The Hermit

And you know that it’s taken its share of me
Even though you take such good care of me

And you know that I’m looking back carefully
Cause I know that there’s still something there for me

I’m backing up Joe on the Jackson Brown song Something Fine and those are the four lines I have to learn. They’re almost like a zen koan, or maybe a coded message from the universe.

The Hermit came up in the reversed position in my tarot reading and I immediately knew what that was all about. Sequoia moved his 88 year old father into a residential care home in Medford and it has been a rough couple of weeks. Ken is much, much frailer than I realized. He can’t get up and down out of a chair, is having trouble walking with the walker. He can’t hear and can barely see. When he’s alert, he can track a conversation for one or two sentences before he gets confused and lost. Often, he can’t track at all. He is unhappy, depressed and wants to die. He keeps saying "I should just slit my throat." Of course, he was saying the same thing while he was in his home, but it still gets to us every time.

Here’s the inescapable truth: Most of us will get old, our powers will decline to the point that we can no longer care for ourselves and then we’ll die. That’s what happens if we’re LUCKY; the other option is to die young. I don’t look forward to being unable to care for myself, but I fully intend to make choices that acknowledge that reality.

Ken had the means and the money to make his own choices, but he didn’t. He refused to acknowledge the reality of his own decline. He thought of himself as a jock and never remotely entertained the possibility that his body would betray him. He also thought of himself as rich, but that was more self delusion. We pray to god we clear enough money on the sale of his house to pay for his care until the end of his life. He can’t take care of himself and he doesn’t have enough income to pay for full-time in-home care. I feel for him, I honestly do. Every time I visit him, I end up in tears. But, I’m also angry at him for not making responsible choices when he had the chance. Instead, he saddled Sequoia with the responsibility and the guilt.

Ken’s in a private room in a private home with his own TV, his own stereo, and round the clock care. It’s a nice, clean, fresh smelling home with attentive caregivers. He’s depressed and angry and I don’t blame him; I would be too. But, we are not responsible for this outcome. If you don’t make the hard choices in life, they will be made for you.

Remember the ant and the grasshopper my friends. Make hay while the sun shines or pay the price.

On Sunday, we took him to the early bird dinner at Marie Callendar’s. He always loved the Marie Callendar’s in San Ramon and we hoped the familiar setting might jog his memory, but no luck. Picture Sequoia and I, neither of us young any more, with his aged, decrepit father in a wheelchair at the early bird dinner. Yup, it was grim.

The bright spot in all this is my beloved Sequoia. He’s so incredibly patient with his dad, so compassionate. He listens to him repeating the same complaint over and over again without every rising to the bait. He cuts up his food and feeds him bird-size bites, combs his hair and washes his face, sooths his fears and anxieties. He put up photos of Ken in his WWII uniform, photos of the B17 plane he used to fly, photos of the grandkids he no longer recognizes. It makes me cry just to think of it. I’m married to a remarkable man.