Dad Finally Rescued from Third-Rate ALF

My dad is officially an ALF resident!

Today the new ALF sent someone to get him from the old ALF, and all day, I’ve been running around working on getting him installed. I moved his belongings from ALF to ALF, I signed the contract and wrote checks, and I bought Dad clothes and shampoo at Wal-Mart. Now I’m wiped out.

I had to go to Wal-Mart because my dad has a roommate. It would be gauche for my dad to continue sleeping without clothes. The ALF staff recommended some kind of stretchy pants and white T-shirts (bleachable), so that’s what I got him. When I dropped this stuff off, I didn’t go in and see him. If I keep doing that, he will never mingle.

I met his roommate. I was disappointed. I had heard he was talkative, but he didn’t say a word. Maybe he’s shy. My dad says he wants a private room, but he’s not getting one until he gives the roommate a fair shake. I don’t want him isolating himself alone in a room. I’m hoping the roommate will open up.

When I went to the old ALF to get my dad’s clothes, his room stank (even though he was gone). I made the right decision about that place. Some of the clothes that were hanging in his closet had already been worn, and his bathrobe had stains that were days old.

I called the new ALF and asked if I should launder everything, but they told me they would handle it. So they’re doing what the old ALF should have done. When I got to the new ALF with the clothes, they made me leave them out front. They knew the old ALF had roaches, so they wanted to make sure none came in with the clothes. Nice!

I spent maybe 45 minutes with my dad, and I didn’t smell one bad smell. That’s incredible. I walked all over the place, and everything smelled fine. Last week, I visited a ritzy place that wanted about $7000 per month, which is very expensive, and in spite of the opulence, it smelled a little.

While I was at the new ALF today, a couple of the other patients talked to my dad, and one of them helped him into a chair when he joined everyone in the activity room.

My dad’s attitude is far better than it used to be, but he is still making some effort to criticize assisted living. The ALF has several very nice sitting areas with TV’s, and when I pointed one out and noted how clean it was, he said, “They must make the inmates do it.” He was completely serious.

“Inmates”?

He admitted it was much nicer than the old ALF.

He still talks about moving back home, and he asked if I could move to the ALF. I think it shows how I’ve spoiled him. I don’t want to abandon him, but his notion of normal family unity is on the extreme side. The world is full of grown men who do not see their fathers every day. It’s not abuse to limit visits to every other day or even once a week.

I’m going to determine how often I need to visit him in order to be a good son, and then I’ll quit worrying about it. I can’t live his life for him. I think he has it pretty sweet right now. If I let him, he’ll turn me into a big part of ALF life, and that defeats the purpose of moving him there.

I can’t get over the difference between the ALF’s. It’s not just the cleanliness, the excellent maintenance, and the increased attention. I actually saw visitors at the new one. At the old one, I rarely saw anyone.

I feel like I hit the jackpot. I hope I continue to feel that way. I think I will. I’m pretty confident.

I had a hard time deciding what kind of arrangement to make. They offered a plan that allows people to pay a fee and lock in their rates for life. At first, I thought it was a stupid idea, because I knew my dad probably wouldn’t live long. Then I reconsidered. Unless he dies suddenly or has a huge stroke that puts him in a skilled nursing home, he is going to deteriorate considerably while he’s at this ALF. His needs and monthly rate could increase a lot. I decided to pay the fee and forget about it. We’re not poor. If he never needs more care, the loss of the extra money won’t kill us. If he does need it, I’ll be glad I’m still writing relatively small checks.

If he declines suddenly and then lives several months, the fee will pay for itself. If he lives two years, I’ll save a great deal.

I’m itching to get the house in order so I can adjust and settle down to relatively normal life. I have to throw his mattress out. I have to move his lift recliner to the ALF or sell it. I have to decide whether I should get new carpeting for his bedroom or settle for multiple shampooings with bleach.

I won’t feel this is for real until the house loses its nursing home feel.

True to my word, I am trying out streaming TV so I can get rid of DirecTV. I have Youtube TV and Hulu trials going. I think Hulu is the way to go. Youtube TV doesn’t have Motor Trend. Both companies do okay with Turner Classic Movies. I like Forged in Fire, and Youtube doesn’t have it.

It has only been one day, so maybe I shouldn’t judge, but I don’t miss “real” TV yet. Hulu, regular Youtube, and Amazon Prime will probably give me more than I want.

Even though I have been somewhat busy with the work of getting my dad moved to an ALF, I have been getting more done at home since he left. Today while I was running around for him, I put in about five hours, but when I knocked off, I still managed to take care of some things at home. I threw out some clothes and other unneeded items. I cleaned up a little. I located and bought tires.

I saw a dress shirt in his closet, and it had something unpleasant on it. I took it to the laundry room, and then I thought about it. The shirt is probably 30 years old. He will never wear a dress shirt again. To wash it and hang it up would be to engage in denial. I threw it out, along with a paint-stained shirt and his old plaid bathrobe.

He has directed that he be cremated, so there will be no viewing and no dress clothes to worry about when he dies.

Only two years ago, he got dressed up, and I took him to Ruth’s Chris for his birthday. I don’t recall, but he may have driven us there.

He will never go to a restaurant again.

Fatal, fatal, fatal. I should write the word “fatal” on a Post-It note and put it up where I can see it while I work.

His disease is fatal.

When he was living here, I never knew when I would be interrupted. It was hard to focus on things I needed to do. I was also decompressing a lot of the time. I might deal with my dad for an hour and then spend two or three hours winding down. I hid a lot, because when he saw me, he usually yelled for me to do something for him. Now I can walk through the living room with the expectation that I’ll be able to maintain a train of thought.

I don’t know what will happen to Gloria, the unhappy lady I met at the old ALF. Yesterday I saw her while my dad was being assessed for the new place. She was in the regular area where people aren’t locked up. A lady was with her; I assume it was the sister she told me about. Gloria can’t leave the memory care area without an escort.

I let the director of the new ALF know that I mentioned it to Gloria. I hope she’ll move.

It seems that every night, I think, “Tonight I can finally relax.” I don’t think I’ll truly let go until an entire day passes during which 1) my dad is in a permanent ALF, and 2) I don’t have to do one single thing to help.

He doesn’t have a TV yet, and I could take him one tomorrow. I don’t know whether I will. I don’t want to keep hovering over him, and the ALF has several common TV’s. I guess I could drop a TV off in the office without seeing him, but I think that would still count as a visit in my heart.

It would be neat if he started watching TV in one of the big common TV rooms. It would be nicer than his room, and he would be out and about.

One day not too long from now, they’ll give me a call, and I’ll find out all this work is finished. Or they’ll tell me he has been taken to the hospital, and then the work will end abruptly.

He has no DNR. He doesn’t want one. That’s okay, because it may give him more time to receive salvation, but it may give me some difficult days when things get bad.

Time to fire up Hulu and take the birds out. We will see how far I get tomorrow before I have to deal with my dad and the ALF.

ALF Quest Ends in 14-1/2 Hours

I thought this day would never come. My dad is scheduled to move to a permanent ALF tomorrow morning!

I can’t tell you how much I’ve hated the suspense since moving him into his current ALF. I stuck him in there, hoping it would be a good place for him to spend the rest of his life. I found out it wasn’t up to par, and he hated it, so I had to run around searching for better alternatives. Instead of making the house my own and getting back on top of my responsibilities, I ended up spending a large percentage of each day trying to help my dad; it was exactly what I had hoped to be done with.

Today the lady who runs the new ALF met with us, and my dad passed muster. She’s going to send someone to pick him up at 10 a.m. I won’t even have to drive him. I think it’s safe to breathe again.

I wonder if it sounds selfish to talk about making the house my own. You have to understand the situation. My dad’s bedroom furniture is a mess, and it needs to be given away. I had to dedicate the living room to him, so the only furniture I bought for that room was a lift recliner. We’re still using the awful Scarface-era glass coffee tables and a couple of end tables he bought for some woman he dated while he and my mother were divorced. That woman got better treatment than my mother; I don’t want to be reminded of her.

The fridge needs to be mopped out with bleach. I want to give away the old dresser he and my mother bought right after they got married, because it reminds me of the worst times of my life. I have two armchairs my mother got from my cousins after her sister died, and they’re terrible. I have extra sets of dishes and flatware I only kept so my dad wouldn’t contaminate my own things.

I still find myself reaching to hide food in cupboards instead of putting it in the pantry.

I have never been able to use the living room. It was just a place for my dad to sit and make a mess while he passed the time. I couldn’t spend time there because he would have monopolized my attention and made constant demands. Also, I didn’t want to touch anything because he was so dirty.

I guess I should move into the master suite, after replacing the carpet. It’s a little odd to live in an upstairs bedroom in your own house while the master suite stays empty.

Maybe I’ll get a double bed instead of a queen. Big beds suck up space, and I don’t need all that elbow room. I don’t understand the king size bed mentality.

Once I get him moved, I plan to abandon him for a couple of days so he will mingle. After that, I figure I’ll visit him three times a week. I can’t keep going every day. Maybe I can eventually cut back to two weekly visits. I want to do what’s right for him, but assisted living serves no purpose if I’m still dedicating too much time to him.

As much as I suffered with his care, and as bad as his attitude was at times, I miss him. When I planned the move up here, I didn’t think much about what it would be like to be without him in a big house. We needed the space while he was living downstairs, but now it’s just me and two birds.

Man. I’ll be able to travel after this week. I won’t have to look for respite care and cart my dad off, like last time. I can just board the birds, get in the car, and go. I could conceivably get on a plane again. I feel like flying to a place where they have mountains and taking a train ride.

I should drive to Tennessee and spend a week looking around, checking out various areas. Ocala is wonderful, but I feel like I want to be in Appalachia when I die. I don’t want to die on sand.

I can get rid of DirecTV this week! I’ll be signing the ALF contract tomorrow, and after that, I’ll feel like it’s safe to cut the cord. I have to decide what I want to do. I already cut it down to basic service.

It looks like Hulu might be a good bet for me. For $40 per month, I’ll get Turner Classic Movies, Motor Trend (formerly Velocity TV), Fox News, and some other junk. I can’t recall the last time I watched any channel other than Motor Trend and TCM.

This is going to be very strange. I’ll have to get used to having time to do things, as well as freedom to make quick decisions.

Today I talked to my dad, and he said some odd things. I told him there was a church near the new ALF, and I said I would like to take him there on Sundays. He said that when people are in the middle of their lives, they lose interest in church, but when they get old, they become interested again. I can’t figure that out, coming from the guy who hated God for so many decades. I seriously wonder if parts of his brain that helped him hate God aren’t working any more. Whatever the reason is, I plan to see what I can do about getting him to services.

Tomorrow I’ll sign him up, and then the restructuring begins. Tonight I plan to go to bed early and sleep so hard I make a permanent dent in the mattress.

Goodbye, Vick’s Vaporub

Today I met with the people from the ALF I’m engaging for my dad. Here’s one sign that things are looking up: when I got out of the car, I looked at the jar of Vick’s Vaporub I keep in the center console. I rub it on my upper lip when I visit my dad, to mask the smell of excrement in his current ALF. I was about to grab it, and then I remembered: the new ALF doesn’t stink. That felt good.

The “meeting” took about 10 minutes. I was given a contract to read. The director told me she would assess my dad today or tomorrow, and that he would then be admitted. I had already chosen a room with a roommate for him, and she said it was still available.

He should be moving on Wednesday. The new ALF will send someone to go get him. I considered doing it myself, and I would like to share the moving experience with him, because I think he’ll be very glad to go, but I don’t want him to get in the car with me and get the idea that he’s coming home. It would be inconsiderate to do that to him and then drop him at yet another facility.

I won’t have to buy him any furniture up front. The previous occupant’s stuff is still there. If it’s not great stuff, that’s okay, because it will be good enough to serve until I can have something better delivered.

I got him a lift recliner last year. I cleaned it today, and I plan to drop it at the ALF if there is room. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to give it away. I don’t think I can sell a recliner that belonged to a dementia patient, even after using bleach on it. It will be unpleasant to see the empty space in the living room where it used to sit.

Tomorrow the contract will be signed, God willing.

The ALF gives people discounts depending on how much they pay up front. Every ALF has a “community fee” which you pay at the outset. If I pay a double fee, I’ll get a permanent reduction in the monthly rate. I don’t think I’m going for that. I don’t think my dad will be there long enough to make it pay off. Sorry to say it.

I’m not sure what’s happening with my dad. He has been very upbeat for several days, and he has also been walking faster.

