Where’s Waldo, Part Deux

It’s been three or four months since I last set eyes on my dad. He was in a wheelchair surrounded by people just outside of my local grocery store. One of his calves was bloody and raw from where he continually picks at his leg. I overheard one of the women ask if he had fallen. I didn’t stay around to hear his answer. I breezed quickly passed and didn’t say a thing.

I don’t feel bad about it. I don’t feel guilty. Dad made his choice, and it wasn’t to live a good life with me in it. He wanted to stay drunk and be around his homeless friends.

The problem is, he’s going to be 80-years-old this year. He’s too old to be living such a risk-filled life. He’s forever being taken advantage of, and it’s his own fault. He brags about his General Motors pension and how much he makes in Social Security. He just can’t go around doing that, but he does, and it’s his choice.

The other problem is, I know he is in the first stages of dementia. He’s also a diagnosed narcissist and suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder. He flies off the handle at the slightest perceived slight or if he doesn’t get his way. That’s ended him up in the hospital before when he’s gone off on someone younger who doesn’t think twice about belting an old man.

I think I’m worried about him. I don’t care to have him in my life anymore, but I do worry for him. Worry that he’s making bad choices. Worried that he’s not taking care of himself–he takes so many medications. Is he keeping up with them? He has a bad heart, among other organs. How’s he getting to the doctor?

I guess I just can’t turn off thinking randomly about him. I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s found someone to see after him. I hope he’s learned his lesson.

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