They Tied My Dad To His Bed
As a Gen X woman it’s my turn to care for my aging dad. But when I saw him bound and drugged, I didn’t know if I could.
The first time I saw my father tied to a bed in four-point restraints, his wrists and ankles raw and bruising where he’d chafed at his bonds, my heart broke a little. What must it have been like for him to see me? But he hadn’t.
The times I’d been physically and chemically restrained, I was alone; my incidents predicated by an abuse of drugs and alcohol and escapism. And while it’s impossible to be sure — especially now, decades after the fact — I believe that abuse was what got me strapped to various beds. I’ve not been kept against my will anywhere since I stopped.
Substance abuse is not my father’s issue. A lifelong health enthusiast, he bought a health club that he ran for the final 35 years of his career. This past September, at 85, he had a seizure. His first. The doctors have not diagnosed a cause, and it’s likely Dad has made their efforts more difficult. In this we are very much alike.
Standing over six feet tall, until mid-September he’d been living on his own. He maintained an enormous yard, did his shopping and cooking, and still worked out five days a week. During his first hospital stay, he clawed and kicked…