My friend Mike, the hospice executive, says terminal patients often experience what is called a “surge.” It means they feel better and are more alert for a short time. It’s not a good sign. It means death is around the corner. Of course, a patient who has a miraculous recovery will also experience a surge, but that would be comparatively rare. I don’t know if my dad is having a surge or what. Mike thinks he is. Maybe God is speaking to him to make him easier for me to deal with.

I am not taking my dad any more newspapers. He has suddenly stopped reading them, so I might as well keep them for myself. He says he has stopped doing crossword puzzles, too, which must mean he can’t finish them. That has to be disturbing, for a man who used to find them extremely easy. When I visited him yesterday, I saw two unread newspapers on his walker, and he won’t read the last one I brought him, either.

I still haven’t seen anyone else visiting the ALF, except for a couple of people in the parking lot. Relatives should visit, because when the cat’s away, we all know what the mice will do. ALF staffers benefit from seeing caring relatives show up. It motivates them to do their jobs better.

I only visited my dad’s mother twice after she went into a facility, but I barely knew her, and she was 900 miles away. I admit, I only went because my father and mother went. I didn’t go to her funeral. I don’t know what my cousins thought of that, but then they are also people I barely know, so it’s not like their opinion would ever get back to me.

I have the feeling that very few people visit my dad’s current ALF. I suspect that I’m unusual.

Some of the rooms have shadowboxes outside containing photos and information. One lady has 4 kids. Where are they?

It’s chilling to look at the old pictures. They are classic 60’s and 70’s photos. Big hair. Clothing in off-putting colors like rust and avocado. They look like the old photos of my parents I would have, if we had been a normal family that took a lot of photos. People who were in their forties in 1973 are completely senile and physically wiped out. Was it really that long ago? My parents’ generation is pretty much gone!

Some of the shots of women remind me of my mother’s friends from my childhood in Miami Shores. I wonder how many of them are in ALF’s or graveyards.

There are older photos, too. Some are black and white. Let’s see; a 90-year-old woman would have been born in 1928 or 1929, so photos of women that age in their youth could have been taken as early as 1948. One of the women in the ALF was an entertainer, and her shadowbox has a photo of her in a short skirt, smiling at the camera. She appeared to be of college age. I couldn’t even guess which of the patients belonged to the photo.

One of the weird things about the ALF is that they have decorations that would be appropriate for people born in 1915. They also play a lot of old music. I don’t know if they realize they’re caring for the Woodstock generation now.

While I was writing this, my dad’s current hospice nurse called. She visited him in the ALF today. I told her I was moving him, and she said she loved the ALF I had chosen. She said it was one of her favorites. How about that? It looks like God led me to the right place, and that’s saying a lot, because you can’t throw a rock around here without hitting an ALF. There must be dozens. The odds against finding the best choice by yourself are very high.

Wednesday can’t come fast enough. I want to move on and start the next phase, and I want my dad out of the present situation.

Be Sure to Remove the Cartridges From Your Pocket Prior to Immersion

You could say yesterday was a good day for me.

Five weeks ago, I traveled to Clearwater to get re-baptized at an event held by The Last Reformation. Their Youtube videos convinced me that my first baptism was a farce, and they also convinced me that a real baptism would have positive supernatural effects. It’s not just a way to dedicate yourself to Jesus in front of a crowd. Since my real baptism, I have experienced new self-control. I feel much, much better.

The person who is most closely attuned to me on spiritual matters is my friend Travis. He’s a music student at the University of Miami. We have known each other for about 10 years now. We were armorbearers together at Miami’s corrupt and toxic Trinity Church. We both moved to another church, and that church dried up due to pride issues and a pedophilia scandal. We have had many, many prayer sessions together. God is changing both of us.

Before I went to Clearwater, I told a number of friends about it, but only Travis really got excited about it. A couple of others are interested, but Travis absolutely had to get what I got. He lives in a miserable county full of hateful people. He is constantly tempted by young college girls with post-2010 morals. He knows dozens of hostile, self-pitying victimhood junkies. He wants to have his desires changed. He wants power over his flesh.

Travis borrowed a car and drove up here day before yesterday. He had to work during the day, and then he got in the car and drove up here alone.

Yesterday morning, we had a discussion of baptism, and I did my best to help him understand what it was supposed to be. You’re supposed to repent of sin, for real (not just until the end of the current church service). You’re supposed to give your entire life to Jesus, putting all your desires on the altar and asking God to take whatever he wants (this is called “dying to the flesh”). You’re supposed to be baptized in the name of Jesus, not the trinity. You need to be fully immersed; sprinkling is a bizarre perversion that probably originated in cold countries.

You have to have complete faith in Jesus in order to be baptized; a baby can’t receive it. This is what Acts 8:37 tells us. Many Bibles don’t include this verse, but the historical record shows that it existed prior to the translations most Bibles rely on.

We prayed, and Travis put on white clothes (his idea). Then we had to decide where to baptize him.

My dad is now in an ALF, so for over a week, I have been working on cleaning up his bedroom suite. I shampooed the carpet with bleach. I mopped the bathroom floor with bleach, along with the doors, doorframes, counters, and tub. I keep going back and finding new things to clean. I don’t know when I’ll be completely done, but the bathroom is clean enough for a baptism. There is a huge jacuzzi tub in there. I had hoped we could use it (with nice warm water), but when Travis tried it on for size, it was too small for total immersion. That meant only one thing: we were going to have to use the pool.

When we went out to check the pool, the air temperature was 55 degrees. The water was very cold. We have had freezing nights. I felt vicarious terror when I thought about what Travis was about to do. He put his foot in the water and found out what he was in for. Nonetheless, he was determined. I got out some towels, turned up the heat in the house, and found myself a place on the patio where I could hold Travis by the hand and baptize him while getting as little water as possible on myself.

Hey, it wasn’t my baptism.

He did it. I could barely believe it. How desperate do you have to be, to sink your entire body in water that could be used to chill soda?

Here he is afterward.

We are hoping he’ll get the same kind of result I did.

I have never baptized anyone with water before. I baptized a friend with the Holy Spirit, which is not the same thing, and I helped baptize another person with the Holy Spirit. Travis is the first person I’ve put under. We have a friend in Miami who wants it, too, so Travis is going to baptize him. Our friend is another Trinity Church casualty. With any luck, no one else we know will have to come to my house in the winter and risk hypothermia. I can baptize people as well as the guys from TLR, and Travis can do it as well as I can.

To complete the experience, we got out a pistol and a couple of rifles and went shooting in my pasture. If only I had been able to get him to wear a MAGA hat and eat barbecue, the day would have been the perfect northern Florida Christian day.

I don’t have a MAGA hat. I was trying to be funny.

Travis has a talent for shooting, but he never gets to practice. Here is his pistol target, fired at 7 yards. Most people at gun ranges shoot a mess that spans about two feet. It’s remarkable, and what’s more remarkable is that many are content with that. They don’t look for instruction. Many men seem to be insecure about their marksmanship. They would rather put on special tactical pants and try to look like action movie heroes than actually learn how to shoot, because they don’t want to admit that they shoot badly.

It’s odd, because when your groups are huge, everyone can see that you shoot badly. You look bad no matter what you’re wearing. If you can’t shoot, no one cares how many zippers your 5.11 pants have. One would think insecure people would be more concerned about their shooting than their wardrobes.

Human beings are irrational.

I’m very happy about the way the day went. It’s tremendous. I was used to help Travis, and he will be used to help other people.

In other news, I talked to my new friend Gloria yesterday. Travis had to go to Orlando for a job interview, so I went to see my dad at the ALF, and while I was there, Gloria called me over.

She said my dad had been wandering around without enough clothing on, to put it mildly. I told her he was not a modest person and that I couldn’t do anything about it, but I said I was grateful for the information. Then we started talking about the new ALF I had picked for my dad.

Gloria does not like the current ALF, and I don’t blame her. It’s okay for ordinary old people who still have their faculties, but the memory care area, which is separate, is depressing and not as clean as it should be. She has blackouts from Parkinson’s, but her memory is fine, so she is not really like the other patients. She was put in memory care because she walked off during a blackout.

I told her about the place I found for my dad. One of their branches is literally 100 yards from where Gloria and I were standing. I told her both of their operations were extremely clean and that the branch close to me had a fanatical activity director who worked hard to keep everyone entertained. I told her it was cheaper than the ALF where she now lives.

She has an older sister who can move her, so she is considering calling her and setting up a visit.

I feel bad for her. She is tormented by an illness which may very well be demonic, and she is well able to perceive the problems with her living arrangements. Many memory care patients are so far gone, you could feed them cat food and bed them down on yoga mats in a common room, and they wouldn’t mind at all. The experience is much worse for someone who is still capable of functioning normally.

I told her that I would pray for her, and that I really meant it. I hope people who read about her will take up the cause.

My visit with my dad went well. Once again, he kept talking about how great he expected the future to be. He was pleased by my description of the new ALF, which he had forgotten about. He kept telling me what a wonderful son I was. He did ask about moving back home, but he didn’t harp on it or tell me I was selfish. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I can’t help thinking God has been speaking to him, preparing him for salvation.

It’s wonderful to look forward to seeing my dad instead of dreading it. I didn’t think that would ever happen.

I am hoping some of the other friends I communicated with will be baptized. Everyone needs to be properly equipped in this world. I don’t want to freeze anyone, but the need for baptism is urgent. In the Bible, new believers were baptized immediately after converting. I’m sure Satan is doing his best to keep them procrastinating.

While Travis was trying to come up here, he lost his wallet in an Uber car, and he called me, distrought. I think I wrote about this already. We had already talked about the certainty that Satan would try to wreck our plans, and we had prayed about it. I spoke God’s help to Travis in finding his wallet, and I repeated the words God gave me: “I am a son of God, and this is how things are supposed to work.” I refused to worry about it.

A few hours later, I hadn’t heard from Travis, so I texted. He said he had the wallet. My response: “Ha.”

Whenever you decide to obey God, Satan will look for a way to ruin it. Never get angry at God because you tried to serve him and then ran into trouble. Expect it, and pray about it before it happens.

I don’t know what today will bring, but after yesterday, I feel like I have already received everything from this weekend that I could have asked for. Now I look forward to hearing about the people Travis baptizes.

Confusing Torrent of Love and Support

Today was even weirder than usual.

I had an ALF lined up for my dad. Two days ago, I visited, and I thought they offered top-notch care for a reasonable price. Seemed like my search and my stress were over. I called yesterday afternoon, and when they got back to me this morning, they said they had just sold his room.

I went straight back to Googling. I didn’t even shower and dress first.

I rooted through endless reviews and search results. The reviews were unbelievably annoying. Maybe 60% of them were from ALF employees. “At Vista Oaks Regency, we take pride in giving your loved ones much better care than our sleazy, bedbug-infested competition. I’m proud to be part of the team! Free McDonald’s coupons with every signed lease.”

Here’s a tip for business owners: when you force your employees to write Internet reviews for you, it makes you look like a dirtbag. In fact, it kind of proves it.

I came up with four places to check out. I called one of them, and the lady who answered the phone told me something shocking. She said I could show up without making an appointment. She said that was the only way to find out what an ALF really looked like when they thought no one was looking. She told me some places make a special effort to tidy up before rubes potential clients show up.

Needless to say, I visited later on, without an appointment.

I’m not sure it’s proper to call a memory care facility an ALF, but I’m going with it, because memory care is definitely assistance.

The ALF was completely devoted to memory care. That meant it was not divided into two sections. Right now, my dad is in a place that has a nice main area and a disappointing memory care unit. When memory care is the sole service a place provides, presumably, the patients can’t have second-class status.

It was a small, square building with a courtyard. I would say the place was maybe 125 feet on a side. Each side of the square contained rooms. They were somewhat dated, but the paint looked like it had been applied yesterday, and everything was spotless. This was the first ALF I had visited in which I didn’t smell anything disturbing. It takes real effort to keep a place that clean when most or all of the residents are incontinent.

I feel like inserting a joke about Congress, but I won’t.

The dining room didn’t look as appealing as the ritzy dining rooms I saw in the high-end ALF’s I visited this week, but it didn’t look bad. The furniture was in fine shape, even if it wasn’t fancy. The room–a place where patients knock food on the floor and drop it in their laps–was absolutely clean. My guide bragged on the food as though she ate there, herself. Naturally, I asked her whether that was the case. She said she and the other employees ate there all the time. She said she loved the food.

