4/3/10

Jaelynn is leading Dad down the hall, walking backwards with both his hands in hers, the fastest way to get someplace with him. I hear him say, “you have big, big, big, big . . .” “That's my chest, Dad,” she tells him, relocating his hands. I thank the universe for her good-natured spirit.

“Do we have any sticks and stones?” Dad asks, shuffling out of the bathroom. I have no idea what he means, so I focus on the most obvious issue. “Do you need pants, Dad?” I ask. He's naked from the waist down. “Yes, I need pants,” he says agreeably, “but I also need the stones.”

I heat up the lunch Jaelynn has left for Dad and present it to him. “This is new,” he says, in the thoughtful tone of a food critic sampling an exotic cuisine. “All these are long, stringy things, and they don't break.” “Spaghetti, Dad,” I tell him. “It's called spaghetti.”

I have decided that it's time to be proactive about Dad's finances – waiting for my lawyer friend to do the power of attorney is just courting disaster, particularly since Dad and I aren't biologically related, and that will complicate things in terms of my legal rights. I think that probably the best bet is to transfer his assets into my name now, so that he can start earning time towards medicaid eligibility, since, at this rate, I won't be able to pay for his care indefinitely. I need someone who specializes in elder law to help me sort this stuff out, so I contacted SAGE, the organization that provides services for elders in the LGBT community. They have a lawyer, but to use that service, they want me to sign up for their caregivers' program, so I'm going for an intake on tuesday.

I have mixed feelings about becoming a “client” - I suppose that's true for any helping professional since it's a real reversal of the role that we are used to. It felt weird being spoken to in a “social worky” voice – the lady on the phone was being so gentle and soothing that I felt like she was talking to a frightened deer. Reservations aside, I must admit that I could use some help – when she said that one of the things they do is help caregivers plan for five years from now, I found my eyes tearing up at the idea of five years – it seems like such an impossible, overwhelming length of time in a situation where we're just getting from day to day.