“No,” I said adamantly. “You can’t do this. The man had a stroke. He’s not able to take care of himself—”
“Actually, he’s faring well in terms of self-care skills. It’s just—”
“No,” I said again. “Just because the man can get a spoon to his mouth and shit on his own does not mean he can manage himself.”
“Mr. Thorson,” the administrator said. “We’re simply not equipped to handle his needs. Your father is very … difficult.”
I stared at the floor. Of course my father was difficult. He was naturally an asshole, and the stroke he’d had a few months before had exacerbated his assholiness. It didn’t mean he could manage himself? much less that I could handle the man. I couldn’t handle anything about the man.
“I would recommend you reach out to Medicare. You need to—”
“Have you ever dealt with Medicare?” I asked angrily.
“We can provide you with some resources—the disability application is a good place to start. That’s the first step in getting him on Medicaid, and you might have better luck getting him placed—”
“What am I supposed to do with him in the meantime?”
“You have thirty days to decide. We’re putting you on notice now. If Medicare will cover a psychiatric unit placement, that might be a good option.”
“Ah, Jesus Christ, lady,” I snapped. “Medicare’s not even covering his expenses now. He’s too high functioning to qualify, remember?”
“When we release him, if he’s being … unmanageable, you take him to the emergency room. That’s the best step to getting him placed appropriately in a psych ward or a care center that has a secure ward. But there is simply nothing we can do for you here. He’s too big of a liability to our staff. Your father is uncooperative, and furthermore, he’s violent. We understand this is likely related to the brain trauma of his recent stroke, and I—”
“No, it’s not,” I muttered as I stood up. I walked out of the room without saying anything further.
The women stared at me as I left. They thought I was as big of an asshole as my dad. I likely was. When I wandered down the hall to his room, I glanced in other rooms along the way. It was a depressing thing being in one of these places. It smelled disgusting and weird, and the odd occasional groan made me feel like I was walking through a fluorescently lit haunted house. I didn’t like this place.
My father’s room was the last room at the end of the corridor, and when I approached, my gate slowed. It was dread. I didn’t like seeing my father. That had never bothered me before, because my dad didn’t care to see me any more than I cared to see him. But now, I felt almost compelled to at least occasionally stop in.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I walked in.
He slowly moved his head to watch me as I crossed the room. He moaned one of those ghostly wailing moans out of the side of his half paralyzed mouth, but his eyes were still cruel, and his expression was still hateful. I sat in the only chair in the room, and he turned his head away from me to stare out the window.
“I’ve been working on the house. It’s coming along slowly, but I think once I’m done, it’s going to really increase the sale value. That should help secure you financially.” I had no idea why I was talking to him as though he cared at all what I was saying.
I sat in silence for a while, and soon, his breathing slowed, and I could tell he’d fallen asleep.
“But then I think it’s going to be time for me to finally end this nightmare,” I whispered. The thought was painful—saying goodbye to Helene again. “Too many mistakes in my past,” I mumbled as I let my head drop to my hands.
My dad groaned quietly in his sleep, and I finally stood. I stared down at him. His skin hung on his bones like a sheet draped over hard sharp angles. He’d lost weight, and too many cigarettes had aged him beyond his years. The whiskers on his face were patchy and gray, and his hair was an unkempt mess. His mouth hung open as he slept, and his breathing was loud and gurgling.