A few weeks ago I made a telephone call to my sister in Florida. Seems Dad’s stay in rehab after his fall had been really good for him, but he had to move back home—to his own place. That’s when the concern settled in. After a week in the hospital and then 6 in a skilled nursing facility, Dad being on his own seemed a bit scary. What if he were to fall again? Who would be there to help him? He’d finally gained weight with regular meals brought in, and we didn’t want him to lose ground. So we talked. Dad agreed that he needed to be somewhere that could provide care if he should happen to need it. The only “logical” conclusion was for him to leave his beloved home of 32 years in Florida and move north to our hometown. Within a day, I’d booked a flight back to the states. The next weekend my brother flew to Florida to help Dad close out his place there. My sister went into action, filing papers and forms necessary to make the change. Within no time at all, Dad had sold his house to a long-time friend and neighbor. I think he was happy to imagine someone living there who really loved it. The neighbor was thrilled to have a home he knew so well, already filled with comfort and love.

I landed at SFO at around 8 pm on Monday and by Tuesday midnight, I was on the red-eye to Ohio. My brother picked me up, we dropped off my suitcase at his house and began feathering Dad’s new nest—a one bedroom, ground floor apartment at Mount Pleasant. In two days we had furniture, dishes, towels, sheets, lamps, and food. We bought a shower curtain, hangers, a door mat and outdoor chairs. We didn’t stop because we had a deadline and every detail mattered. Dad was to arrive Saturday and everything had to be ready. The trauma of moving could only be lessened by having a cozy apartment to replace the home he’d shared with Mom for so many years. It had to be “just right.”

And it was. Dad moved in Saturday afternoon and sank into his new recliner. My brother found a NASCAR race on TV and Dad relaxed from the flight by watching his favorite racers whirl around the track. After a while Dad tried out his new bed and declared it to be comfortable, maybe higher than his old one. That’s a good thing for someone who is still recovering from hip surgery. We brought a tray of food from the dining room since he wanted to stay put rather than mingle with the dinner crowd. (One thing at a time.)

We left at about 10 pm Saturday night. From the parking lot, I could see Dad reclining in his soft burgundy chair, his silhouette at rest against the warm yellow glow of his new place. He seemed settled— “at home.”

Posted on June 20, 2010

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