It's Time To Take The Keys From Dad

There is nothing quite so difficult as having to become the adult in the relationship with an aging parent. Sad as it is, there comes a point where you are going to have to take the keys away from them. There will come a time when they can no longer stay in their own home, and it will be up to you to make that decision. They have become not simply a danger to themselves, but to others as well.

It’s hard because not only will you have to be an adult yourself, but a part of you will feel you are betraying those who did so much for you. You will have to fundamentally change a relationship you have known all your life. You have spent your entire life looking up to them. You appreciate the sacrifices they have made for you and all the wonderful things they have done for you. You know you would not be the person you are, that society would be worse off for them not having existed, and yet you must tell them it is time for them to relinquish control. The house they built with their own hands is so in need of repair it is a safety hazard. The pipes are broken, their bills are not being paid, their house smells of urine, their refrigerator has food that is seriously out of date, and they are no longer able to hold a sensible conversation. Sad as it might be, it slowly dawns on you that you must relieve them of their responsibilities.

The same applies to political parties. But it has to be done. You have to be the adult, because Daddy D. isn’t who he used to be. You’re going to have to have the talk sooner or later, so it’s best that you visualize it now in preparation for the real thing.

You knock loudly on the door, knowing he likes to pretend he didn’t hear anything. His hearing has been horrible for a long time, but you suspect he sometimes feigns deafness in order to avoid conversation. So you do the one thing you know that will get his attention: you say you’re from Publisher’s Clearinghouse, because the only thing that will get him to open the door is the thought of unearned money.

“I’ll be right there, I’m on the phone,” you can here him say. This worries you, because usually the only people who call him are shady characters trying to get him to wire money. There are a lot of crooks in the world, and as doubtful as your dad is of people, he always seems to fall for the very worst scams.

He finally opens the door, and the smell of musty ideas escapes. The gloom inside is almost palpable, because every one of the curtains have been closed tight. He doesn’t like the neighbors prying into his business. (It’s so sad. You remember when he was on good terms with the neighbors, remember when he loved spending time in the outdoors, remember him as the open and caring and loving person he once was).

“Hi, Daddy D,” you say brightly, attempting to bring some cheer into his miserably unhappy life. He is unhappy, no doubt ever since a gang of ruffians called lobbyists took all the fight out of him. Once he was your strong protector, now he isn’t real thrilled about getting out of his chair. He never once came to visit you in Michigan or Wisconsin.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, disappointed you’re not a stranger holding an oversized check with more zeroes than the skies over Pearl Harbor on December 7^th.

“Yes, it’s your loving daughter,” you say. But his hearing is bad and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge much of anything you say. At this stage of life, it seems he is no longer interested in anyone else’s opinions. Instead, all he is capable of doing is reciting from his list of petty complaints and reminiscing about the old days and prior triumphs. He blames everything, absolutely everything, on your mother. But you know better. You bore witness to the constant bickering, both sides were to blame. It seemed they were so involved in tearing at each other, they didn’t have time for you kids. Again, the sadness overwhelms you when it sinks in just how far the mighty have fallen. He once had time to walk your sister to school when a bunch of racists tried to keep her from attending. He was so brave and caring…once.

You let yourself in and follow his slow and unsteady steps to the kitchen. It is around the table that such a discussion will need to take place. But you notice it is covered in unpaid bills and scratched-off lottery tickets—it’s even worse than you thought.

The houseplants are all dead. You can see this even in the gloom of the house. So you go to open up some of the curtains, let some sunlight in, but he screams shrilly as the first hint of light enters. “No,” he cries, his voice cracking at the strain of such intensity working its way through such frail vocal cords.

“Why, what’s the matter?” you ask.

“Russians!” he says.

“Dear sweet Jesus,” you say to yourself. You knew he was losing it, you’ve just never allowed yourself to admit it until now. Now that you have made the commitment to do what must be done, you finally allow yourself to see what you should have a long time ago. Dementia has set in. He needs the kind of care only professionals can provide.

This strengthens your resolve, and you grab him by the arm, guiding him to a chair at the table. You sit across from him, engage in pleasantries, all the while working your way towards what you need to say.

“I heard you got in an accident.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” he says. He’s not going to make this easy for you.

“I heard you crashed into Syria. What the heck were you even doing in that neighborhood, anyway? You promised you’d only drive to get to your doctor’s appointments and to get groceries. Syria is nowhere near your doctor or the supermarket.”

“I got lost,” he admits. Then, recovering his defensiveness, “but it was Syria’s fault. He was trying to run down a group of kids. I crashed into him to save them.”

“He was parked, dad.” God, this is going to be hard. But you realize now that you made the right decision. Sometimes the hardest part is seeing things for what they are. Once you do, the right response seems obvious. There is no doubt in your mind now.

“He was driving like a maniac,” says dad, getting riled up.

“That’s what you said about Libya. And Iraq.” He’s going to kill someone if you don’t take away his keys. You know that now. You are the adult, and it falls upon you to take the power to harm others away from him. Besides, he’s going to kill himself and anyone who’s foolish enough to get in his car. It’s because you love him that you have to do this.

“Dad, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for your keys. I know this really nice lady named Jill. She’s a really good driver and she’ll take you where you need to go.”

“What?”

“I said you can’t drive anymore.”

“I can’t hear you,” he says, fumbling with his keys.

“I said you can’t drive anymore.” You love him dearly but he is seriously starting to piss you off.

“Dad,” you continue, “we’ve found a nice place for you to stay. You won’t have to take care of anything, there will be nice people to make sure you’re properly fed. You’ve got plenty of money, don’t worry about that.”

In fact, he’s got money coming out his ears. It makes you start to wonder how he got so rich working a government job. But you push such thoughts down because you really don’t want to know.

You stand up from the table, make your way towards dear old dad, and are about to grab the keys from his hands, when all of the sudden there’s a knock on the door. A sly grin slides across your dad’s face, and you wonder if he hasn’t got one over on you. You go to the door and two police officers stand there.

“Police, ma’am. We received a phone call that the house was being broken into by a suspect identified as a Russian. We were informed he has a few accomplices, specifically anyone willing to call into question the decision-making abilities of the inhabitant of this residence.”

You look back at your dad and you see the sly grin blossom into a manic smile. He might have full-blown dementia, but that doesn’t mean this is going to be easy. Nevertheless, it has to be done. Too much is at stake.