If you haven’t been looking at ALF’s, you may not realize how unusual her response was. The stuff my dad is eating right now will keep him alive, and I’m sure it’s safe, but I wouldn’t eat it on a bet. If an ALF’s employees, who can smell and taste things, love the dining room’s food, it must be very special. And the fact that they can stand to eat in the ALF proves it doesn’t stink when visitors aren’t around.

It gets weirder.

She told me the company was a family business. She showed me a photo of three people: a woman and two men. She said the woman started the business. One of the men, her son, ran it after she retired. The second man, her grandson, runs it now. Here’s the weird part: she now lives in one of the company’s operations. She lives in a sister operation closer to my house. The company has three ALF’s.

If you are willing to live in your own ALF when you get old, maybe it’s a good ALF. Either that, or your ruthless descendants really have it in for you.

There was one thing I didn’t like: the place has an institutional feel. The other places I looked at this week were like 4-star hotels. My dad thinks he’s not like the “old people” he shares his current ALF with. He has called the place a hospital. I think he would feel better in a place that tries to fool him with hotel-style decor.

The prices were significantly lower than the prices at the other ALF’s, and I wondered if it was okay to put him in a place that wasn’t as opulent. I don’t want to shortchange my dad in order to save a buck.

Because they had another memory care location, I decided to look it over on the way home. I went to the one where the owner lives.

They were startled when I showed up, so I told them to blame the lady at their other operation. She was the one who told me to surprise them. The woman who gave me the tour told me it was perfectly all right, and she agreed that it was the only way to do it. A passing staffer butted in and agreed enthusiastically.

This ALF was bigger, but the basic idea was the same: big square building with courtyard. Like the first ALF, it was frighteningly clean. It had more rooms, and more of the residents were male. I thought that would be a good thing for my dad. He would probably enjoy lying to the ladies all day, but eventually, you want someone you can be yourself with.

The lady who gave me the tour was the activity director. She was loud and enthusiastic. Sounded like a New Yorker. She kept telling me about all the things she liked to do for the patients. This is Snowman Month according to her, so tomorrow she’s going to work dressed as a snowman. She has a bunch of other costumes she wears. She has people ride horses and motorcycles into the courtyard so the residents can see them. She brings little kids in for the residents to watch.

The rooms are very big. Even the small ones are pretty big. Right now, there’s an opening in a shared room. The guy who lives in it is a big talker, and he runs the projector on movie nights. I don’t know why they would have a projector. Maybe it’s a DVD projector or a big screen TV. Anyway, she said he runs around on movie nights, rousting people so they’ll show up.

I am not sure whether my dad should have a roommate. On the one hand, you always want to say you gave your parent the best, and private rooms cost more. On the other, dementia patients need to be engaged. Loneliness and boredom are my dad’s two biggest problems, and if he is allowed to hide in his room, they will get worse.

My plan is to call the ALF tomorrow and ask for the space with the movie guy. If he and my dad don’t hit it off, I’ll get him his own room.

While I was talking to the ALF manager, a somber-looking family was moving things out the front door. They exchanged some words with the manager, and she got teary-eyed. She told me they had just lost someone; a lady who had only been there four months. She was attached to the patient and the family.

I don’t know what happened to the guy my dad would be replacing.

Assuming I don’t have another catastrophic loss of opportunity from a someone grabbing my dad’s room before I call the ALF, I can have him in his own place on Monday.

My only problem with this ALF is their religious program. They have one church service a month, plus Bible studies. Unfortunately, the guy who runs it is Catholic. I don’t want anyone telling my dad to pray to an ordinary human being; it has to be God himself. I don’t want anyone sprinkling him.

As I drove home, I passed a Calvary Chapel which was very close to the ALF. Problem solved, I think. Calvary Chapel is a fairly good denomination or sect or whatever. It’s not ideal, but I don’t think they’ll try to get him to buy them a jet, and they definitely won’t have any statues to worship. If he moves to the ALF, I can take him to Calvary Chapel sometimes.

I’m not done with the weird news.

My dad has been a real pain ever since I put him in the ALF. He was a pain before he got there. He told me I was selfish. He said I didn’t love him. He said he would care for me personally if the shoe were on the other foot. He argued with me when I went to the ALF and even demanded I take him home. Yesterday, someone put him on the phone, and he called me and begged me to go get him. I was so busy I didn’t even visit.

Today I went to the ALF, figuring I was in for more misery. Instead, I met a new man. My dad had just had a hospice visit. He had been bathed, shaved, and groomed. He was happy to see me. He was eager to go out for a walk.

I took him for a walk, and we sat outside. I got him something to drink, and we talked. He kept telling me how much he loved me, as though love were something completely new to him. He told me I was good-looking. He said I was super intelligent. He said all he cared about was my welfare.

I wish I could have filmed him, traveled forty years back in time, and forced his young self to watch. I know what I would have asked him. “Why don’t you ever talk like this? What the hell is wrong with you?”

He kept saying he felt good about the future. He said he thought things were going to go very well. I couldn’t figure out what he was referring to. He said he felt like he had started a new life. I wondered if someone had been preaching to him.

More weirdness: my dad was walking much more normally than he did two days ago. He was talking real steps instead of shuffling each foot forward half an inch at a time. He no longer had what doctors call a “magnetic gait,” meaning he didn’t walk as though his feet were stuck to the floor. Maybe part of his recent gait problems came from falling down. Maybe he’s healing.

I told him I couldn’t take him home, and he didn’t fight with me. I said I was working hard on finding him a better place. When I had to leave, he said he would be bored, but he didn’t seem miserable.

I left him in the main room, not his own room. I was glad he was willing to mingle. He sat down next to a very warm-hearted dementia patient. She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. She said she could feel his blood pumping through her own heart, or something like that. Maybe that’s a German thing. She had an accent. She kept giving encouragement as I worked to take his jacket off and get him settled.

I can’t tell you how much better I feel. I got out of there unscathed, and I had a plan.

I saw my new friend Gloria again while I was there. She was sitting by the main entrance to the building. She wasn’t in memory care. Maybe they decided to give her another chance. I hope so. I prayed for her after I met her.

That’s all the news for today. If I can get him moved, I can start tying up all the ends that have loosened up while he has monopolized my time. That will be tremendous.

Tomorrow, my young friend Travis is supposed to drive up from Miami. He wants to be baptized in my pool. I hope that works out. I told him Satan would try to prevent it, and sure enough, he lost his wallet in an Uber car today. I am confident that God will put things right.

I think I’ll be able to sleep all night tonight. We shall see.

Jesus the White Oppressor Losing Ground

Yesterday I wrote about the decline in Christianity in America, and I said that if it continued at the current pace, Christianity would disappear entirely in “a few years.” That was not correct. Sometimes when I cite things I’ve read, I make a mental note to go back and check them, and then I forget before I publish them.

Here’s what’s happening: between 2007 and 2014, the percentage of Americans identifying themselves as Christians dropped about 1% per year, from roughly 78% to more like 70%. If this were to continue at the same pace (in terms of percentage, not absolute numbers), the faith would be gone in decades, not “a few years.”

When you make projections like that, you need to emphasize the “if.” I’ve seen days when the temperature rose 25 degrees. If that had continued for a week, nearly all life in my area would have been extinguished. You have to be careful not to assume current trends are permanent.

In the case of American Christianity, I believe the current trend is not permanent. I don’t think we’ll continue to lose 1% per year. I think losses will accelerate dramatically, and we’ll lose ground much faster as time passes. America was a mess in 1980, and it was much, much worse in 2000. Today, it’s much, much worse than it was in 2000 or even 2010. There is only so far we can descend into depravity before we become an openly anti-Christian nation where it’s okay to say you believe in God and still hate him and want to kill his children. Then the end will come.

The forces that drive the decline are new. I don’t mean the supernatural forces. I mean the forces we can see and hear. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that smartphones and social media became major parts of our lives during the period in which 8% of American Christians quit. Electronic unity has made us more cruel, more cynical (same thing?), and much more insecure; we crave approval like never before. It has also been used to spread poisonous principles that are incompatible with the kingdom of heaven. It has been used to “expose” Christianity as evil. Our new groupthink loops are going to become tighter and more corrupt as the mildew of technology overgrows America. I expect things to get worse as the echo chamber’s walls thicken and harden.

The churches that are losing power fastest are Catholicism and mainline Protestant denominations. In other words, not churches that believe in the power of the Holy Spirit. Weak, ignorant churches are falling fastest. No surprise there. Many don’t baptize; they merely sprinkle uninformed babies. They are hostile to the baptism with the Holy Spirit. They are hostile toward miracles and other expressions of the Holy Spirit. They are horrified by the notion of casting out demons. They imitate the secular world in order to curry favor and fill seats. They do not teach people to become intimate with God, and that makes sense, because the clergymen doing the teaching don’t know God.

Last month, I attended a Protestant gathering at which people were baptized with water and the Holy Spirit. It was sponsored by a group called The Last Reformation (TLR). I went because I was sure my water baptisms were worthless. My mother once threw some water on my forehead in a church; that was ineffectual and a waste of time. I was baptized by charismatics in 1988, but they didn’t prepare me properly, and I didn’t have the right mindset, so that didn’t work. I went to the gathering so I could be immersed in the name of Jesus Christ (Biblical, unlike sprinkling in the name of the Trinity), and I wanted to repent and commit myself to God, the way I should have in 1988.

A young lady named Maria also showed up. The gathering was held near Clearwater. After she was baptized, I saw her in a video on Youtube, going into the tank. She was wearing a name tag, and it said “Minnesota” on it. She traveled over a thousand miles to get help. Who would drive a thousand miles to go to a Catholic or Presbyterian church? Maria made the trip because she knew TLR had something weak churches did not.

We are losing people because we offer them so little, and we think the answer is to embrace homosexuality and offer the kids “cool” ministers who dress like rappers and stain themselves with vulgar tattoos. Didn’t the Catholics start pushing guitar masses over 50 years ago? Appeasing and following don’t work. We should know that by now. The lost want leaders, not lickspittles.

I get healings all the time. God tells me things. He gives me useful tools. He gives me victory over poisonous people. He changes my character, sometimes instantaneously. He drives spirits out of me. I could never get those things at a mainline church! Never in a million years. They have no idea what they’re doing. It amazes me that anyone can stand powerless, boring churches. I can’t. I haven’t been inside one since I went to an Episcopal funeral a few years ago. I was bored to death and disgusted as feminine old men in gowns shuffled around muttering and performing rites at the altar.

I could not wait to leave. The familiar sensations of my youth returned; I recalled what it was to hate church! My hat is off to anyone who can make himself stick around in a denomination like that. I could never do it. Why do we expect people to show up for a God who appears to miss services, himself?

A few years before that, I went to a Catholic church for a wedding. Before the ceremony, I had joked with the bride about the pedophilia problems, and it had made her angry. She praised her priest to the skies. I checked him out at the wedding; he was a grinning, effeminate presence. Just the sort of priest a feminist woman would like; they see masculinity as a mental disorder. Soon afterward, he was exposed as the perpetrator of perversions involving a boy band.

I would hate to have a wedding album featuring photos of myself and my new spouse in the embrace of a pederast.

Charismatic churches are generally better, but most are obsessed with money, and my last pastor is in prison for raping a child over and over. While I was attending his church, I got permanent healings during services, and I made a lot of progress, but most people didn’t have much success. The pastor’s wife’s best friend, the head deacon, died from cancer after several years of casting out, group fasts, and laying on of hands. She, herself, died from cancer a few weeks ago.

We try to get the wrong things from God, and we try to get them in the wrong ways. We should be astonished that Christianity didn’t disappear decades ago.

The polls I referred to showed an 8-point drop in our numbers, but what if the figure is really much larger? The people the polls called “Christian” self-identified. How many people who call themselves Christians in modern America really qualify? How many believe in heaven and hell? How many believe Jesus is God? How many are in non-Christian cults like Mormonism? How many are in homosexual churches?

It may be that there are even fewer Christians here than polls suggest. America’s Christian structure may be like a hardwood floor that has been eaten away by termites. Termites will eat the interior of a piece of wood and leave the outside intact. They will eat a floorboard and leave a hollow veneer of wood and varnish that looks fine until you try to rest your weight on it. Maybe that’s the church in America.

In the Bible, there is a principle. People who rebel sometimes experience defeat in extremely sudden ways, because God has allowed them to be undermined without their knowledge. Think of Nebuchadnezzar’s son, who hosted a drunken banquet while his enemies were digging under Babylon’s walls so they could overthrow him that very night. Think of Samson, who woke up and didn’t know he was bald. Maybe that’s what our end will be like.

