Everything seems fine until I get a call from the social worker saying that you told her that you want to be put in a home with Mommy.  I'm in total shock. For the past week I've been looking for in home care for you and Mommy; someone to help you take care of her.  To run errands for you. So you don't have to do so much work.  She tells me that they won't release you until I find a rehab place for you.  For the past week I've been taking care of Mommy. Dressing her, feeding her, figuring out her medications. I don't know how you did it Daddy. She wanders the house at night, not knowing where she is. I woke up one night to see her standing over her medications, opening bottles. I'm terrified that she might have taken something. I watch her like a hawk but she's fine. I bring her to the hospital every day so you can see her.  Every time I bring her into your hospital room, both your eyes light up.  "Hi Baby" she says every time.  Every morning I tell her we're going to the hospital, she always ask why. "Daddy's there." "What happened?" she says. I have to repeat this every morning. She remembers nothing. She never asks about you. Never asks where you are.  Never says your name.

But it all changes when I bring her to your room.  We always knew you and Mommy were soul mates. And how much you loved each other.  To be together for 60 years, I don't think I've ever heard you fight. You insist on feeding her your hospital food, as if she's not being fed.  You always think of her first. You always took care of her. You still do.

Every time  I walk in the door you ask me 3 things. Every day. 1. How's Mommy? 2. How's the business? 3. When are you going back to ny?  And every day I tell you the same thing. Fine, fine and I'm not going back until you're all better. 

I find a rehab center, the best in the county. Sadly the hospital transfers you there and doesn't even tell me. We show up at the hospital and you're gone.  We rush over and you're angry. Mad.  You hate it there.  For the first time I'm terrified. What's going on? I yell at the head nurse, trying to remember your saying, 'you get more flies with honey than vinegar', but it's not happening this time.

Three days in rehab and you go for a checkup at the hospital. You come back and you're quiet, won't talk, won't eat.  You scare me.  What's going on? I realize later that you were scared. I don't know why. What did they tell you? There was the possibility that they may have to amputate your foot, but I tell you I will take care of mom, bring her every day until you're better.  I tell you I found homes for you and mommy.  There are 2. One where my sister has been for years and another one, that's amazing. I can see you there Daddy. You would love it there. A library, a pool. The three of you would be together.  You tell me not to move my sister. That you want to move in her home.  I'm shocked. Are you sure?

I make plans to move you and Mom into the new home.. and move my stuff from my LA place into your house.  Not even a day later, your doctor calls saying they need to get you into ER right away. Your kidneys stopped. Mom and I sit with you in the cold ER till 6 am until they have a room for you.  You're quiet, won't talk. You pretend to be sleeping.  I know you're scared. I talk to doctors and tell them all I know.  Two days later I walk into your hospital room and you can't breathe.  You're gasping. The sight of you almost makes me pass out.  Now, I'm terrified. They say they called me but they didn't.  They're trying to get you in ICU but there's no room.  Mom and I sit there for hours until they find a room. You won't eat, you won't talk. I'm so scared.  As they wheel you to ICU, I ask you, Daddy. Do you think you can beat this? You look at me and nod frantically. I believe you.  I hang on to that with my life.  You can beat this Daddy. You can.

Two days later I'm moving Mommy into the new home.  I'm having your best friend take her to lunch so she doesn't see the moving van. I don't to scare her.  That I'm moving her away from the home she's lived in since 1958. They move everything in, perfectly.  I rush to the hospital and you're now on a respirator.  You're so weak, so tired. I tell you Mommy's all moved in and that she loves it there. She's happy. Her daughter is with her. You grab my hand and squeeze it a million times and smile. I know that you know.  Anything I can do for you will. I will do anything for you if it means that you and Mommy will have one more day, one more night together.  I just frantically want you to be with Mommy again. I'm happy that you know that Mommy is safe.  A week later I move my stuff into the house.  I rush to the hospital to tell you I'm home now.  You barely respond. All I get is a weak shaking of your head.  And you're so weak you can barely squeeze my hand. I don't even know if you know I'm there.  The nurses tell me that you can hear me.  That you respond.  But you don't.  But you must have known. Because the next day is when we start to loose you.  The next day, you start to go.