Deconstructing My Father – Part Four
Deconstructing My Father is a linear narrative about a weird point in my life – late 2018 / early 2019 (I’m not entirely sure) – where my estranged father developed dementia and I had to take over running his life and the lives of both of my little brothers. I started documenting it in a weird journal using pseudonyms for my brothers and family. It was probably the most stressful time of my life.
You should probably start with part one if you want this to make any sort of sense.
Paper Trail
“Dad; do you have an accountant?”
“No.”
“Who did your taxes last year”
“DeeJay.” My stepmother. She’s been dead since 2007. The same year that I got married. I wore her military rank pin (a bright, silver, Lieutenant Colonel Oak Leaf) on the lapel of my tuxedo. I don’t have the heart to tell him this. I also don’t know what would happen if I did. Would I be reminding him of something he already knows or would I be opening this wound anew.
I’m not even sure that he knows what year it is, I’m not going to be the one that drops that particular bomb on him. Even I’m not that big of a bastard.
I’m interviewing my father in his hospital room. I am dressed in a gown, mask, gloves and booties; because he has a newly discovered infection that could cause, “Instantaneous and violent diarrhea,” according to the nurses.
That’s not the type of gift that I want to bring home to the family.
The current, yet ever evolving plan, is that he needs to go to a skilled nursing facility after he leaves the hospital. After that he likely needs to go to some sort of long term care facility. The social worker needs to know what his income and finances look like so that they can help me make arrangements. I need to know his finances because I have two brothers in college; and the semester starts in a few days.
Also, my father’s bills need to get paid. And the lights need to stay on. And the house needs to not go into foreclosure.
Because somehow, I’m the fucking grown up in this situation.
My father has been secretive about his finances ever since my stepmom passed away. She had a not insignificant estate that she had set up to take care of her husband, her two young children and, surprisingly enough, to give her stepson a head start in life.
I like to think that she saw a young man on the verge of getting married, who had turned from an angry and terrible adolescent to a respectable citizen – with a not great set of parents – and decided that for once he deserved a leg up.
I like to think that she saw the writing on the wall with my father and knew that at some point I would become a refuge for her kids; (they ended up living with my wife and I for around 18 months). When she was first diagnosed with brain cancer she pulled me aside one day and told me, ”I need you to take care of the boys. If I’m not here, if this kills me, I need you to make sure they’re okay. I need you to make sure they go to college and get their life started right.”
I like to think that she saw the best in me and saw me as just one of her children.
My father has held that money over my head at every opportunity. He’s told me everything from “she made a mistake” to “you fucking stole from me.”
Needless to say the topic of money has never been an easy one to broach. So to sit here and question him about his finances and monetary situation is something that we’ve never done. Nor something we’ve ever been comfortable with.
“Why are you here?” He’s having what seems to be a lucid moment.
“I’m here to check up on you, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Are you asking me these questions because you’re preparing for me to die?”
Yes, kind of.
“No. I need to know these things because I don’t know how long you’re going to be in here; and the lights need to stay on and the bills need to be paid.”
He leans back in his bed. Maybe relieved.
“But why are you here? Why are you involved?”
“Because two years ago you took me to your lawyers office and made me the trustee of your trust, your power of attorney, and the guy who makes your healthcare decisions. Because you’re having problems remembering things and you need someone who can answer the questions you can’t anymore.”
“Oh. It’s that bad?”
I don’t want to answer this question because it’s not that bad, it’s worse.
“I gotta head out; but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I pull the tear away gown and all of the medical barriers off and place them in the trash can. I step out of the hospital room, sanitized and ready to go home. I stop by the nurses station.
“Whenever they get a chance if you could have the social worker give me a call I’d appreciate it.”
I took his wallet before I left the room. I have to figure out where he banks and how I can put myself on his accounts so someone can make sure that nothing falls between the cracks.
My father has given me one last job to do. One more chore. I have to make sure that, despite his best efforts, his life doesn’t fall apart.
It’s a task that he hasn’t been interested in in years.
