Moving your father into a nursing home is a lot like sending a kid off to college. You set up their bed with fresh sheets, show them where the dining hall is, and pray they don’t come down with a sexually transmitted infection.
Thankfully, my father doesn’t have a roommate who will mistake his flatulence for a brass section that has gone rogue during halftime of the big homecoming game. Just as well—he’s the kind of guy who enjoys his solitude and, given the choice, would rather bunk with a perfectly ripened tomato than another human being.
Because here’s the thing: my father does not trust the tomatoes in the dining hall. They are suspect. Not local enough. Possibly smuggled in from an unknown, faraway land like New Jersey.
Once, he asked me to run to the grocery store to pick up a “good, local tomato.” Not knowing how to determine its place of origin, I sauntered up to those little red devils, leaned in close to the ripest one I could find, and whispered, “Hey little lady, you from around here?”
The tomato remained silent, offering no proof of residency. I bought it anyway and prayed my father wouldn’t grill it for a birth certificate.
But the tomato trust issues are just one small part of this transition. Because, much like dropping a kid off at college, assisted living has its own set of moving day challenges.
Paperwork and Interior Design: The Unsung Heroes
I should also give credit where credit is due—my brother Jimmy did all the paperwork. Every signature, every form, every meeting with the administrator. I would have been buried alive under the legalese, but Jimmy handled it like a pro. I showed up for the manual labor—the move-in.
And then there’s my sister, who took one look at the apartment and immediately started muttering, “Nope. Bah! Absolutely not.” She transformed his space from “institutional dorm room” into something that actually looked nice. Like a hotel. A place where a man could sit down with a decent cup of tea, a plate of acceptable tomatoes, and plot how he was going to take over the place.
Because if there’s one thing I know about my father, it’s that he won’t be just another resident here for long—he’ll be running the damn place like a boss in no time.
The TV Tech Crisis of 2025
If you want to see a man’s spirit break, hand him a new remote control and tell him, “It’s pretty intuitive.”
My father spent years mastering the art of turning on the TV in his previous home. It was a delicate, ritualistic process involving a cable box set to Input 1 and exactly one controller.
Now? The new TV system comes with multiple remotes, an on-screen guide that looks like a flight simulator dashboard, and a voice control feature he will never, ever use because “I don’t need to talk to my goddamn television.”
It’s only a matter of time before I get the call:
“How the hell do you turn this goddamn thing on?”
At least we made sure the new TV package included Fox News, ensuring that Dad can still go to bed with raised blood pressure and a healthy sense of impending doom. Note to self: we need to restock his patriot bunker, purchase more Balance of Nature supplements, and acquire a few new My Pillows for his bed.
The Care Package Conundrum
Back in my college days, care packages were a mix of ramen noodles, instant mac and cheese, and a roll of quarters for the laundry room.
Now, my father’s care package consists of compression socks, a bottomless supply of chocolate pudding, and a steady stream of Lipton Green Tea—because, apparently, the tea at the home tastes like it’s been filtered through an old gym sock.
I’m with him on that, though. I never drank the dorm coffee: deep down, you just know it comes from a machine that hasn’t been cleaned since the Bush (H, not W) administration.
The Social Scene: Welcome to the Serengeti
Here’s the thing about assisted living: there are a lot of women. In my father’s facility, the ratio is at least 10 to 1, and let me tell you—these women can spot new meat like a lion spots a gazelle on the Serengeti.
The moment he set foot in the dining hall, I could feel it happening. The slow turn of heads. The appraising glances. A few whispers.
Then, like a well-trained pack, they began their approach—circling in on their Lark scooters, ready to pounce. It was less of a “meet and greet” and more of a feeding frenzy at the Early Bird Special.
One particularly feisty woman, Mabel, locked eyes with him and purred, “Well, helloooo there, John.”
I quickly stepped in and corrected her, “His name is Don.”
Mabel then stared me like we were about to duel at the OK Corral and said, “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, Sonny.” She then turned back to my father and asked, “What are you doing after he leaves, John?”
At that moment, my father shot me a look that said, You are not leaving me alone with these people.
For now, he’s laying low, keeping his head down, trying not to make eye contact. But I give it a week before he starts wheeling and dealing.
Final Thoughts: Moving In Complete
After I left, I realized that, just like with a college sendoff, I felt that little pang of guilt and worry—it’s tough being so far away. But I also know this is where he needs to be.
He’s got his compression socks, his pudding, his Fox News, and (if all goes well) a strategic escape route to avoid the lady sharks of John Knox Village, carefully circling their prey, ready to strike once they smell blood in the water.
And let’s not forget the John Knox Village power structure. Because I guarantee you, by this time next month, my father won’t just be any old resident—
He’ll be The Don.
