Arrived at the nursing home. They were expecting us, but were woefully unprepared to gert him out of the van. Working with the laws of physics and a thankfully strong guy, we were able to slide him to the bumper and swing him into a wheelchair. Once inside, the aide looked at him and asked "Would you like a shower?" It was like the sun rose. Dad has always been fastidious about his personal hygeine. The diaper and bedpan routine contributed heavily to his depression. The staff did an evaluation, and he turned on the charm. We checked him in, they bathed, shaved and dressed him, and put him to bed.
We went home, drained. Leaving him was the hardest thing yet.
Since then, I've been there every evening after work. Dad wants to go home, hates the food, wants to go to the bank, to see a lawyer and put his affairs in order. He wants me to bring him a gallon of milk, and asks why his friends haven't come to see him. He knows I'm back at the office, but thinks he's in his apartment. He asks me to get milk and bread, wants me to check that the toilet isn't running. He wants to get up, but he knows he can't stand. He says we need to hire someone to take care of him. He tells me I should go home, because Himself is waiting for me halfway, in the Dells. That a seven hour drive every day is too much. I tell him he's in Minnesota, and he asks how I'm going to get home. This sucks beyond the telling. Nothing is in my control but being sure, absolutely certain, that he is getting the best care I can get him.