Read Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe for Free Online Page B

difficult and expensive, I phone them every week,. I am their only living relative.
I know you and your wife are friends of my parents. In fact, you may remember we met during one of my visits.
The reason for this letter is my concern for their well-being. For a week, I’d been trying to phone them, but was only able to reach the Assisted Living administrator’s office. Each time, I was told that they were in some activity and could not come to the phone. I asked the person to whom I spoke, to have them phone me. But apparently they did not receive the message.
Finally, today I did reach them by phone and spoke to my mother. Our conversation was weird. When I asked how they were, she said, “Fine.” Usually, either Mom or Dad, before his stroke, would tell me what they’d been doing and we’d have a lively conversation. Today, I did practically all the talking. I’d receive a one-word response to my questions or comments. I had the feeling that they were hiding something from me. I called the administrator’s office back and asked how they really were. I was assured that they were in good health; their spirits were high. She told me that at the moment they were in an aquatic exercise class. Exercise class! It was hard to believe since Dad, for as long as I can remember, got his only exercise turning the pages of a newspaper. Since his stroke, he could hardly get around, let alone do water exercises. Mom would never go near the water either because she’d just had her hair or nails done. Now, her increasing blindness, I’m sure, was a further deterrent.
I apologize for this rambling letter, but I am worried and would appreciate hearing from you. You can reach me at the number in the letterhead or at my cell phone…
Sincerely.
Helen Simpson
     
    Funny, I had the same reaction as their daughter when I visited the Rogers in their Assisted Living apartment.
    After reading the letter, I phoned Helen. I wanted her to know of my visit to Larry and Christine and that they seemed to be healthy and relatively happy. In fact, robust. “Yet,” I said, “there was something different about their behavior, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
    Helen said, “Well, I’m somewhat relieved. Maybe it’s that they’re no longer in Independent Living. But that would be out of the question in their present conditions.”
    “You may be right, that it’s the change in their life style.” I said it without conviction, but wanted to allay Helen’s concerns.
    “I even thought I’d drop everything, hop a plane and spend a few days with them. It would be difficult. I have two   children, and I help my husband in his business. But unless you think it’s necessary to come, I’ll depend on you for my information.”
    “I plan to visit them from time-to-time,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch.”
    Easy to say, but based on my experience, I knew it would be easier to get into the White House Oval Office.

Chapter Thirteen
     

 
     
    For several days after my phone conversation with Helen Simpson, I mulled over how to carry out my mission: to find out what the hell was it with the Assisted Living facility. I knew I was just putting off as long as possible my confrontation with Fredricka, the Nazi, and the person who presumably had her on a leash, Kurt Berman, the facility’s administrator.
    First, I would try the direct approach. I‘d phone to find out when I could visit the Rogers again. No, damn it, no pussyfooting around. I’d tell whoever answered that I was coming over and they’d better open the door to the facility or I’d get a battering ram.
    That’s me, Fearless Fosdick. I was getting so worked up I had to take two blood pressure pills to calm me down.
    Then I picked up the phone.
    The person who answered, sounded like Fredricka, greeted me effusively. Her opening words were, “What do you want?”
    I said, “And hello to you, too.”
    There was silence from her end.
    “Hello,” I said. “Are you still