality and adjust our strategy.  She softened her voice: “We’re not ready for you to go, Dad.  Your mind is still laser sharp: you read several books a week.  We don’t want you to fall.  We don’t want you to break an arm or a leg or a hip.  We want you to stay safe so you can live in your home for years.”  And I agreed with every word she said, because they were all true.  Dad knew, too, that she spoke truth, insistent and intractable and loving truth.  And he assented.  “I’m not ready to go,” he declared.  “I will do whatever works.”  Home health is coming next week.  Physical therapy is coming next week.  Occupational therapy is coming next week.  Dad’s a fighter, and is not ready to yield the fight.  Dad has time yet, years of time, and we are determined to help him live those years.

(Pictured above: Mom and Dad in 2008.)