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The knot in my stomach is unraveling with each mile I drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I’m nearing my destination, a place of acceptance, though I’d love to reach a state of grace. This is the day I’ve prepared for, the day that will change my life and my Alzheimer’s-afflicted dad’s life in ways that are still largely undefined, yet unavoidable. For better or worse, I’m bringing Dad home.

I’m unsettled at the thought of wheeling him out of Crestview Assisted Living for the last time. Once through those doors, the stable and comfortable life Dad has known for the last five years is over, and mine will be altered in ways I’m still trying to envision. He’ll need considerable caregiving, and it will be up to me and my husband to provide it.

As I pull Dad’s wheelchair van into a parking space at Crestview, I take a deep breath and tell myself it’s going to be okay. I may have arrived at a place of acceptance, but now I have to move forward and seek higher ground where we’ll all feel safe and happy. Such basic premises, but so vital to our well-being.

Heading toward the entrance, I hit my mental reset button to be present in the now. Inside, they’re getting ready for Dad’s going-away party, and I want to make it as enjoyable as possible. I can’t say it will be memorable for him since his memory is flighty and doesn’t stick around, but who knows? He often surprises me with the things he recalls.

My stride into the immaculate, welcoming lobby projects a breeziness I don’t genuinely feel because it’s tempered by an awareness that this is the last time I’ll be here. Even though the administrator assured me they’ll “always have a place for Joe,” I don’t see how we’ll ever be able to move him back to this wonderful place. I’m sorry to take him away from this small corner of the world where he’s been so content, and am apprehensive about moving him into my own corner of contentment. I quash that thought, push it way down, so that today of all days my anxiety doesn’t resurface.

Most of Crestview’s residents are already in the dining room. They welcome any change to their routine, and their anticipation of a party has led them here early. Some may remember they’re here for Dad’s going-away party, though they don’t know where he’s going or why he’s leaving. Others want the simple pleasure of company and cake. As usual, I’m greeted with a chorus of cheery hellos, and I smile and wave in response as I look around the room for my dad.

Ah, there he is, parked at a table in his wheelchair. He’s wearing his newest 82nd Airborne cap. Inside or outside, an Airborne cap is a staple of his attire. His favorite CNA, Sissy, is bending down and kissing his cheek. There’s a flush of pleasure on his face. Sissy straightens and takes his hand in hers. “I’m sure going to miss you, Joe.” Tears are welling in her warm eyes, and her voice is spilling emotion. “I love you, darlin’.” She looks at me. “I love him a lot, Rachel.”

Well, heck. Right off the bat, the direction of this party is taking a wrong turn. My eyes are welling with tears, too. If there are to be teary goodbyes, I’d hoped they wouldn’t happen until we’re ready to depart. I blink and nod, then kiss Dad’s cheek, taking a moment for my threatening tears to retreat. Dad’s gaze is fastened on Sissy, and I suppose he’s searching for the right words to respond to her sentimentality.

But hovering over us, taking in every word and nuance, is Grady, a loud, gruff, pencil-thin resident who obsessively hitches his pants, although they’re securely belted just slightly south of his armpits and can’t get any higher. And just as I anticipated, Grady’s booming voice cuts off any words Dad might have been ready to share with Sissy. “Where ya goin’, Joe?”

Dad startles, then slowly shifts his body toward Grady. He’s redirecting his thoughts from thanking Sissy to answering Grady. I’m tempted to answer for him, but refrain. His dementia hinders an easy flow of words, and I want to give him time to piece together an answer. After only a few more seconds, Dad’s blue eyes flash with clarity and he tells Grady, “I’m going home.”

For weeks, I’ve used those words for where he’s going, and they seem to have stuck. But does he really understand that he’ll be moving into my home, the home I share with my husband and dog?

“Where’s home?” asks Della, who is more of a stalker than a hoverer. She’s been in unrequited love with Dad since day one at Crestview. She pulls her chair so close to his wheelchair that the arms are touching.

I stay quiet, waiting for Dad’s answer. He drops his head and leans away from Della. He plucks at the crease in his pants. “Florida,” he mumbles, though he sounds uncertain. He looks up at me for confirmation.

Many of the residents have moved in closer to hear the conversation, but before I can edit Dad’s answer, Grady jumps in again. “I thought you was from Tennessee.” His tone is pitched between a question and an accusation.

Now I do answer for Dad. “He was born in Tennessee but lived in Florida for many years.” And to answer the question of exactly where he is going, I add, “He’s coming to live in my home, with me and my husband David, here in Asheville.”

