Dramatic Things by Alyona Chernysh

People are too dramatic about aging.

The moment someone turns eighty, everyone starts acting like they're made of glass. My sister is the worst. Every phone call becomes another lecture about “independence” and "respecting his choices." Easy words from someone who lives three states away.

I'm the one who stayed.I'm the one who takes care of Dad. That's why I know what's best for him. 

It started with small things. He forgot where he left his wallet. Mixed up a doctor's appointment. Burned a pot of soup because he left the stove on. Nothing serious. Still, I couldn't ignore the signs. So I began helping. I took over his grocery shopping first. Then I started handling his bills. There was no point in making him stress over numbers and paperwork. He protested, of course. Old people always do. I remember him standing in the kitchen, gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I can still manage my own money.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Just because it was absurd. The electricity bill was sitting upside down in his hand. A few months later, I moved into the spare bedroom. Only temporarily. The neighbors seemed relieved. At least, I think they were. Whenever I walked Dad around the neighborhood, they smiled politely and asked how he was doing. Sometimes their conversations stopped when we approached, but that's probably because they felt awkward discussing health issues. People never know what to say around the elderly. Dad became stubborn after that. He insisted on driving.

One afternoon I found him searching for his car keys. I watched him pat every pocket twice before asking where he'd put them. The keys were exactly where I left them. In the toolbox behind the garage. He looked so frustrated that I almost felt bad.

Almost. 

But imagine if he'd gotten lost. Imagine if he'd hurt someone.Sometimes protecting people requires difficult choices. The doctor agreed he shouldn't drive anymore. At least I think he did. Dad kept interrupting the appointment, raising his voice and claiming I was exaggerating things. The doctor spent most of the visit staring at his computer screen. People hear what they want to hear. The driving issue wasn't the only problem. Dad had begun making strange phone calls.One evening I overheard him telling my sister he felt trapped.That word bothered me. 

Trapped.

As if I were keeping him prisoner. As if cooking his meals, cleaning his house, and managing his medications were some kind of punishment. After that, I started screening his calls. Just to reduce stress.Too much excitement isn't healthy at his age.

The house became quieter. Calmer. Dad spent more time sitting by the living room window. Sometimes I'd find him there long after sunset, staring at nothing. The television flickered across his face while untouched food cooled beside him. I worried he was becoming depressed. Which made my sister's visit last week especially frustrating. The moment she arrived, she started asking questions:

"Why was Dad's phone disconnected?"

"Why were there bars on the downstairs windows?"

"Why didn't he have access to his bank account?"

"UGH!! GET THE F OUT" I thought, but didn't say, of course 

Honestly, she made everything sound sinister. Dad barely spoke throughout the conversation. He just sat in his armchair, staring at the carpet. At one point she knelt beside him and took his hand. The look he gave her was strange. Almost desperate. As if he wanted to say something.But what could he possibly have said? That I was feeding him?Protecting him?Keeping him safe?

She left furious.Yesterday a social worker knocked on the door. Today someone from Adult Protective Services called. Apparently people think I'm controlling him. It's ridiculous. The truth is that nobody else understands how much danger he's in. Without me, he might wander off. Forget his medication. Get lost. The fact that he tried to leave the house three times this month only proves my point.That's why I installed the locks where he can't reach them.That's why I keep the gate secured. That's why I moved his bedroom upstairs, farther from the front door. One day everyone will realize I've been right all along. They'll understand that every decision I've made has been for his own good. Even Dad.

Especially Dad.