On Dad’s first day home from a month of hospitalization and rehabilitation, he poked me with two questions.  First, whether I had bought any whole wheat English muffins for his diabetic breakfast diet.  Second (after I motioned to the muffins in their habitual spot on the kitchen counter), whether they had or had not been sitting there for two months.  I ignored the slight, the suggestion that even if I had remembered his whole wheat muffins, I had not managed them properly.  The rebuff after dinner, however, flamed my already roiling magma.  Sarah and I were explaining to him how, while he was away, we had studied the house in light of his challenges, and saw that we needed to replace the 28-inch bathroom door with a 36-inch door, opening into the hallway instead of into the tiny bathroom, and how our cousin David was bringing his tools the next day to do the job.  I thought he would be happy with our ideas and efforts on his behalf.  He was not.  He walked us through every minute detail of his maneuvering around the bathroom, like a hundred-point K-turn, including using the doorknob as a handhold before hand-surfing heavily across the sink counter toward the grab bars and toilet.  I promise you I was patient and calm as I explained: “I know that has worked for you in the past, Dad, but relying on a round rotating nob is not safe anymore.  Don’t worry, we’ll install new grab bars.  You will be able to follow a similar but safer transferring routine.  I promise, it will be better.”  And he looked at me with that omniscient omnipotent head-tilted smolder of his and demanded, “When you are making plans for my future, you will speak to me first,” tapping his chest.  And this long dormant volcano, which has seethed and smoked for decades, suddenly spewed out its lava heat.  “You weren’t here!  You’ve been hospitalized.  And we had to move fast when we found out you were coming home so you could move around as safely as possible.  Dad, I have given my whole life to taking care of you and keeping you safe and healthy for more than two years, and you have criticized and fought me since the day I moved in!”  As I hollered at him, I pounded the granite countertop with my fist, “since the day [pound] I moved [pound] IN (pound)!”  (Have I broken my hand? I wondered vaguely as it began to tingle.)  I abandoned the beginnings of my Christmas party chocolate mousse and fled to the dark living room, sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, trying to calm myself.  I had never ever erupted, boiled over, blown up, confronted like that, not in all my life, not with my dad, not with my mom, not with my wife, not with my siblings, not with my children, not with anyone, ever.  I was not proud of myself for what had just happened, but neither did I feel ashamed or guilt-ridden.  I could hear Dad complaining to Mom in the next room, “Why is Roger so furious with me?”  “Because you don’t listen,” she responded.  “Why can’t you just be quiet and listen.  And be grateful.”  I cherished her firm meek support.  “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”  He complained again: “The older I get, the more everyone just tells me what to do.  Why is everyone ordering me around?”  “Just listen to people and be grateful for what everyone is trying to do for you!” she countered.  “And I said I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”  Dad pouted, “Well, I guess I’ll just add you to the list of people who won’t speak to me.  It’s a long list.”  My heat rose again, but more controlled and focused, and I approached him and challenged, “Do you really think this is about me wanting to tell you what to do?  To control you?  Really?”  He covered his eyes with his hand: “I can’t listen to you when you’re angry.  I can’t take it.”  “Oh, that’s rich: everyone has to listen to you, but you don’t listen to the people who are trying to care for you and keep you alive.  You just complain that they’re bossy and telling you what to do.”  (Eyes still covered): “I just can’t listen to people who are angry.”  Me: “I’m not angry, but I am very frustrated, because I can’t listen to people who are ungrateful and disrespectful.”  Dad: “Is that what you think I am?”  Me: “Absolutely.  Everything I do here I do to help you and Mom be safe and comfortable.  I’m not interested in telling you what to do.  But instead of appreciating it, you judge it.”  A full Ambien, twice my typical one-half, got me through the night.  David and I worked all the next day to install the new door, a 36-inch-wide left-hinged door turned inside out to be a right-hinged door opening into the hallway.  The bathroom looks twice the size and is so much easier to get into and move around in.  A grab bar has replaced the rickety doorknob.  Dad enjoyed keeping tabs on the construction, chatting amiably with David.  In the end, he enjoyed the bathroom’s inaugural visit, emerging to remark on how nice the new bathroom was.