My Dad is still -- at 90, flat on his back in a rehab place and being spoon-fed, this afternoon, by yours truly -- such an intimidating figure that neither my sister nor I can really talk to him about anything of substance, related to personal stuff. It just is never going to happen.
Meanwhile, his condition has improved quite a bit, to the point where he might be able to go home soon -- albeit requiring 24-hour care. Which is going to be an issue, because he is going to balk at the cost. although he can afford it, even at $20/hour * 168 hours/week * 52 weeks/year. (Do the math -- that's some serious cash, but he could afford it for several years.) Being a child of the Great Depression -- which he was telling me stories about this afternoon -- he can't get his head around paying anyone much of anything for anything. So a confrontation looms -- he'll want me to go home and be his caretaker, I will not do it. But man, does this stuff stress me out.
I'm serious -- the guy is barely able to get out of bed, and it was a major victory that they took out his catheter the other day and he can now pee on his own. They got him up today, and he walked out of the room and a few steps down the hall with the physical therapist, before deciding that was all he could do and going back to bed. He's pretty much all used up -- yet I can't even say "Boo!" to the guy....
T