The Depression of an Aging Family Member

A lot of my IRL and Twitter friends know that I call Daddy every day. He lives in Central Florida, in a townhouse he and Mommy bought just a few weeks before she died, in 2006. It's on a golf course, in a gated community, in the middle of no-fucking-where. In the past few (five-ish?) years, they built a Publix just outside his closest gate, and since he's got a golf cart, he'll do his twice- or thrice-weekly grocery shopping pretty conveniently. There's also a CVS Pharmacy in that lot, and everyone who works at Publix or CVS there knows him. He has friends. There's also a liquor store in that complex, so of course, he's popular there as well.

So he's getting older, as we all do, if we're lucky. He no longer golfs or even hits balls at the driving range. He doesn't walk any distance greater than the end of his driveway, most days. He doesn't eat well unless I remind him to. He drinks. He's an alcoholic, and at 3/4 century years old, that's not changing. He's had plenty of strokes and mini-strokes, so he has one of those "call an ambulance if I fall" necklaces. I have to remind him to wear that, too.

I call him every day at 1 o'clock (or 4 p.m., his time). I ask him if he's done any stretching exercises. I ask if he's been upstairs. I ask if he's checked his mail, or taken his trash & recycle bins out (or brought them back in), or walked to the gate, or walked around the grocery store. I ask if he's done any word or number puzzles. I ask what he's eaten. I ask whether he's wearing the necklace.

Most days, in addition to getting good answers to those questions, we'll also have an interesting conversation about other human contact he's had, or upcoming visits he's looking forward to. Yesterday and the day before, he was so drunk by the time I called that I barely got answers to my questions. And then before his bedtime at 8, he'd called and left me messages, wondering why I hadn't called, and whether I was dead in a ditch or something.

*Lemme tell ya. Getting a voicemail asking if you're dead because you neglected to call is disconcerting once. TWICE, it's upsetting.*

Yesterday's voicemail came through while I was out getting my steps... buying a bottle of dark rum to replenish my homemade vanilla extract... so I called him back when I got home. I yelled at him for almost five minutes, reminding him to check his call history when he wonders if I've called; reminding him that I'm eating well and exercising and therefore strong and healthy and less likely to be unexpectedly dead than he; reminding him that when he's drunk when I call, we're unable to have good conversations.

I love my Daddy. I know he's an alcoholic, and nothing I say will change that, so I don't try to change that. Yesterday, after topping off my vanilla extract jar, I stuck the remaining rum in the freezer, because by the end of my day, I needed a drink!

Daddy is moving to Colorado in a month. He's had the last visit with his baby brother that he'll ever have; his best friends have moved to Panama; his youngest son (my baby brother) will be filling his house with small children for a few days before he moves; my sister will arrive in all that bedlam to help him pack up, and that'll be it. I'm blessed to be so busy in my career right now, but I don't have time to squeeze in one last visit. And now I'm crying.

#AgingSucks, y'all. I know, I know, it's better than the alternative.

... my phone is charging, and even though it's only 9 a.m., I think I'll call Daddy early today. I need to talk to him while he's still lucid.