Some time ago, I blogged about the possibility of having my father-in-law moving in with us. Well, it’s happened. Last week, he nearly fell while grocery shopping, and he sounded so panicky that my husband — his only child — went racing down to NJ on Thursday and brought his dad back on Saturday — just packed a few clothes, two (!) radios, and two large boxes of oatmeal (at FIL’s insistence, of course — like we didn’t know what oatmeal was in the Wilds of NH), and up they came.
People have been trying to make out like we’re saints or something for having him here. WE AREN’T. There simply is no other choice. He’s 94, blind and deaf, and he shouldn’t have been living on his own as long as he has. But it wasn’t till June that he consented to move in with us, and of course after that, we had our own difficulties.
It’s already looking like we will have to consider assisted living for him, mostly because my husband finds he can’t sleep at night — keeps waiting for his dad to get up out of bed and fall to the floor. Then there is the drinking. Apparently my FIL is accustomed to downing half a pint of scotch every evening. Half a pint, in case you missed this in arithmetic class the way I did, is an entire cup of scotch. Not at one sitting, mind. He has 3 oz. for his first drink, 3 oz. for his second drink, and the remaining 2 oz. as an after-dinner “aperitif,” as he describes it. My husband and I just looked at each other, as the pint-size bottle he brought with him got lower and lower. I’m wondering what he will say when he finds that the bottle of scotch he thought came up with him, was never packed.
I hate to ask for yet more prayers, but they would be appreciated.