My father, Edward Russell, was a headstrong, self-sufficient man.
He was born in Springfield, Illinois in the year 1920, the youngest of three brothers who were raised up to farm the rich, black soil of the fertile Midwest.
When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, my father, at 21 years of age, left his wife and four children to defend that soil.
He became a proud U.
S.
Marine, and was swiftly deployed to fight the Japanese on the faraway island of Okinawa in the Pacific Theater.
There my father learned self-sufficiency in a violently hostile foreign environment.
When he returned after the war he was never the same, neither physically or mentally.
He spent some months in the VA Hospital recovering from shrapnel wounds and post-traumatic stress disorder.
He suffered from horrific night terrors and would often wake up screaming in the dead hours of darkness.
My dad hated being in the hospital so much he forwent his military pension in favor of an early release.
He returned home to his wife and children; but time, distance, and the effects of war would not relinquish their destructive grip on his life.
The night terrors continued and he turned to alcohol to sedate the nocturnal visions.
His drinking progressed until ultimately his wife decided to leave him to preserve her own sanity.
She filed for divorce and moved the children to New York to be closer to her parents.
Several years later my dad met my mother, his second wife, during a trip to New York to see his children.
They were married for 22 years until my father's drinking and volatile behavior became too much for her as well.
They divorced in 1970 but remained amicable, seeing each other occasionally over the next 30 or so years.
My father re-married and was divorced several more times, until finally accepting the fact that he would spend most of his latter years living alone.
He lost his home to foreclosure in the year 2000 and moved in with my sister in Queens.
In 2002 after my father's second bypass surgery, my family faced the most difficult decision we ever had to make.
My 82-year-old father's health was deteriorating and it was no longer possible for my sister to continue caring for him at home.
My dad always said he'd take his own life before anyone could ever put him in a nursing home, and we all feared he meant it.
After days of heartfelt discussion, some argument, much reassurance and many tears, Dad agreed to consider assisted living.
After two weeks of research, phone calls, and driving, my sister -- an RN and my father's primary caretaker - came across a place that helps families find assisted living for their loved ones free of charge.
She sent them an email with her phone number and a basic description of what features we were hoping for and within hours we received a phone call.
The next day my sister and I were on our way to visit what we now consider to be the perfect elder care facility.
Located in a small, rustic community just a few miles from Queens, the home was beautiful; the staff was friendly and there were all types of daily activities even for those residents with limited mobility.
My Dad's private room was clean and brightly lit with sunlight streaming through his courtyard window.
I got permission to hang a small bird feeder on a nearby tree for my dad to enjoy the colorful birds who would occasionally alight to enjoy the feeder.
At my sister's place he would sit by the window and watch her feeder for hours.
I knew this simple gesture would make him feel more at home.
Once we helped Dad unpack and his new room was adorned with photographs and objects of familiarity, he began to settle in.
I hooked up the new TV and VCR we bought him as a housewarming gift and the three of us spent the first evening in his new home together as a family, eating popcorn and watching Westerns.
assisted living in Queens turned out to be the ideal solution for our family's situation.
Dad felt wonderfully at ease in his new surroundings, and because elder care was the best choice after all, everyone's worries faded like a cowboy's silhouette into the magnificent sunset at the end of a perfect day.