We are almost two weeks in to my dad's post-stroke life, such as it is. Driving to Stamford every night after work and on both weekend days is tiresome in the extreme, but that's what you do for family, so that's that. On a scale of 1 to 10, my dad's stroke was a 5.5 to 6. He seems to be talking okay, but has to use a walker to walk and can not get out of bed or out of his chair without calling a nurse for assistance. He is on nectar drinks only, which means all liquids have to be thickened for him to swallow without risk of choking. Thick juice is bad enough. Thickened milk for your cereal is totally gross. He seems to be doing okay....but

Hearing my hardheaded, independent dad say, "I hope the nurse remembers to bring me a clean diaper when she takes me to the john" makes me want to shoot myself in the head. Watching him contentedly being led to the bathroom by women less than half his age who get him settled and then go right back in when he is done to get him up off the bowl, cleaned up and diapered up again to get back to bed, makes me cringe and shudder in horror. Is this what it means to live to 85? To be relieved to wear a diaper all day so you don't have to worry about shitting the bed? To not remember a thing that was said to you 20 minutes ago? To nearly panic when someone asks you if you still like to do crossword puzzles because you don't want to admit you can't understand the clues anymore? Getting a vanilla pudding with lunch is the high point of your day?

If that is what living to 85 means, then may all gods strike me dead while I can still function. Or at least leave my gun within reach of my bed.