Mom has taken to riding the stair lift up and down the stairs, though Dad’s disability was the urgent impetus for installing the lift. She does suffer with arthritic knees, and the 21 stairs have become increasingly difficult to take on.  And even if her need is not yet equally acute, the lift is easy and pain-free and even fun, as much of an adventure as she cares for at 83.  Dad’s wheelchair routine, on the other hand, is anything but easy.  A quick trip to the dentist for a checkup and cleaning involves dozens of indispensable sequential steps, such as, transfer him from his recliner to his wheelchair; swing the foot support “arms” into forward position, and lower the foot rests; raise his legs by pulling on the tongues of his shoes; roll him in his chair out the front door, which Mom opens ahead of us and closes and locks behind us; roll down the ramps—with new confidence on the new grip-paint surface—open the front passenger door of the Mighty V8, lower his legs by the same shoe tongues, raise the foot rests, and swing out and remove the foot support arms; position and lock the chair as close to the front seat as possible, and lift by the armpits as he pulls himself mostly upright; lift his left foot into the car from behind his left knee, and push his hips with my available knee as he heaves against the handles to slide into the seat; fold and lift the heavy chair and stow in the back of the suburban.  Then reverse the whole process at the dentist office.  Then do it all again on the return trip, except that I must gain momentum to make it up the ramp, which frightens Dad in his powerlessness as I push.  Then do it all again for the eye doctor, the heart doctor, the skin doctor, the foot doctor, the diabetes doctor, the divers tests….  After depositing him again in his recliner at home, I retreated to the kitchen, and soon heard him call, “Rog, are you there?”  He wanted to tell me something from the day’s New York Times.  If I am in the same room while he is reading the newspaper, he delivers to me a verbal new reel, like today: S. Army admits botched drone strike that killed civilians in Kabul…Nineteen protesters sentenced to death in Tehran…Six-year-old brings gun to school, shoots and kills teacher…Draft pick scores 71 points in first game with new team.  “I’m here,” I reported, but thought with condemning self-examination: Are you really there, Roger?  I cook their meals, make home repairs, shop for the groceries, landscape the yards, place the decorations, run the errands, fix the computers, solve the problems, and am otherwise at their beck and call when I’m at home.  But am I really there, serving and giving, cheerful and sincere?  Or do I chafe at the chores and move through the motions and withhold real devoted love?  In many ways, my life is not my own.  I live in their house.  I eat what they eat.  I watch what they watch.  I rarely read.  I feel always tired.  Dad told me that he feels so very tired by the end of the day, and feels so very tired waking in the morning, and feels so very tired throughout the day, his reading often leading to napping.  “One of these days I might go to sleep in my recliner with my book and just not wake up.  That’s how it should be: that’s how death should come.”  He shows excitement at seeing a movie I have selected for him, then falls asleep ten minutes in.  Upon referral, we set out to watch a new murder mystery movie, our dinners growing cold on our folding TV trays.  “We should pray,” Dad reminded us, and I found myself laughing.  “Yes,” I chimed in, “we had better pray over our food before we watch our murder.”  The prayer took two minutes and the movie two hours, two wasted hours, two hours distracted from things that really matter.  I am glad we prayed.

(Pictured above: roasted vegetable bisque made from scratch without a recipe but with tips from my daughter Laura, a wonderful cook.)