Belshazzar, the deposed Babylonian, was informed of his imminent destruction as he and his friends used vessels from Solomon’s temple for the purpose of getting drunk. In the Bible, vessels of gold would symbolize God’s people, and wine symbolizes blood. It sounds like a picture of persecution, which is becoming very strong in America.

Many Christians don’t believe in God. Because of the sprinkling heresy and lack of preparation, the vast majority are not baptized. Very few realize they have to give their lives to Jesus; merely asking for forgiveness isn’t enough. We have created a rotten framework that should be easy to collapse.

I don’t know why I’m complaining. The situation is normal, and there is nothing that can be done about it. Nothing people like me say will turn it around. Heresy and apostasy are 100% normal; churches that teach sound doctrine are momentary aberrations. Even if churches started doing everything right, it wouldn’t change the minds of most Americans. We treasure sin, and we think God isn’t cool. We might increase the size of the remnant, though. We might be able to help more people instead of discouraging them with rules, lies, and hypocrisy.

Incidentally, today I learned that Christianity is now considered a “white” religion (which began with 12 swarthy Middle Easterners), and it appears that leftists are celebrating its demise in America on the basis of its whiteness. If you get a minute, Google it. You may be surprised to find out how busy the termites have been.

New Bachelor Pad Chosen

I chose a new, “permanent” memory care facility for my dad today.

Yesterday I toured the nice new facility I looked at last year. I will call it ALF A. After putting him in a lower-tier local place for a week, it looked like Buckingham Palace. The ceilings are high. The windows are big. The common area is nicer than what you would expect to find at an expensive hotel. The residents have a lot of room to move about. They had a sort of bar where the residents could sit and eat brownies and snacks. They have activities. I did run into some smells here and there, but there weren’t many, and judging by the general atmosphere, overall, the place is very clean.

Today I looked at a place closer to home, which I will call ALF B. I had low expectations from looking at it from the outside, but inside, it was very impressive. It’s older than ALF A, but it’s substantially nicer in some ways. They have a serious medical area with x-ray equipment and an exam room. They also had a bar, and a lady was behind it serving normal-looking food made from scratch. I barely smelled anything during my entire visit. The rooms were much smaller than the rooms in ALF A, but they looked a little less institutional.

ALF B is a little nicer, yes, but it’s mainly nicer in ways my dad doesn’t need. He does not need to be x-rayed on the premises. It won’t bother him if there are times when an area smells while an accident is cleaned up; he has no sense of smell. ALF A has a better building and a nicer courtyard, and those things do matter.

I had a long talk with the sales lady at ALF B. She was extremely helpful. She put me in touch with an attorney who handles ALF stuff for veterans. I found out my dad might be eligible for help even though he has assets. While I was researching these things myself, I found out my dad did not really serve during the Korean War, as he had claimed. He actually served after it ended. The attorney’s office told us the eligibility dates actually extended past the date of the war’s end, so we may be in business. Also, the attorney is able to deal with the VA, which is something I’ve never been able to do. They give you the runaround and fail to respond to letters.

We talked a long time, and she said something she probably should not have said. When I mentioned the cost of ALF A, which I thought was high, she said it must have been an introductory rate. She thought it was low. She said they would probably raise it the next year. Then I found out what ALF B charged. They want over $6000 per month! ALF A would save us around $1500 per month.

When she told me I was probably getting an introductory rate, it made ALF A look better, not worse. An introductory rate is a good thing. If I can get excellent care and save $18000 per year, I’m not going to sneeze at it. To save that much money, I am perfectly willing to drive him to the doctor a few times.

My dad may not live a year. If not, the introductory rate is the final rate, and there is no down side.

I called ALF A and left a message, telling them to get the ball rolling. If I had infinite resources, I would choose ALF B, but we are going through a period of very big expenditures for other reasons, and I feel uncomfortable about overspending right now.

What if ALF A doesn’t work out? No big deal. I move him to ALF B. We lose nothing except for a move-in fee. Both ALF’s allow residents to break leases with 30 days’ notice, with no penalties. I would not want to lose the move-in fee, but if he’s there for two months, it will be more than paid for by the difference in price.

The sales lady said ALF B believed in letting people “age in place” until they died. Sounds great. I don’t know how important that is to a demented person, however. I believe my dad will soon reach a stage where he doesn’t remember things well enough to consider a place home. During the last two years of her life, my aunt had no idea who her husband was.

In other news, we went to a neurologist. I thought it was a waste of time and possibly a move intended to generate fees. His primary care doctor recommended it. When we got to the exam room, the neurologist asked us what we wanted from him, and I told him the visit wasn’t my idea, so I was open to suggestions. Clearly, the PCP didn’t have anything definite in mind, which makes me wonder why we got a referral. Doctors like to send their buddies business, especially when Medicare is paying.

He looked my dad over and said some surprising things. He said he thought my dad might have Parkinson’s or hydrocephalus. My dad has balance problems, and I have been given to understand that they were caused by vascular dementia. His old PCP believed my dad had vascular dementia, so I accepted it and assumed that was his only problem. I didn’t look for new answers. The neurologist he saw in Miami didn’t mention Parkinson’s or hydrocephalus.

We are getting an MRI soon. The neurologist seemed to think we didn’t really need it, because treatment was no longer a practical option, but he decided to order it anyway.

Hydrocephalus in adults is a strange disorder. Russ Emerson of Tacjammer was diagnosed with it a few years back. Terrible thing. One of the most-liked people in the Blogosphere. Before the VA figured out what he had, he sustained paralysis in his legs and God knows what else. I think he also had some CNS damage.

If they catch hydrocephalus early, it can be reversed to some extent. That’s my understanding from Googling, anyway. I was disturbed to read that, because it made me wonder if I let bad doctors give my dad the wrong treatment. What if a shunt could have restored a lot of his mental ability, and I just didn’t know it? The new neurologist says treatment will not help my dad now, however, so I suppose the question is academic.

Truthfully, all responsibility ultimately lies with my dad. He ate and drank what he wanted all his life, and if I had not interfered, he would never have done anything about his mental state. He would probably have died 5 years ago.

If the first neurologist had told my dad he had hydrocephalus, and treatment had been a viable option, obviously, we would have tried it. She scanned his head and saw no evidence of hydrocephalus. When I talked to her on the phone, she didn’t mention it.

I can’t save the world. Things will always slip through my hands. I hope I didn’t let my dad down.

I don’t think there is any doubt that my dad has vascular dementia, because he slips in sharply defined, instantaneous, permanent steps. The new neurologist said that was characteristic of vascular dementia, and my dad has a history of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and atrial fibrillation, which cause vascular dementia. Also, his sister had vascular dementia and then died from a stroke.

There is no reason why he couldn’t have vascular dementia AND Parkinson’s or hydrocephalus. The gait problems didn’t develop until well into the dementia process, so for all I know, he started out with vascular dementia and then developed an additional problem which no one saw fit to treat because it was assumed that vascular dementia was the cause.

His remaining sister has Parkinson’s. Maybe he got a double whammy.

He did so many things wrong, who can guess what he did to himself? He used to drink 5 shots or more per night. Maybe that, by itself, could have caused dementia.

I was afraid the neurologist would want to put him on dementia drugs, but they don’t reverse the disease, and the side effects are awful. Another problem for everyone who cares for him. I looked into them, and people whose loved ones were on them did not seem to like them at all. Also, his old PCP recommended against them.

Dementia drugs can cause new mental abnormalities. I suppose that wouldn’t be my problem if he were at an ALF, but I don’t think he would enjoy being psychotic or having insomnia.

The urge to overtreat is a big danger. Years ago, I sent him to get himself a CPAP because I was concerned he might get brain damage from sleep apnea, and I ratted him out to his PCP when he drank too much, but today things are different. I just want him to enjoy life. He doesn’t have to have every conceivable treatment; only those which make him feel better. He’s going to die. We can’t bring him back, so there is no point in filling him with new drugs and carting him from doctor to doctor. If he didn’t insist on continuing to take his circulatory drugs, I would be happier to see him give them up and let nature take its course. The future will only get worse, so there is no point in dragging this out. I just want him to receive salvation and move on to the afterlife without a lot of unnecessary struggling and suffering.

I am getting an inkling of what post-Dad life will be like. Today I worked on a faucet in his bathroom. It reminded me how abnormal my life has become. He broke the faucet over a year ago, but I didn’t get it fixed because I didn’t want to send a plumber in there. Even after mopping with bleach, it was just too nasty. I didn’t want to touch the faucet myself, either. Now that he’s gone, the bathroom is nearly clean. I have been cleaning and re-cleaning. I was able to lie on my back under the sink without wanting to soak my body in Clorox afterward.

I have been concealing my food and flatware from him. Now that he’s gone, I can’t get used to putting the bread on the counter or in a pantry. I keep looking for the flatware in the wrong place. When your food is constantly threatened by filth, it’s traumatizing, believe it or not. It changes you. I have to get used to the fact that I can use the cupboards and drawers again. I can move my food from my special locked fridge to the one in the kitchen.

It’s very strange to go into the kitchen and not see smeared fingerprints and handprints on all the counters. He used to put his hands in places you don’t want to know about and then rub the counters for no reason. He used to put spit on his fingers and try to rub the pattern out of the granite because he thought the pattern was dirt. I used to use alcohol, window cleaner, and bleach all day long. I know I don’t have to clean things obsessively now, but I still feel the urge.

Today is the first day in a week that I haven’t seen my dad. I ran around looking after him all day, and while I was on the road, he got on the phone and called me. I didn’t see that coming. He argued with me for maybe 15 minutes. I had heard it all before. He wanted me to take him home THAT MINUTE. He hated the ALF. He could take care of himself! After a taxing, depressing session of trying to get him to relax and knock it off, I did not have the strength to go see him. I wish I had, but it was just too much to ask.

I know his suffering is real, albeit likely exaggerated. That doesn’t mean I can reasonably be expected to leap into action and fix it. He is signed up for another week in the ALF he hates, because it will take that long to get him moved over to the new one, and it’s the best I can do. Poor decisions have consequences, and sometimes your loyal children can’t protect you from them completely. That’s life. Sad.

If he were in prison, he would be suffering. If he had cancer, he would be suffering. I’m sure he suffered when he was drafted. Sometimes we’re supposed to suffer. Suffering doesn’t necessarily mean another person has let you down or owes you something; he has never understood that. If there were three of me, he would be here tonight, and two of us would be taking care of him, but I am one person, and that person can’t do it right now.

I’m very happy about ALF A. I’m not thrilled about the expense, but the facility is great. If he complains about ALF A, he is simply being unreasonable. But for the occasional poo smells, I would be happy to live there myself. It actually seems tempting, after handling all these responsibilities. Comfortable little room someone else cleans. Laundry bag someone else empties. Food someone else cooks. No lawn to mow. No woods to maintain. I should call and see if they have any more rooms.

I hope they didn’t give away their last room before I called. If so, I may move into a culvert.

You Will Die Because of Who You Are, not What You Have Done

People are talking about the conflict involving aggressive pagan activist Nathan Phillips, a group of “Black Hebrew Israelites,” and some boys from Covington Catholic High School in Kentucky. Unfortunately, they are missing the point and failing to learn the important lessons.

As background, the Black Hebrew Israelites are a racist cult. They are big in Miami, so I know a little bit about them. A bunch of them get together and practice martial arts moves in the parking lot of what is known as the 441 building in Miami Gardens. I used to attend church near that building, and I often saw BHI members wandering around in robes trying to recruit people.

Back in the 80’s, a branch called the Nation of Yahweh murdered a number of people on orders from their leader, a black man who called himself Yahweh ben Yahweh, or “Yahweh the son of Yahweh.” His real name was Hulon Mitchell, Jr. A former NFL player named Robert Rozier confessed to murdering on his orders.

BHI is based on delusions. They think they’re the “real” Jews. They are not the only black Americans who have this idea about themselves. They are very hostile toward actual Jews. BHI is a locally dangerous movement, but the left ignores it because leftist journalists and politicians have a policy of ignoring minority racism.

BHI is very open about its hatred of Jews and whites. When I say they’re racists, it’s not just foamy dribble, the way it is when respected TV anchors say Donald Trump is a racist or when Alyssa Milano says red hats are the new KKK hoods. Here’s a representative quotation from one of their leaders: “The Holocaust is a damn joke! Heil Hitler!” He said that to a Jewish man.

