I’ve always tried to change things for the better. Or at least my interpretation of the better. I believe I know what’s right and how things should be and can never understand why people don’t do the right thing. Some people may call me controlling. But those people aren’t very nice.
After years of trying to change the world, I’ve finally had to admit, I can’t change or fix everything. Believe me, I’ve beat my head to a raw pulp trying to budge some of those brick walls that shape things into what they are.
|This is how my world would look
Today that brick wall is my dad. I’ve had very limited influence over his decision-making processes in the past but I’ve had more than most. I’ve been trying to use that limited influence like a snake charmer trying to coax him into The Sand House.
We went back to have lunch there last Saturday. My husband, Howard, took pity on my solo plight and offered to have his dad watch the boys so he could accompany us. I wasn’t sure about this. On one hand, I really needed the support and felt relieved to have him hold my hand as I traversed the narrow path between love and fear. On the other, I was afraid he would break the bubble I had created in my head to better deal with this situation. Within this bubble sat my dad who reluctantly agreed to enter into this new senior living situation and found he was much happier, healthier and surrounded by new friends. I didn’t want Howard asking questions or giving opinions that touched, or even worse, burst my bubble. But I appreciated that he acknowledged how difficult this has been for me and wanted to help out. This was the part of marriage that felt like a partnership or a team.
So we picked up my dad and took him to The Sand House. Lunch was being served in the dining room which felt more like an oceanfront restaurant.
|I think an ocean view helps with digestion
We were seated by the hostess and greeted warmly by our server, Helen, the Russian speaking immigrant who had wanted to meet my dad. Or at least welcome him as a fellow Russian. She was surprisingly fantastic, like a female Don Rickles. She was irreverant, poking fun at the residents but in such a kindhearted, loving way, she had everyone giggling. I could see the light in my dad’s eyes as he gazed at her with a wonderous smile.
I felt hopeful.
We went and looked at his potential room again while my husband sprinkled appreciative comments along our path, “Wow, this place is great.” He sounded sincere.
“I know,” I replied, “It’s amazing. I really do want to live here someday.”
“No really,” he said, like I was doubting him.
“I know!” I replied, could we move on already? My dad just walked alongside us with his left foot slightly dragging. And we went into the room again to confirm just how amazing this place really was.
|view from amazing room
We left feeling good. Or I was feeling good, like I was a step closer to him agreeing. How could he not? We even had an elderly gentleman stop by our lunch table and give an unsolicited testimonial about how great the place was. And my husband kept reaffirming how much better this place was than the one his grandma had lived in and how it was so much better than he had imagined. This made me wonder, does he not believe me when I tell him something? Because I had already told him it was perfect. But that’s another story, ha ha.
We dropped off my dad back at his apartment and told him I’d call him the next day. When I called him, I wanted to casually ask what he had thought of our visit but couldn’t find the courage to say the words. I wasn’t ready for any responses other than the one I needed to hear. So we chit chatted and I called again the following day. At the end of the conversation, I summoned my courage and asked. “So. Wha’d you think of The Sand House?” Brief silence.
“No,” he said with a deep sigh. “No.” A little softer.
I don’t think his inner platelets ever budged, not far enough to create the type of seismic shift that would have allowed him to move into the direction for which I had hoped for him.
I couldn’t hold it together any more. I was too tired to keep down the bubbles that begged to explode from the bottle. This last ‘no’ had shaken the contents until there was a little explosion. I didn’t yell but I was very stern. I lectured him about what a good opportunity this was for him. He could heal, make friends and enjoy the beach anytime he wanted. I urgently kept talking but I knew there was no hope. He had made up his mind and I couldn’t shift his glacial stubbornness. I didn’t want to make things worse by getting mad and yelling even though I was so scared for him and didn’t know what else I could do to help him.
So I didn’t. I had to let it go and have faith.
That night I got an email from my friend, Diana. She too is Russian, though so Americanized, like me, unless she told you, you’d never suspect. But being an immigrant, regardless of how young you were when you got to this country, shapes you. Maybe you have a stronger feeling for the plight of other immigrants. Maybe you are more empathetic to the struggle of being a loner in a foreign land, even if that land has been your home for decades.
Anyway, Diana reached out to me by giving me the phone number of a Russian home services agency passed on to her by her grandmother.
In the darkness of my disappointment, I felt a glimmer of hope.
It appeared we now had a Plan B.