Phone numbers

My parents have had the same phone number since I was two years old, which means it's been the same number for a very long time.

I can say it so fast it just sounds like one big word, as it's been rolling off of my tongue for years and years.

Tomorrow will be the last day I can call that number and ask to speak to my father.

He is moving out of his house tomorrow.

My mom simply cannot take care of him at home anymore (even with nearly full time help).

The disease that has ravaged his mind is too much, for her, for everyone.

We are grateful that he was home for as long as he was.
Herculean efforts were made to help him recover as much as possible after his stroke (he went to the same rehab as Congresswoman Giffords) but alas, there was nothing that could be done, really. Dementia is cruel.

My mom is exhausted. Spent. Mentally, physically, financially (and no, it is not about finances).

She is also heartbroken, having to be separated from her husband of 40+ years. I can scarcely stand to think about her on their acreage, in their big country house, all alone.

After tomorrow I will have to call another phone number--one I will undoubtedly have to look up repeatedly--and ask to speak to my father, ask someone I don't know if he would be willing to talk on the phone.

But he won't want to talk.
It's a rare occasion that I can get more than two sentences out of him on the phone, and it's clear he really doesn't know what's going on. He only knows it's me because my mother always tells him to say hello to me. She can't stand for him not to know his own daughter.

I guess we're lucky that most days he doesn't know he's at his own home anyway, maybe that will make it less hard on him.

But it doesn't make it any less hard on me, on my mother. I know some of you have lost your fathers and I don't know which is worse--to lose them outright early or to watch them disintegrate into nothingness when they were the strongest person you ever knew.

My dad--he could chop down a huge tree while wearing a J-collar with a broken neck. He could work in the hot sun all day long and never complain. He could run marathons. He could ride his bike longer and faster than Mr. MTL and I ever could--he exhausted us on countless rides. He could do the hardest crossword puzzle of the week in the newspaper and never.give.up until every last blank was filled in. He could read the Christmas story to us every year and always choke up on the words "And she pondered all these things in her heart." He could give you a gentle squeeze with his calloused hands, he could laugh at your bad joke, he could sing off-key but from the heart...he could do all of those things and now, he cannot.

And tomorrow he has to move out of his house. And into the care of virtual strangers to live out his days with more indignities than anyone should ever, ever have to suffer.

Oh Dad.
I'm so sorry.