Here is what happened this week. The boys were waiting for a bus. A group of BHI goons started yelling racial slurs and insults at them. Nathan Phillips then assaulted a student named Nicholas Sandmann. He put a ceremonial drum in his face (this is assault with or without touching), and he even pressed it against Sandmann (battery). He beat the drum while staring into Sandmann’s eyes.

Sandmann and at least some of his friends were wearing MAGA hats. This is why the left turned the incident into a news story.

Early stories said the boys had accosted Phillips, a “Vietnam War Veteran,” (untrue) and made racists comments to him (untrue). Nearly everyone in America attacked Sandmann and his friends as though they had done something wrong. Even conservatives went after them. The Catholic machine in Covington, Kentucky, threatened to expel them.

The story has been thoroughly debunked. The boys were the victims from start to finish.

Many leftists continue to attack the boys even though they are now known to be innocent victims. They are using the usual cowardly tactics, issuing death threats and trying to expose them online. They are attacking their families.

There are a couple of interesting aspects to the story.

First of all, it shows that leftists have abandoned all interest in the truth. That’s a major milestone for the Beast. When people still care about the truth, you have to deceive them in order to get them to do evil. The leftist press does a great job of deceiving, but it takes effort, and it doesn’t always work. Now that the truth doesn’t matter at all, it will be much easier for Satan to command his children. He won’t have to gin up false evidence of wrongdoing. As of now, it suffices to point out our identities. Christian, conservative, male, red-hat-wearer…if you belong to a category Satan doesn’t like, you are an acceptable target for violence and abuse. Even if you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s okay to torment you, simply because of what you represent.

Attacking the innocent because of their identity–because of what they represent, not what they have done–is an essential part of racism and other types of bigotry. If you only go after the guilty, you’re not really a racist, so you can’t be effective. Imagine how badly Kristallnacht would have gone, had Hitler insisted his mobs only attack Jews who had done something wrong. It would have been a complete flop.

The second important thing people have missed is that we are seeing a battle between gods, or, correctly, a battle between Yahweh/Yeshua/the Holy Spirit and little rebellious spirits who pretend to be gods.

The other day I watched a Derek Prince video, and he said something interesting about battles in the ancient world. When the ancients fought, they didn’t just fight for themselves. They fought for their “gods.” When Goliath taunted David, he cursed him by his false gods. When God gave Egypt 10 plagues, he chose plagues that humiliated Egypt’s false gods. For example, he brought darkness to humiliate the sun “god” and show who really controlled sunlight.

We don’t realize that people still fight for their “gods.” Leftists fight for Satan all day. It’s not a coincidence that witches meet regularly to curse conservatives while blessing or ignoring liberals.

Nathan Phillips and his pagan friends chanted and beat ceremonial drums during the assault they committed. Those drums weren’t just toys. They were tools of demon worship. Look who Phillips went after: boys representing Catholicism, which is a weak variant of Christianity.

The pagans didn’t just attack the boys. They attacked a church. They tried to invade the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception during mass. They had to be physically restrained.

Trespassing, like assault and battery, is a crime. It’s not a joke.

American Indian religions are very destructive, and they are the reason why American Indians are the weakest people in the Americas. Indians worship evil spirits. Their sick religions brought us tobacco, peyote, psilocybin, salvia divinorum, and other drugs that put people in touch with demons. Thanks to American Indian religions, tobacco kills millions of people every year.

Indians attacked the Catholic boys because their false gods, who were crushed when Europeans took the Americas, wanted to strike back at the only true God. The BHI goons were driven by the same basic phenomenon. Many people of African descent have not rid themselves of the influence of millennia of African witchcraft.

America has lost its authority. We used to make some effort to honor God. In recent years, however, Christianity has experienced a major falling away here. If it were to continue at its present pace, Christianity would disappear entirely in a few years; that’s how big the faith recession is. Look it up. When we did more to honor God, he gave us power over pagans and atheists. That’s how Christians ended up with the Americas. Now we are turning from God, and he is not backing us up the way he used to.

It’s not a coincidence that the World Trade Center was destroyed by a cult that denies Jesus. God allowed it because we gave up some of his protection.

Look at the Bible. It shows that when the Jews honored God, he made them strong. When they fell into idolatry, two types of people overcame them: pagans and aliens. Leviticus says that if the Jews disobey God, aliens among them will rise up in power over them. Serving hostile aliens is a hard thing to swallow in your own country, as the French could tell you. It’s happening right here, right now.

We are enduring a government shutdown because we disobeyed God. Trump wants to build a wall to defeat hostile aliens, and the Democrats have refused to fund it, even though he has a legal right to the money. Many conservatives think Trump can win this battle with his own determination. I don’t believe that for a second. Trump isn’t our savior. He is limited. He can only do what God helps him do. It may very well be that he will lose the shutdown battle because we have given authority to aliens and pagans.

The Democrats are the party of Satan. We need to start saying it openly. At one of their conventions, by voice votes, they rejected God and Israel three times. You can go to Youtube and watch it. They stand up for sexual sin, drug use, pagan religion, atheism, youthful rebellion, and the power of illegal aliens. Do we need a Powerpoint presentation to see the truth? What more do they have to do? Maybe we would finally get it if they started wearing horns on the House floor.

Predators go after the weak and the isolated. Notice who Nathan Phillips and BHI were sent to attack: Catholics. Catholicism is just barely Christianity; many ex-Catholics claim they weren’t Christians at all until they converted. They say they worshiped statues and “saints.” They say they were not encouraged to read the Bible and knew very little about it. They say they did not know God personally, as a Christian must, in spite of seeking him. They were not encouraged to speak in tongues, receive real baptism, or pursue the fruit and gifts of the Holy Spirit. The church’s doctrine crippled them.

The boys in the news story don’t know how to fight supernaturally. When the spirits that control the BHI goons and Nathan Phillips and his pagan cohorts wanted Christians to pick on, it was natural for them to choose ignorant young Catholics who had no way of fighting back. Catholicism is huge in America, and Satan likes to portray it as the face of “true” Christianity, so that’s another reason the boys were chosen.

The boys should have won this fight, but they lost at the outset, and they continue to lose. They will continue to be targets as long as leftists remember them, and the Internet will keep the memory of the story alive for as long as it exists. The leftists who are going after them could not care less about whether they’re guilty. It was never really about that. It was about their perceived identity as allies of God.

When we finally lose our battle, it will not be because we didn’t care about politics. It will be because we didn’t care about God. We can wear red hats everywhere we go, donate as much money as we want to GOP candidates, and march in rallies whenever we can get free. We will still lose, because we are relying on carnal tools to fight a supernatural war.

The truth will lose 100% of its value before long. When they’re killing us in the streets, no one will care if we did anything wrong. Get ready for it. It may take 20 more years, or it could take two, but it’s going to happen. We can’t save America, but if you get close to God, you can improve your life a great deal, and you can assure that you will be in a better place when we finally have to leave this world.

Dad Wants a Better Class of Dementia Patients

I am still trying to come up with a long-term strategy for my dad’s care. Maybe I shouldn’t use the phrase “long-term,” since he doesn’t have long to live.

Yesterday, I visited him in the ALF where he is on a respite stay. As always, the conversation eventually turned to his favorite subject: the “need” to take him home. He will talk about this as long as I stay and listen.

He says the ALF is depressing. That’s true. I wanted to put him in the main area, which isn’t too bad, but he had to be placed in the memory care unit, which is not as nice. He also claims he can take care of himself, which is not even worth discussing. He keeps saying he misses me.

I am not sure how seriously to take him when he says he misses me. I suspect he would be fine without me in a facility where he got more stimulation. When I used to take him to lunch, he would try to engage me in conversation, non-stop, until the second the food arrived. After that, I didn’t hear much from him until he had eaten his fill. It was as though I had disappeared. He had something new to focus on, so I receded into the background. When I show up at the ALF, it relieves his boredom temporarily, so naturally, he thinks he misses me. Maybe if he had things to distract him, he wouldn’t think about me as much.

I’m sure he misses me to some extent, but he is probably exaggerating it in order to manipulate me and get what he wants.

Yesterday he got so wound up he tried to follow me when I left. I had to walk off and leave him behind. I waved goodbye before they opened the door. He was standing by his room with his walker. That was not pleasant.

I found a company called Carefamily. They have a website. They help people find in-home help. They provide insurance and tax help, and their people have had background checks. It looks pretty neat. For around $3000 per month, I can have someone show up for 8 hours every day. In case you’re wondering, Visiting Angels charges $24 to $30 per hour in this area, so I would be looking at around $6000 per month for the same services.

I feel sorry for my dad, so it’s tempting to get in-home care, but I think he will still be too hard to deal with.

Today I revisited the nicest ALF I know of. I found it last year. It’s cleaner and brighter than the one he’s in now. It’s like comparing a Days Inn to a Hyatt. They seem to have real activities instead of a TV and some old furniture. The people are not as feeble as the ones my dad lives with now.

I can put him there next week. They have a shared room available. They don’t have a private room right now. I am concerned that he might cause problems with his roommate, but the ALF people don’t seem to think it’s an issue.

When I visited the current ALF yesterday, I saw two roaches in the dining room. One was tiny, but the other was a full-grown German roach. It was strolling around on a wall. I pointed it out to a staffer, and she said she would have to call maintenance. That was the extent of the response. The roach continued its junket undisturbed.

I don’t think the nicer place would permit that.

My dad complains that the people he is with are in bad shape, and he also thinks they’re the wrong social class. He’s a former lawyer, and the folks in his ALF appear to be lower middle class and working class. I suppose there is something to his objection. Even if no one in the place is quite right, they are still not like demented people who are educated. The nicer ALF has educated residents, and they seem to have it more together.

The nicer ALF has the same smell issues as the current ALF, but the smells occupy a smaller percentage of the building.

If he were to go into the shared room, it would be a quick fix with little aggravation. There is furniture waiting for him. If he moved to a private room later, I would have to buy a bed, a dresser, a night stand, and a couple of chairs. That kind of thing takes time.

They offer yoga, so if he goes, I’m going to have to make sure they don’t involve him in that or any other eastern religion. No meditation. No “mindfulness.” He doesn’t need to be pushed toward hell or increased demonic influence.

Maybe the best thing is to extend his current stay and then move him from the current place to the nicer place. It’s farther away and it costs more, but nothing is perfect.

I am still looking for facilities that are closer. I don’t want to drive 25 minutes every time I want to see him.

My friend Mike calls often to give me advice and encouragement. He knew George Steinbrenner. He told me Steinbrenner’s story. When dementia started to set in, Steinbrenner got his kids together and told them. He turned all of his affairs over to them. He knew they were going to end up running his businesses, and he wanted them to get started so they could learn. He backed away gracefully and didn’t burden everyone.

We both knew Joe Robbie’s kids when we were young. Mike knew them better than I did, and he kept up with what happened to them. When Robbie died, his empire fell apart. He didn’t prepare for death. Mike says Robbie was all about himself, so he didn’t do the right things. Now there is no Joe Robbie Stadium, and the Dolphins don’t belong to the family.

Mike’s dad didn’t prepare for death, either, and he didn’t look out for his kids. He sabotaged Mike’s business and took money that rightfully belonged to Mike.

Mike says I have to consider myself, because my dad never will. That’s not exactly right; he made me his sole beneficiary, and he insisted on going to an estate attorney last year. Still, I have to agree that he would let me throw my life away in order to live the way he wants. He has already started.

We will see what develops. I am going to get this done with God’s help.

This Kind of Luck, You Don’t Need

How long does it take a typical American to discover all the cursed objects he owns? I am still not finished with my own search.

In the Bible, God destroyed people who kept offensive objects, along with the objects themselves. I didn’t know that until recently. I went through my house looking for things to get rid of. I threw out maybe 40 pounds of music CD’s. I threw out books, movies, and TV shows. I had already thrown out my dad’s Masonic paraphernalia. Freemasonry is a demonic cult, regardless of what people think. Freemasons worship “Jabulon,” a false god. You can look it up. You have to acknowledge him in order to join.

Today I was watching a Derek Prince video, and I heard him mention horseshoes. People commonly fasten horseshoes to walls and doorframes in order to bring good luck.

Maybe it sounds innocent. We’re very used to it, and Americans love horses. When we see horseshoes, we think of peaceful farms and so on. But think of the other things people keep for luck: crystals, “dream catchers,” rabbits’ feet, statues of “saints,” lucky pennies, mojo hands, evil eye jewelry, and so on. No knowledgeable Christian will keep such things in his home, so why keep horseshoes?

