A different kind of rollercoaster ride...

"Dan, don't worry. It's kind of like riding a rollercoaster."

My Dad is no chump and he knew this was only an attempt to make his first ride onto the chair lift at least a little more cheerful.

Dad will be moved to assisted living within the month. For those of you not familiar, assisted living at the Arms where Dad's been in independent living for about 9 years now, is on the 2nd floor. He'll be receiving more care, more attention, resulting in a better quality of life. Still, his friends who also reside at the Arms seem to consider his move some sort of ending to a chapter.

"We'll miss you, Dan", one lady sadly admitted.

"No, no, no, he'll still be here and he'll still be visiting down here in the lounge, and going to bingo and all that. You can't get rid of Dad that easily!", I quickly chimed in.

"Oh well, that's good. We don't want to lose him," admitted his friend, a lady in a walker, who has been watching our old time radio shows all these years, especially those that featured my dad (Dad does a crackerjack imitation of Rochester from "The Jack Benny Show". We'll be performing two Bennys next weekend, but this will be the first time Dad won't be playing Rochester. He just can't process the way he used to.)

From his inside view room on the 5th floor, Dad can't see the world whirring around him. From his new room on the 2nd floor, Dad will get a sunny Southern view, albeit of the parking lot. But there's a busy intersection nearby, life bumping along as the day chugs.

When we wheeled Dad into the new room to give it a peek, it was hard to detect if he liked it, was indifferent, or wanted to rapidly retreat. Until I saw the smile enter his eyes when he took in the sunshine.

It's not Vegas, but it'll do.

Putting it Together

Lots of things go into putting together your plans for a trip. The booking of flights, renting of cars, packing of clothes, buying of Earplanes. With Dad in the condition he's in, there's even more detailed planning. He's now officially a candidate for assisted living, although we have to get him completely assessed by his MD before he can be moved to the assisted living quarters at his retirement home.

Part of us feels very selfish about even going on the trip that's, oh, just around the corner. But life doesn't really come with a crystal ball and since I'm no Mystic Meg (although I've been told I look like her. Maybe that's the picture I should use as my Facebook profile, as this week is apparently "Doppleganger Week" where you're supposed to post a picture of someone people say you look like), I have no way to know if Dad will be stable while we're away, or if all systems will fail simultaneously.

So we pray, we hope, and we bring in the artillery.

Friends and relatives who live nearby are being encouraged to just drop by his place and say "hi". So much of his condition can't be alleviated, but what can be lessened is any boredom he might feel; restlessness has never been his buddy.

Folks will stop by and update us on his mood, how he's "seeming". And besides our posse, we also have the incredible staff at the Arms who keep him comfortable, safe, and secure. Sure, you could say they're being paid to do so and they are, but their heart is undeniably in it. You can tell in the way they communicate with him, with us.

"No, you two go on and enjoy your vacation. Dan is in good hands. I'll watch him myself! Just try keeping me away from him!" said one of Dad's healthcare workers, a sassy lady who goes from sweet to jalapeno in a nanosecond.

So our visit to Silver Springs is days away. And then onto the Disney Cruise and ports sun-worhippy, pineapple-scented, and marine blue.

We both need it. And Dad will be fine. We must take this opportunity, embrace it, run with it -- because we don't have the ability to do our scrying, to find out what Dad's health will be like in even a month or so from now.

Deep breath. A smile. Smiling is good for you, clears out the dustbunnies in your soul.

Okay. Now the only worry I have is how very outdated my swimsuit is. And the fact that in just a few short days, I'll be SEEN in a swimsuit, period.

A tough day...

Dad had a tough day today, which means mine was tough as well. I won't go into all the details, but his care level needs to be elevated, especially when it comes to bathrooming, keeping clean. It's not his fault; it's just a new way of looking at things. He needs diapers now -- and he hates them with the strength of a battalion of tanks invading Poland. But he's had accidents and that causes him discomfort and embarrassment. So that's what needs to be done.

When you arrive at your Dad's apartment and he's out of it, soiled, and tired, you need to put other things aside for a bit because he's your Dad and he's priority. So I balanced taking care of those things while still keeping light (as light as possible), and making sure he knows he's done nothing wrong.

I'll resume your regularly scheduled bit of amusement soon.

A balancing act, with difficult ease.

Sometimes balancing the time between life (like being with your husband and sleeping and hygiene and walking your dog and putting together an outfit that won't scare small children), work (pretty self-explanatory) and taking care of Dad is handily embodied by the image of the 2 of Pentacles in tarot. He's part sideshow juggler and part village eccentric, but he's also pretty adept at his juggling craft and almost seems to be enjoying the challenge. But if you look closer, the waters behind him are disturbed, stormy. It's "Anything Can Happen Day" for him, 24/7.

He may enjoy what he's doing -- it may even be a calling. But it's just not easy.

My dad is my buddy. My dad has always been my playmate and fellow Mischief Maker. It was my dad who really reveled in taking us to amusement parks, in making sure we had time to relax, play, bask in some amusement from time to time. I remember my first visit to Disneyland clearly, my Dad spinning us into giddy dizziness on the Teacup Ride, blurring us into a swirl of candy-colored laughter.

Dad last visited Disneyland with us on his 80th birthday four years ago, which also happened to be the park's 50th. Even back then, we could tell Dad's physical condition was on the wane, but his spirit remained peppery. While he wasn't able to take on the Indiana Jones ride, he was able to tackle Pirates of the Caribbean, his long-time favorite. The downward dive of the boat splashed water in his ear, making Dad giggle impishly at the experience. Later in the day, as his energy drained, he enjoyed sitting near Main Street and listening to the ragtime piano player, sipping an iced tea and the sweet summer air.

Toward the end of our visit, Dad took us aside in the hallway of the Disneyland Hotel, "I can't wait to come back!"

Dad walks with a walker now. His amusement park days may be over. This reality wracks me.

Every park I visit, Dad gets a post card. Every park I visit, Dad gets an update.

I take Dad along every single time.