I got a frantic phone call from Cheryl yesterday, while I was getting the oil changed in my car; it seems dad had attempted to escape, both through the fire doors, and apparently, failing that, down the elevator. While I was with him yesterday, for five hours, he kept going on about "find your mother, we need to get out of this place," and, "let's go, we can't stay here." Yeah. The facility already has him tethered to the chair, so that if he tries to stand, which he really can't, very well, an alarm will sound, and help will be on its way. I admit it; I don't know how to deal with him, and quite frankly, I don't think we as a population know how to deal with a population of people who are getting this old. I think we're running into things we've never encountered before, because, well, at least pre-Korean War era, we just marveled at anyone who had lived that long, and if they happened to have gotten a little "dotty," as the Brits would say, in the process, well, leave grandma alone in the living room with "Wheel of Fortune," "The Lawrence Welk Show," or whatever her preference happened to be, make sure she stayed fed, and in a warm, cozy bed, and everything was cool. Not possible with dad; he's far to used to the need to do, the need to move, and with his faculties in the shape they're in, that's not good.

Oddly, I rolled by an old Mercedes 240D this morning, of the vintage that were identifiable by the ribbed taillights, ostensibly to keep said rear markers free of dirt, or so went the marketing buzz. And I thought about how easy it was, relatively speaking, to keep something of that relative old age pristine; there's really very little in terms of feelings emanating from the car itself, so as a result, it doesn't mind being acted upon and preserved, for it's benefit and yours. And when the car is parked, almost nothing of it's own volition is going to have it anywhwere but where you parked it, unless it's a stick, and you forgot to put the e-brake on. And acts of God can affect everyone and everything, human and otherwise.

Don't get me wrong, I have not ever had what I would consider a perfect relationship with my father; what bothers me most is that he's lost what one might most prize in him, that dazzling, pyrotechnic intellect. Say what you will about him, and God knows I said a lot, because, of course, as children will do, I rebelled fiercely. But the older I got in life, the more I learned dad was right more often than not. I jokingly told Martha that if I ever lose my mind so emphatically, just park me in front of a TV, turn on the Golf Channel, and leave me the hell alone. Frankly I'm beginning to think that the money and effort that we put into geriatric care might be better spent on people capable of having a productive future. Dignity, self-respect, and respect, and respect in general, are about the choices that we make; what have we put into this world? How is it better or worse because of our actions? And that, of course, raises the issue that for years, children should have been able to trust their parents and others around them, and couldn't, always; what does love have to do with it? I also realize that the people we love, and who love us, obviously cannot be left out of the equation, nor can their feelings; but given that the level of care of the aged and mentally infirm hasn't made great strides since the 17th century apparently, based on what I've seen, I think we'd honestly all be better off with good memories of the people we love, over having them mentally and emotionally hollow but still alive and kicking.