Wednesday, May 19
My father did not read this week’s letter to my mother. I did.
I flew to Omaha to help my parents cope with unfortunate but not unexpected health-related circumstances. They can no longer live in their home of nearly 40 years. Steps to and from a second floor, non-senior friendly bathrooms, and a kitchen ill-equipped for older users are untenable for them. Rapidly failing health mandates that a change be made, and my brother and I are here to see that change through, however much our parents stubbornly protest. It is just the way things are. Now, it’s on to assisted living in what will surely be a final chapter. Their new mailing address is room 105. This is nothing that every other family has not wrestled with. It just happens to be our turn.
Early Thursday morning I head for home and work. My brother and I will have already had the sorrowful duty to fill boxes with the momentos and belongings that might bring some familiarity to my parents new two room ‘suite’. Already I have in mind what the Friday letter might say and will likely write it on the flight home. I rarely stew and fret over what to say and how to say it. This looks to be one of those times.