Papa has been living with us for exactly nine months. Like some strange pregnancy.

He has seen numerous doctors, but his primary doctor, Susanna Thomas, is a saint.

With her “take no prisoners” attitude, belying her southern Italian roots, she determined unequivocally that Papa CANNOT be left alone. Ever. She sent us to a neurologist because, as she said, “something’s going on in that head, let’s check for Parkinson’s or frontal lobe issues.” All comes back negative the first time.

She determinately dictates that we should look for a memory lock down unit for his care. He is a danger to himself and others. She states again- He CANNOT be left alone.

I know this to be true.

Since his arrival nine months ago he has melted a coffee pot, burnt a chopping board, fed chocolate to the dogs, let the dogs out, fell down the stairs, chopped his finger, lost five teeth, put cat litter in the bird feeder, hoarded cold cuts in his underwear drawer, has taken approximately 4.5 showers, contracted pneumonia, twice, called the police because he was angry, tried to move out seven times, locked a caregiver out of the house, pushed another one out the door and tried to cop a feel on a third.
He has made spaghetti with salsa instead of sauce, burned his hand on the coffee pot, and ordered teeth online.
He has wandered into the yard and lost his way, he has eaten angel food cake in his room on his lap, naked.

This is not a sane man. He could hurt us or himself at any moment. We travel often and work late into the night on most days, so who is to supervise?

So I call the state. Since Papa is dirt poor (his own doings), they cover his care through Title 19. They told us in August they do not cover memory unit care. They do cover nursing homes, but only if he qualifies. They also cover a 24 hour PCA to live in with us. Which is what they did on September 15. Patience came to stay. Yes, this is her real name. God is good.

Making room in our lives for Patience is not an easy feat it appears. We had to relocate my daughter, Chelsea, to make room for Patience, as she needed my daughters bedroom. We began to renovate the third floor of our home for Chelsea and gave Patience Chelsea’s room next to Papa’s who is in the boys old room. Musical rooms. But until the third floor is done, Chelsea, bless her heart, is sleeping in the music room in the basement and sharing our bath.

But I digress.

So Patience has been a GODSEND! She gets Papa showered, something he refuses to do. She brushes what little teeth he has left. She makes sure he takes his medicines and eats breakfast- not sugar. She drives him daily to Stop and Shop for lottery tickets and whatever food obsession he has developed that week. She is there when we are not, which is most often. My stress level is down, the dogs are safe, my father is safe and healthy- no doctors visits for UTI’s, no malnutrition, no falls. No nursing home. The way I calculate it, this is saving the state a lot of money.

And yet….

I field a call today from Myra at The Agency on Aging. She is sweet. But she is a government sheep. Not her fault.

Myra visited the day before, while we were all at work. She ‘talked’ to Papa. He can care for himself, he tells her. According to him, he tells her he takes his own shower, he brushes everyday, he cooks full meals for himself, and yes he can still drive (he can’t). She turns to the caregiver, who is a fill in while Patience is on a break. The caregiver says she hasn’t helped him much in the two days she’s been here. That’s a thorough assessment, right?

So Myra the Sheep is on the phone today telling me that, based on her visit, Papa no longer qualifies for live in care. He would need PHYSICAL care in order to qualify, you know, help getting in the bath, wearing diapers, and feeding himself.

But what about the doctors orders for full time care?

The state says he doesn’t need it, and well …. The state.

So, now we scramble. My world can never remain orderly.