I have a coat rack with horseshoes cast into the hooks. I pass it when I come in from the garage. It came with the house. I never thought much about it. It’s going in the trash today.

While I was thinking about this, I thought about something I really don’t want to give up. When I was a kid, my grandfather gave me a buckeye. We were walking on one of his farms, and he picked a horse chestnut fruit and cut the seed out of it. He gave it to me to carry for luck. I treasured everything he gave me, so I held onto it. When I was invited to go to his house after he died to look for items I might want, I found another buckeye in his dresser, and I took it. I was closer to him than any of the other grandchildren; none of them would have known what it was.

I have to find both buckeyes and get rid of them today. Sad, but this is what happens when you walk in ignorance and adopt occult practices. You form attachments, and it hurts to break them.

My grandfather never wanted anything but blessings for me, but he cursed me unintentionally.

I inherited a crystal angel from my dad’s mother, whom I barely knew. It was the only object of hers I received. I have been trying to find it so I could throw it out. Maybe I threw it out in 2017 and forgot. My mother had an expensive porcelain owl. I want it gone, too. When I lived in Miami, I had a dream in which Satan appeared as a black man who danced with owls. They were in my dad’s bedroom, dancing like the Pips or the O’Jays. I had to cast them out.

Owls have always been associated with the occult.

Think about this: my coat rack (which isn’t very good) hangs in a place where I pass it when I enter the house. What does that remind you of? How about a mezuzah?

God commanded the Jews to put his words on the doorposts of their houses, so Jews started nailing up mezuzahs. A mezuzah is a small container holding scripture verses. The Jews acknowledge God with mezuzahs. Who am I acknowledging with horseshoes? Blech.

I don’t have any other way to hold my coats up. Maybe I should wait till a new coatrack arrives. Just kidding. It’s coming down TODAY.

I feel bad whenever I find out I’ve been working against God like this, but on the other hand, every criticism is a gateway to increased freedom and blessing.

I’ve been wondering if I should get rid of my classical literature. My dad bought The Great Books of the Western World in the 1960’s, and it’s a huge resource for anyone who wants to read great works of literature, philosophy, and so on. It includes Shakespeare, Rabelais, de Tocqueville, all the Greeks…you name it. The big problem is the Greeks. Maybe Shakespeare is a problem, too. I hope not, but his works contain occult material.

The Greeks were homosexual predators. Accomplished Greek men took in young boys and raised them, molesting them the whole time. Socrates and Plato were all for it. The Symposium is a disgusting defense of sexual predation. Do I really want it in my house, even for reference purposes?

I went through Columbia University’s Literature Humanities reading list in 2016 and 2017. A lot of it was Greek and Roman pantheist (i.e. Satanic) literature. Homer, Virgil, Euripides, and others. I still have the books. Should they be here? I will have to pray about it. I’m not likely to read Homer again. He was a terrible writer, if you can call a poet whose words were transcribed a writer. The boredom was difficult to withstand.

I thought I should write this as a heads-up for other people. Good luck charms are not okay. They give demons permission to go after you. If you want your life to go more smoothly, it’s best to get rid of anything that acts as a pass for evil spirits.

Big Day Draws Near

This is a former draft I published months later. The publication date, January 9, 2019, is approximate.

Things are heating up here. My dad is determined not to go to assisted living, and I have started speaking very bluntly to him about the necessity to get it done. All his life, people have walked on eggshells around him, so he is not happy to hear me lay things out for him without flinching. In the past, he could shout people down or threaten to fire them, but now he has to engage and be confronted just like the rest of us mortals. There is a lot to tell him, because he has deteriorated so much. There are many clear indications that he needs to move.

When a parent first shows signs of dementia, caring for him isn’t a big deal. Maybe you put his pills in a dispenser for him, and you help him when the computer confuses him, but he still pays his own bills and drives to stores. That’s the left end of the spectrum. On the right end, just before death, there is an area in which you become a lot like a zookeeper. Maybe 30% of your effort is dedicated to things like managing finances and driving him to doctors. The other 70% of the time, your activities involve cleaning and sanitizing, and I don’t mean sweeping up cracker crumbs.

It’s stressful. Having to remove offensive materials and sanitize everything by yourself over and over takes its toll over time. To use a popular word, the lifestyle is not sustainable. Ways have to be found to end it before the caretaker has a nervous breakdown.

We are pretty far off to the right now. He can still talk. He knows who I am. He is still capable of a certain level of reasoning. He can’t look after himself at all, however. No driving. No using the PC. No using the cell phone. No walking except in the house and at medical facilities. No cooking. No cleaning. No laundry. Nothing business-related at all. He no longer has the ability to do any of these things.

I can’t take him out to lunch any more. I was taking him to restaurants three times a week, and sometimes I took him grocery shopping, but there is just no way now. It would take him 10 minutes to walk from the car to a table, and awful things might happen while we were out. I never put him in the car unless I have no choice. I have gear to protect his seat, and I have a big gym bag full of disaster supplies, including a complete change of clothes for him.

He sleeps fourteen or more hours a day. It seems like it depends on the medications he receives; I think some drugs keep him awake. The other day I had to get him sleeping pills. It seems strange, getting sleeping pills for someone who sleeps as much as he does, but when he can’t sleep, he wanders around at night and in the morning. He wakes me up, and he’s likely to get into mischief or fall.

He got up early a couple of days ago, and he kept asking me if he had any obligations to take care of. He said he was worried about his schoolwork. He was afraid he might have exams coming up. I couldn’t convince him that he didn’t have exams any more. I asked him about it the next day, and the whole thing seemed crazy to him. The delusion had passed. There will be others, though.

He made me very nervous when I gave him his first sleeping pill. To say it worked would be an understatement. It didn’t just make him drowsy. He seemed like he was stuck halfway between sleeping and waking. I had to take him to his bedroom in a wheelchair and roll him into bed. I was afraid he would quit breathing during the night, but that didn’t happen. Evidently it didn’t affect his breathing at all.

Unfortunately, he is still able to argue energetically (in well-worn circles). The main thing he argues about is his impending departure. He doesn’t want to go live with “old people” at an ALF.

I had to let him know that a lot of the residents were in better shape than he was. He can’t see himself as he is. If he were living at the ALF, he would be around people who are stronger and peppier than he is. After all, they’re not all demented. He would draw energy from them. He’s not interested. He says he will stay here until he dies. He doesn’t understand that this isn’t an option. Unless he dies suddenly, he will get so weak I’ll be able to have him moved to a facility without any real resistance.

My friend Mike, the hospice exec, says he will be much better off if he’s already in an ALF when he reaches the point where he has to go to a live-in hospice. The ALF will be able to warn me that his needs are changing, and I’ll have time to pick a nice place and work things out. If it happens while he’s still here, there will be a rush, and the choices may not be as good. Fortunately, barring a sudden change in the very near future, that’s not going to happen. He’s going to an ALF as soon as I can get him to submit.

It’s disheartening to hear the things my dad says about me now. He says I’m selfish and that I don’t love him. He says I’m obligated to be his caregiver because I’m inheriting from him.

Mike compares dementia to drunkenness; he says alcohol is truth serum, and dementia works the same way. He’s right. My dad keeps getting worse at hiding the disappointing parts of his personality. His less-laudable thoughts pop out more often now.

I am now very direct with him. I don’t berate him, but I no longer worry about offending him. When he tells me I’m a bad son whose job is very easy, I remind him that he has never taken care of anyone in his life. He had two children, and he has never changed a diaper. When his mother’s health fell apart and caused her to move into a home, he did nothing for her, apart from giving advice on getting government money. He didn’t pay her bills. He only visited twice. He never did her laundry or changed her bed or paid anyone who did.

He didn’t take care of my mother while she was dying from cancer. He didn’t bathe her or take her to the toilet. He went on business trips and left her by herself. While I’m on the subject, my mother said my sister never came by to help. She wrote about it in a diary, which my sister stole and threw out. My sister is actually proud of that. She bragged about it.

If I left my dad alone, he would die in a week.

When my sister got lung cancer, he gave her financial help, after securing a mortgage on her house, but that was all he did. He never went to the hospital with her or met her doctors.

When I was born, he was out playing pinball. He didn’t feel like waiting in the hospital, so he left.

When he tells me I have to be his full-time caregiver forever in order to be a good son, I remind him of these things. It’s very good to clear the air. There is still enough of him left to gaslight me, so it’s important to me to let him know I’m not taken in. You shouldn’t harangue parents about their failings, but when one tries to gaslight you, you need to state the truth. Ordinarily, I don’t dredge up things from people’s pasts and throw them in their faces, but when they gaslight and try to make innocent people out to be the villains, they obligate me to respond.

Referring to my status as the only beneficiary of his will, he told me I was well-compensated for the unpleasant work I do. That was ugly, somewhat ruthless, and untrue. I asked him if I had to continue cleaning up after him and waiting on him in order to inherit from him. I reminded him that I inherited from my mother’s side of the family without doing anything at all for them. My grandparents never demanded anything from me in exchange for what they left me. Who does that? It would be sick.

He told me it sounded like I didn’t enjoy spending time with him, and he asked me if that was the case. When I was younger, I flinched when he said manipulative things like that. Abusive people count on their victims to back down and let them promulgate their fantastic versions of the truth. Today when my dad asked me that question, I gave him what he asked for. I said I didn’t enjoy spending time with him. I said that when I was with him, I was always cleaning, working, or being yelled at. I said this was the result of his refusal to let me find him better care. When you’ve spent the day having someone curse at you and make revolting messes you had to clean up, you don’t feel like getting together in the evening for s’mores or family meals (which I would have to cook).

One great thing about these conversations is that he forgets them. Some of the sense of what we talk about may stick in his unconscious mind, but right now, he doesn’t remember the discussion we had this morning. Not unless this is an exceptional day. Sometimes he gives me ultimatums and makes threats. Sometimes he tries to get me to agree to ridiculous schemes in which we will sit down with a yet-to-be-named “expert” who will tell me he doesn’t need an ALF. It doesn’t bother me, because I know his plans are like sandcastles. They collapse in short order and leave no traces behind.

It may seem strange that I argue with him at all, given his memory problems, but there are two good reasons for telling him the truth. First, it does me good to confront him and shut down the gaslighting. Second, even though he forgets conversations, it’s still possible to have a little influence over him. If you repeat things enough, little things may soak in. He needs to hear about the benefits of assisted living and the untenability of our current situation, because it may push him toward a different mindset.

I try not to have long talks with him. One way to end a conversation is to tell him we’ll do whatever it is he wants to do, as long as he reminds me the next day. Because he tells himself he has no memory problems, he agrees. He feels like he got a concession out of me, and I feel good because I know we’re done.

Sometimes I just walk away and tell him I’m all done talking with him, but I prefer to work things out so the conversation ends in a more normal manner. I don’t really enjoy leaving the room and waiting for his shouts die down gradually.

I think most people lie to the demented. It’s more efficient. I don’t do that. I could tell him he’s right about everything. I could take him to the ALF for “the weekend” and then leave him there for good. I don’t believe a Christian should lie. If I choose to be truthful, God will help me.

I am hoping to hear from the ALF people tomorrow, and if God is with me, my dad will be a permanent ALF resident before the end of the month.

I wish things had turned out better for him, but I can’t help looking forward to the end of the distasteful behavior and disgusting jobs. As his abilities have declined, I’ve been getting little tastes of the future, and they are tantalizing.

I got out of the habit of reading newspapers because he likes to read in the bathroom and throw them on the floor by the toilet. After that, who would want to touch them? Now I’m reading them again. He can’t walk to the mailbox easily, and he gets up very late. I get the papers before he gets up, and I read them myself.

I do the puzzles. I missed that. He used to do them himself, but now he can’t get through them very quickly, so he doesn’t need all of them. I keep an eye on his puzzle backlog, and when he runs low, I pass on a puzzle and give it to him when I’m done with the paper.

I don’t mark up the Jumbles. I do those without writing anything, so I don’t have to mess them up.

I can go to the grocery alone now. I love that. I don’t have to stop over and over in the aisles and let him catch up. I don’t have to worry about him falling in the store or having some kind of hygiene problem.

Some day soon, I’ll be able to use the living room. I’ll be able to burn the two chairs we got from my late aunt in 1994. Right now it’s part of his domain. He has a lift recliner and a TV table. He eats his meals there. When I go anywhere near the living room, he shouts, “STEVE!”, and insists that I drop everything to attend to some whim. In the future, I’ll be able to sit down there and relax. I’ll be able to get a couch.

I’ll be able to leave home for more than three hours. I’ll be able to travel without the ordeal of finding him temporary care. I’ll be able to go to Miami to wrap up our affairs there. I’ll be able to have friends over without making them come to my upstairs lair. They won’t have to worry about being insulted or hit on when they see my dad. They won’t have to deal with him monopolizing the conversation as though they were his friends and not mine.

The house won’t stink. I won’t have to wipe the kitchen down with alcohol, glass cleaner, and sanitizing wipes every time I go in. I won’t have to worry about stepping in mucus or worse. I’ll be able to take his mattress to the dump.

His shadow over things has been receding for some time. First he lost the ability to jump into business affairs and cause problems. Later, it became hard for him to deal with stairs, so I got the second floor of the house all to myself. Then the other things started to fall into my hands.

Maybe once he moves, we’ll be able to restore our relationship to a degree. It will be nice to be able to sit and talk with him without a mop in my hand. I’m assuming he’ll cooperate. He may be too consumed with vengeance to have a normal conversation, or, if he resists too long, he may have no idea who I am.

It’s too bad he isn’t declining with more grace. Not my fault, though. And it was inevitable; he ordained it himself. Even now, I think he could do a good deal better if he wanted to.

When you’re an extremely angry, domineering person with a huge ego, and other people have spoiled you all your life, you are pretty much guaranteed an awkward descent toward death. You can spend your youth and middle age in denial all you want, and you can push other people to accommodate you, but there is no denying disability, death, and the reduction in clout that accompanies them.

The only important thing left to do in his life is a rapprochement with God. I am hoping Christians will work with him at whatever facility takes him. God keeps telling me he will be saved, so I know there is a plan.

Denmark Threatens to Crack Down on Unlicensed Righteousness

If you want to find out what life in the Unites States is going to be like 5 years from now, watch the latest video from Denmark’s Torben Sondergaard, founder of The Last Reformation. I’ll embed it here.

Politicians in Denmark are now suggesting he should be arrested for praying for people to be healed. The crime? Practicing medicine without a license. He says he can be jailed for up to four months if they succeed.

They are responding to documentary makers who claim he tells healed people to throw their medicine away. I can’t think of any preacher who does that. Even the outright crooks are generally smart enough not to try it. Torben says he tells people to go to their doctors after they get healed.

They’re also upset because children have seen him casting demons out. What can you say to an objection that absurd? Denmark is unlike the United States; it’s a Christian country. It has a state church. That means the government’s official position is that Jesus Christ is God. What did Jesus and his followers do in the Bible? They cast spirits out of people. Jesus told people his followers would heal the sick, cleanse lepers, raise the dead, and cast out demons. Christian Denmark appears to want to prohibit people from doing what it admits God told them to do!

Torben says people are seriously talking about taking children away from their parents in order to protect them from TLR. That’s shocking. Imagine what will go through people’s heads when they try to decide what to do with their kids. They’ll have to ask themselves whether choosing to serve God will result in having their children hauled away by the police.

He believes the persecutors want to shut him down because he’s not a licensed minister. He doesn’t have a government license. Foolishly, he thought he could rely on the one he got from God.

I wonder if they license Muslim clerics.

Here’s something we need to admit: most of us don’t really believe in God.

We read the stories in the Bible, and we claim Jesus is God, but when Christians try to do exactly what Jesus said we were supposed to do, we treat those Christians as though they were lunatics or predators.

Why should this surprise us? When Jesus told the Jews, including his own neighbors, that he was the Messiah, their first act was to try to throw him off a cliff.

I don’t know how serious the Danish authorities are about putting Torben in jail or outlawing the basic practices of Christianity. I hope they’re just puffing and blowing to impress the public. Maybe they’re not kidding, though.

Scandinavians are not known for their sense of humor.

Don’t be surprised when things get worse here. You can’t say no one told you.

Day Two

Yesterday I visited my dad at the memory care unit.

When I arrived, my dad was in his room. I was not pleased. He needs to talk to people. At home, he was stuck with one person most of the time, and that person was worn out and avoided spending too much time with him. I want him to socialize. He thinks the other patients are not worth talking to, and in some cases, there is something to that, but there are also people there who are considerably sharper than he is.

I brought him ice cream sandwiches, a 12-pack of caffeine-free Coke, a laundry hamper, mechanical pencils for crossword puzzles, a book of puzzles, his bathrobe, and a can of disinfectant wipes (for me). The staff at an ALF will do a lot for a patient, but the family has to fill in a lot of gaps.

I showed up at dinner time, but he was not in the dining room. I encouraged him to go; people need to eat, and I wanted to try to have a conversation with him in a comfortable setting. We found a table, and he ordered some food.

The food is not good. I’m sure it gets the job done, but it’s not something I would want to eat. They gave him pizza, fries, and mixed vegetables, plus cherry pie. The pizza was bread with sauce, cheese, and toppings. The fries were frozen. The vegetables were canned. He seemed okay with it, though. I suppose they know their clientele. I suppose most of them can’t smell anything.

Because he showed up late, they were out of knives and forks, so they had to send to the main cafeteria for his flatware. While we waited, a little hand appeared by my right shoulder, holding a clean knife and fork. This is how I met Gloria.

Gloria is maybe five feet two inches tall, and I would guess she weighs a hundred pounds. I would put her age at 75. She seems physically sound by ALF standards. She can walk. She has Parkinson’s, and she says she’s in the last stage, but she doesn’t shake.

They moved Gloria from the main area to memory care because she has blackouts. She had a blackout and wandered off, and they found her across the street in a car. I know this because Gloria told me.

I’m no doctor, but it seems to me that Gloria has a very limited form of dementia. She can hold a conversation. She remembers things that happened days ago. On the other hand, she has blackouts, and she keeps forgetting the name of the lady who shows up to take care of her.

I was glad to meet her for three reasons. First, she gave me something to do while my dad ate. When food arrives, he tunes me out until he’s finished. Second, she was a source of information. Because she remembers things, she can answer questions about the ALF. Third, I thought she might get to know my dad a little.

She says she was diagnosed at age 59. Wow. She was trying to write, and the letters all slanted off to the side. Several doctors told her she was fine, but she finally found one who knew what was wrong.

She lived with her sister and brother-in-law, or maybe it was her brother and her sister-in-law, until they had to put her in assisted living.

Gloria does not resent her relatives at all. She said having a Parkinson’s patient in one’s house is “just too close.”

People love to tell me that every patient fights being moved to assisted living. It’s just not true. I’m sure people’s responses depend a great deal on their diseases, but they also depend on their preexisting personalities. I can tell you without asking a doctor that there are plenty of dementia patients out there who hold onto their consciences after they start to slip. I can also tell you that some dementia patients are selfish not because of their dementia but because they were selfish to begin with.

I’m sure there are considerate people who become inconsiderate after becoming demented. Dementia can cause huge personality changes. But not every selfish dementia patient can blame the disease.

Gloria said, “No one wants to go.” But she went, and she doesn’t blame anyone. People don’t want to do jury duty, but they go. Draftees have wanted to stay home instead of going to war, but they have gone. I don’t like cleaning bird cages, but I do it. Not wanting to go is not the same thing as refusing and choosing to make things hard on other people.

She told me some people in the unit are disagreeable. A new patient attacked her from behind and claimed Gloria was wearing her sweater. A man who lives in the unit told Gloria to shut up because he didn’t like listening to her. I hope my dad won’t have to deal with violent patients. If they just yell at him, however, he will give it back in spades.

I made a note to pray for Gloria later. I feel bad for her. She’s a prisoner. She is different from people who can barely think. She could be working or enjoying retirement but for her blackouts. I don’t know how long she has been in managed care. It has to be very hard for someone who still has so much of her mind.

I wish I could go through ALF’s and drain them by healing people. I don’t think all of them should be healed, though. Some people are just too rebellious to help, because every break they get will be used against God and other people.

I’ll say it again: hell isn’t full of sinners; it’s full of people who don’t listen. Sin isn’t what puts people in hell, although it’s a prerequisite. People are thrown into hell because they won’t repent and accept Jesus.

An ALF, like a prison or a death camp, is a foretaste of hell. There is no profit in healing and releasing people who haven’t gotten the point yet.

Hell wasn’t created just for punishment. It was also created to give God, his angels, and the saved relief from the presence of the persistently wicked. Some people belong there, even though it was not created for them, just as many people belong in prison.

While we were talking, the subject of my dad’s sisters came up. He asked questions, and I told him his older sister had died from vascular dementia and that his younger sister had Parkinson’s, which also causes dementia. He was startled. He was disturbed to realize that dementia had gotten all three siblings. He never accepts his mortality; he is convinced that if something is wrong with him, the right doctors can cure it. He can’t believe he and his sisters have to face the process of shutting down and dying.

He can’t believe dying is normal! It’s for other people.

It made me think of my own future. Thirty years ago, I could accomplish a lot by working out, dieting, and doing things to improve myself. It won’t be long before I start getting weaker and less capable every day, no matter what I do. I don’t want to end up in an ALF, any more than my dad did; I’m a bachelor, so there will be no one to look out for me. I hope God is kind enough to take me suddenly.

We went to my dad’s room, and he tried to tell me he should be at home. I was not willing to leave after only 45 minutes, so I had to engage in the conversation. I couldn’t get up and leave. I reminded him that I had no help, and that it was very difficult for me (I even got Gloria to tell him that in the dining room). I also told him I missed him, and that I was glad we were finally able to socialize like normal people.

I don’t lie to him. I do miss him, now that he’s not making me suffer all day.

He seems to be losing steam with regard to his efforts to get out. I hope that’s true, because unless I can find a better solution, he is going to be a permanent resident.

I don’t know if he’s as miserable as he says he is. He thinks he’s doing better with his walker. He seems to have realized he’s not supposed to look at the ground all the time. He left the room while I was sitting there, and he spent some time walking up and down the hall.

I want to take him out for trips, but I don’t know if I can do it. His hygiene problems make it very risky, and a lot of that risk would fall on other people, such as restaurant employees. I can bring him here, but then he may think he’s finally free, and it could be cruel.

I think I’ll go look at the fancier ALF down the road this week. Maybe I’m grasping at straws, however.

I had to back out of the room in order to leave. He kept coming up with things to ask me about. He wanted to know his room number so he could write it down. He had written his phone number down, but it was his number from Miami.

Man, I wish he had something other than dementia. From where I sit, cancer looks like a gift from God. I wish he could understand what’s happening, that he could cooperate, and that he could be cared for here.

I’ll be shooting over later to check on him. No idea what will happen.

I think people who have dementia should consider advance healthcare directives that require their caregivers to cut off life-extending medication when the dementia reaches a certain point. When the mind is gone, striving to keep the body breathing is counterproductive. That’s a generalization, and I wouldn’t try to stretch it too much. I wouldn’t tell the parents of a brain-damaged child to pull the plug instead of waiting and praying.

I want him to receive salvation. There is no other reason to try to keep him alive.

It’s nice to look forward to seeing my dad again. If there is one good thing I got from this, that’s it.

Welcome to my Cleaner, Quieter House

My dad is in an ALF, and my first day of freedom has begun. Or has it?

Yesterday, I got him situated, and I didn’t get home until around 7:30 p.m. His bedroom still contained a pile of laundry that needed to be washed. I just got around to it this morning.

We have a very modern washing machine, and that means the machine is not very good. It’s slow, and in order to make sure clothing really gets washed, you have to use the “bulky” setting. I also use bleach on his sheets, and I include a pre-wash cycle. One load takes over 90 minutes.

When I got up, his breakfast dishes were still by his chair in the living room. He had covered the plate with newspapers, so it wasn’t visible, and he has…had…a habit of leaving his water glass and coffee mug on the TV table all day, so when we left for the ALF, nothing had been put away. I just put it all in the dishwasher.

I have to shampoo his bedroom carpet again. I will need to clean his bathroom several times in order to feel confident about it.

I am reminded of the days following my mother’s death. I got her clothing out of the house as quickly as I could. I didn’t want there to be a disturbing shrine full of useless things that only served to make us feel bad about her dying. I tried to fix things so it looked like the family had moved on. After a person dies, certain reminders can hurt like a finger jabbing an old sore.

If you want to honor the dead, keep some photos and videos and leave it at that. Redecorate their bedrooms. Do not buy an urn and keep ashes on the mantel. You shouldn’t drag other people into a never-ending festival of conspicuous, demanding, off-putting self-pity. When I’m sure my dad is never coming home again, I’m giving his bedroom furniture away as soon as I can.

Am I cleaning up after the dead again? It feels that way.

I didn’t think I’d miss my dad very much. For one thing, he was making me miserable with selfishness and groundless anger, and for another, I expected to visit him several times at the ALF. Nonetheless, now that the pressure is off, I can feel things it was masking. It feels strange to know he isn’t here. This is a big house. We needed it in order to make caregiving bearable. Now it feels a little cavernous. When I walk by his bedroom door, I feel as though he should be in there, and then I remember that he isn’t.

I’ve been thinking about what I’m feeling. Most of the time, when you have an unpleasant emotion, it means there is a problem that needs to be fixed, so I’ve been looking for a problem. Did I do the wrong thing by moving him instead of getting a CNA? Did I pick the wrong ALF? I thought about my feelings for a while, and I had a realization: what I feel is grief, and grief tends to generate denial. I may not have made the best choice, but what I did was okay. I can always make changes later.

Among painful emotions, grief is exceptional, because it doesn’t mean somethng needs to be fixed. You’re not supposed to look for the cause and make it right. You’re supposed to experience it until it goes away on its own. It’s not a disease to be cured. It’s as normal as birth and death. Maybe it’s a good thing. It reminds you that you have a heart, and it helps you remember how very serious life is.

If I brought my dad back, maybe some of the grief would go away. He would have to go back soon, though, and while he was here, I would still have some grief. A demented person, though breathing and speaking, is partly dead. A lot of a dementia patient is gone forever, which makes sense, because parts of my dad’s brain have, literally, died and disappeared. I have been feeling a certain amount of grief over my dad for a year or two.

There are nice things happening. It’s not all bad. I no longer have to go through the house looking for things to clean with bleach. He isn’t touching things and leaving e. coli and other things on them. I can put the flatware back in its drawer instead of keeping it hidden so he won’t lick food off of it and put it back. I’m not wondering what kind of hygiene crisis will occur today. I’m not dreading unpleasant conversations, except for the one we may have when I visit him later.

Maybe I can take down the little signs I’ve put everywhere. “DO NOT WASH ANYTHING BY HAND.” “DO NOT USE THESE DISHES.” “DO NOT LOCK ME OUT.” They are disturbing reminders of his illness and his absence. If I take them down, though, am I not nailing him into his coffin, in a way? To take them down is to say, “You’re all finished. You’re not coming back.” Leaving them up makes me feel like I can resurrect him.

Things would be much better if he were a self-aware person. He insists on clinging to denial. He says he doesn’t believe he has dementia. You can say that’s the dementia talking, but he said the same thing back when he was still mostly sound. The year he retired, he knew perfectly well he had dementia, and he told his doctor and me that we were wrong. He is still sharp enough to know what his problem is. He doesn’t know his address, he can’t use a computer, and other people show up to bathe and dress him. To put it harshly, even to a demented person, those are very good clues.

Because he won’t admit the truth, he has to look for explanations he likes better. My selfishness is high on the list. He brings that canard up, and then later, when he feels better, he tells he what a great son I am. He seems disappointed when I don’t hug him and break into tears, but then I’m the same guy who was accused of the worst kind of selfishness earlier.

I wish he would say, “I know I have a very serious problem. I know you can’t take care of me, and that I have put you under great stress. I know that if I stay in the house, you will be a prisoner, and you won’t be able to get anything done. Don’t feel bad about it. It’s not your fault. I know you didn’t cause my problem, and you have done a great deal for me already. I understand.”

Thank God I’m not caring for my sister as well. Two denial-and-accusation artists would be too much. She is much, much worse than he is, and she also hates me and wishes she could erase me and my memory from the earth.

Some people rely on God to fill their needs, and others use other people up, discard them, and look for fresh hosts. There is literally no limit to the suffering my sister would allow me to experience in order to prevent her from having to accept the consequences of her life of toxic words and actions. My dad is not as extreme, but he would be willing to live here and let me pour myself into him until my life was ruined.

I’m going to quit writing so I can run out to the ALF and spend some time with my dad. I don’t know if it will go well, but I want to find out if the move will improve our relationship, as I am hoping. If not, it will be his choice, not mine.

I plan to take him a Bible. Can’t hurt.

Rebellious Parent’s Collapse Progresses

My dad, the man who was an elite attorney less than 5 years ago, is sleeping in an ALF memory care unit right now.

I took him there this afternoon. I signed a paper, took him to his room, brought in his luggage, put away his clothes, and then went to run errands to get things he needed. I didn’t get back for over two hours. When I returned, I noticed there were no visitor cars in the lot. I had expected to see a few. My dad was sitting in the dining room with a lady who is probably about 75.

I thought maybe he had made a friend, but for all I know, they were seated together for the convenience of the staff. I put the things I had brought in his room, and then we sat and talked.

I was not too happy with the dining room. The first chair I tried to sit in had corn and fragments of meat on it. The second one needed to be wiped down with Windex or something. The floor was a mess. Some of the residents are problem eaters, so I suppose a lot of things end up on the floor at every meal. I can understand why there would be some fresh food on the floor during meals, but there shouldn’t be any old food remnants anywhere.

The food smelled very bad. At first, I was upset about it, but then I remembered that my dad had no sense of smell. He had eaten his dinner, and he was not complaining. When he was in his forties, he collected wine and enjoyed good restaurants. Maybe I should try not to think about that.

He started talking about going home, and I reminded him that he had promised to stay a week. He was incredulous. He had forgotten. He asked if I would go to his room to discuss it. I told him I would go, but that I could not take him home.

When we got to his room, it looked somewhat better than it had when I left. I had added a new pillow, his familiar alarm clock, four photos from home, and his back scratcher. A friend suggested putting some of his belongings in the room, so that’s what I did. It helped.

I also brought him Oreos, a bag of Kit Kats, and a raspberry coffee cake.

Before we could talk much, an employee came in. She changed him while I waited. She could not have been nicer. He cursed at her once for no reason. That was awkward.

After she left, another lady came with some pills, and he took them. I mentioned his sleeping pills. I said I thought he needed to have his dose cut in half because they were so strong. She told me she had just given him one. It was about 6:00 p.m., so I was surprised. I guess I need to talk to them about that. Also, I don’t think they should give them to him every day. He should only have them when he has trouble sleeping. I don’t know if that’s going to be a daily thing or not, however.

He started talking to me about coming home. He tried to tell me taking care of him wasn’t much work. He said he would look after himself. I had to remind him he could not do that. I said I was sorry about the way things were going, but there was nothing I could do.

I don’t think he should be getting sleeping pills at 6:00 p.m., but today I was glad he did. I did not want to have to leave while he was still arguing. I knew the pill would end the conversation before long.

A friend called while I was sitting with him. I was grateful for that. I stepped out to take the call, and I knew it would put me closer to the time when my dad would fall asleep.

I didn’t know what else to do. I completely understand why he wants to live at home. This property is wonderful compared to the ALF. I just can’t do anything about it.

Another friend called today, and we had a long, productive conversation. She told me not to feel guilty about feeling relieved. I don’t feel guilty. I am really stuck, here. I can’t pull the Waltons or the Osmonds out of my ear to help me shoulder the burden of my dad’s care. There is no big, supportive family to call on.

My dad had two kids, both are single, and one is a sociopath. That’s what we have to work with. I don’t feel guilt, but I wonder if I’ve picked the correct solution. Should we splurge on a fancier ALF? Should I try to get by with 8 hours of CNA care per day? That would cost about as much as the ALF, and he could stay here, but I would be chasing the CNA all day, and he would still holler for me every 15 minutes.

Then there would be the hygiene disasters that would take place between CNA shifts.

It would be better than what I was dealing with up until this afternoon, but I don’t think it would be sustainable.

I’m not happy with the way things turned out for my dad, but I don’t feel like a bad son. In fact, I feel as though God is protecting me from irrational feelings of guilt.

Today my friend told me about adrenal exhaustion. The idea is that a person who lives under stress keeps producing adrenaline, and the body gets worn down. I wonder if it’s true. I know that when a period of stress ends, the body sort of caves in. It leaves one feeling drained. Maybe that has something to do with adrenaline. Anyway, I have been living like a bellhop for a couple of years now. I don’t rest very well. I always anticipate the next crisis, the arrival of which can’t be predicted. It’s hard not to be wound up most of the time, and I can’t keep it up indefinitely.

Most of the people at the ALF seem very nice, including the patients. I felt good about that. There was one old guy who looked strong and fit for his age, and he was a little aggressive. He was walking around looking at things like furniture and door handles, as though he were a maintenance man. While I was on the phone in the hall, he started fooling with a door handle and asked me if I had a knife. I gestured to indicate that I couldn’t help him. He got angry, and he said, “I said, ‘Do you NEED a knife?'” I told him I did not. After all, I had a great big one in my pocket. He was the only person at the ALF who seemed irritable, apart from my dad’s outburst. He cursed as he walked the hall.

I don’t know why he wanted to borrow a knife and then decided he wanted to lend me one. He didn’t have a knife, of course. ALF patients can’t have them. He walked and talked with great purpose, and if you didn’t know he was demented, you might think he was busy doing important things, but he was in his own world. At one point, he walked up to a little table, picked it up, put it on its side, and banged it on the floor. He left it there, as if he had accomplished something. I guess it meant something to him.

Before I became familiar with the modern use of the term “dementia,” I thought it meant “insanity.” Then I learned about disease-engendered memory and judgment issues and so on, and I thought about dementia differently. Now I’m back where I started. Regardless of the clinical mumbo-jumbo, dementia patients really are insane. They may not see imaginary friends or believe actresses will date them if they assassinate presidents, but they are not sane at all.

A lady came out of her room, stopped in the hallway, pulled down her pants, and continued with her pants down below her diaper. I don’t know if there was a reason, or if it was just a dementia thing. She was not self-conscious at all. In that respect, she was like my dad.

Healthcare people call adult diapers “briefs” or “pull-ups.” I call them diapers. I feel strange trying to make them sound like something they’re not. Maybe I should go with the flow to spare people’s feelings.

Why were there no cars at the ALF? I saw one lady dropping someone off, but that was it. I was hoping younger people visited often. That’s what I plan to do. My dad is difficult, and I can’t look after him, but he’s not a parcel to be put in storage. I’m hoping we’ll get to have some social interaction now that I won’t be cleaning messes all day.

What if I misunderstand the way ALF’s work? Maybe they really are dumping grounds, and society merely pretends otherwise. I guess no one is going to print a brochure that says, “Come abandon your parents at Vista del Baño.” No one will show up at an ALF and say, “Can you help me warehouse and ignore my mom until she dies?” Are these the types of things people are secretly thinking? Perhaps everyone but me understands this. What if there’s a tacit conspiracy?

Are the people at the ALF truly nice, or is that just an act for the children of residents? I suppose they really are nice, because many of the patients have the faculties to nark on them if they act up. Besides, this is Ocala. People here are freakishly gentle and pleasant.

There is so much uncertainty. Good information is hard to come by. Maybe you have to be on your third demented parent before you really know how things work.

I asked the sales lady how far gone a person has to be to be moved out to a nursing home. She said as long as they can put food in their mouths and swallow, they’re fine. Then they go to “skilled nursing” facilities. I only saw one person who appeared to be a near-vegetable. The rest appeared to be interacting and enjoying each other’s company.

My dad belongs there. It’s hard to swallow even though I know it’s true. In some ways, he’s still very smart. He thinks he’s nothing like the others, but he fits right in. I wish he understood. He has never been self-aware at all.

He was still talking about alternate strategies when I left. He was starting to conk out from the sleeping pill. He wasn’t belligerent during our conversation, except to the CNA. He really tried to be reasonable and patient. That was strange and new. It didn’t help. There was nothing I could do. Sometimes I have to tell him I’m not a genie; I can’t fix everything. I didn’t say that tonight, but it would have been apt.

It’s easier to be firm with him when he’s insulting and rude. Sometimes I almost miss it for that reason.

That’s it for today. I’ve been trying to relax since I left. I didn’t eat lunch until around 7:30. I did something I do about once a year: I ate Papa John’s awful pizza. For some strange reason, on rare occasions, I want it, and today was such an occasion.

I firmly believe that what happened to my dad is what happens to people who don’t listen to God’s repeated warnings. A couple of years ago, I felt that God told me he had cut my dad off. The evidence bears out that impression. I don’t think any of this was necessary, and I know I could not prevent it, because I was not the cause.

Tomorrow I clean and try to get on top of my responsibilities. I still don’t know exactly how things will pan out, but substantial progress has been made.