A chorus of reactions erupts from the circle of people around us, everything from whoops to squeals to amens. While I wanted happiness, these exclamations border on sheer joy. I can’t sort out their excitement about Dad’s leaving. They’ve been his companions for five years, after all. I can only attribute it to the novel idea that one of their own is moving into a real home. It’s usually the other way around—from home to Crestview.

Crestview is home to mostly mobile adults of all ages who function at an acceptable level but need assistance with everyday living because of diminished mental capacity. And though Dad, at eighty-five, is older than most and his condition more profound, he has fit in well.

Once he moves in with us, his world will become much smaller and these sweet people will not be a part of it, not even occasionally. I don’t want to share this reality with Dad or anyone else right now since I’ve convinced myself that today is about cheerful goodbyes and hopeful new beginnings.

“Does this mean you won’t be visiting us anymore, Rachel?” I look over at Celia, a resident of more than twenty years. I’ve become fond of her, and I’m going to miss her smile, the way it never fails to reach her eyes.

“Dad and I hope to come back and visit, Celia.” I clasp her hand and squeeze it. Smiling with relief, she squeezes back.

“I’m gonna miss you more than I’ll miss Joe!” Ralph, Dad’s best buddy, pipes out.

“Ha, Ralph!” I wink at him. “That’s only because you’ll miss the dollar bills I slip you.”

Ralph laughs. Grady hitches his pants.

Dad is poised to say something but is interrupted when the head cook, Mary, pushes through the kitchen’s swinging doors with a tray of brightly colored tumblers filled with iced tea. “Hey, Rachel. Today’s the big day, huh? You look so pretty. You always do.”

Before I can thank Mary, Crestview’s oldest resident at ninety-two, James, steps between us and pushes his walker in close. He asks me for what has to be the hundredth time if I’ll marry him. I tell him for the hundredth time that if I weren’t already happily married, I’d be honored. Gratified, he swings his walker around and ambles off.

Mary has finished setting out the tumblers and is heading back toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder she tells Dad she’s bringing his cake out now.

Dad tilts his head. His brow furrows. “Cake?”

“It’s your going-away cake, Joe. You’ll love it. Yum, yum.”

Dad stares after Mary and continues to watch the kitchen door, oblivious to Sissy, who is tying a large bib around his neck. His vigilance is rewarded when Mary swings back through the door, holding the cake high above her head like a ceremonial offering. She sets it on the table next to a vase of spring lilies. Though others comment on it, Dad ignores them. The cake is his focal point. Its inscription, Goodbye Joe, strikes me as odd in its no-frills frankness; but with deep swirls of chocolate frosting, the cake is something to behold.

“It’s beautiful, Mary. It looks luscious.”

She leans in and whispers, “I used the sugar substitute like you asked. Hope they don’t notice.” I nod and mouth my thanks.

Dad’s focus is still on the cake. “Goodbye Joe,” he reads the inscription aloud. “Is this for me?” he asks no one in particular.

“It’s your goodbye-party cake, Joe,” Mary tells him again.

His lips purse and his eyes drift to the right, spotting nothing specific. He’s sorting, as I call it, trying to reconcile what’s before him with what’s been lost to him. Grady’s rough voice interrupts the process. “Why’re you movin’ in with Rachel?”

I’m ready to field this poorly timed question, but Dad’s head comes up, and he cranes his neck toward Grady. His voice is uncharacteristically loud and clear when he answers. “Because Rachel and David are broke and can’t pay for me to live here anymore.”

My mouth drops open, and a hush falls over the room.

Dear God. Ask my dad what he had for breakfast and he won’t be able to tell you. But ask him what was said in our heart-to-heart talk as I attempted to explain the reason for the move—hoping he’d understand at that moment, even though he’d likely forget in the next—and he’s able to not only recall that conversation but to whittle it down to its most salient point: David and I are “broke.” Good Lord.

It’s true that we’re having to make adjustments since our income has shrunk and our savings have dwindled, but our situation is not as dire as Dad just made it out to be.

“Is that true, Rachel? You broke?” Glenda, Crestview’s bully, asks a little too cheerily. I try to steer clear of her because of her aggressive attitude, which is intensified by her imposing girth. She downright intimidates me, and that’s hard to do.

Truth told, I want to tell her to go to hell, but that’s unseemly, and I worry my voice will crack. I brush at non-existent lint on my pants and look over at Dad, who is smiling at me. He’s pleased he was able to answer Grady’s question. Then he looks at me, really looks at me, and his smile disappears. The corners of his mouth turn down and his eyes dull.

He’s aware of my distress. His shaky hand reaches for mine. He wouldn’t able to describe what I’m feeling, but he senses it. He doesn’t think clearly, but he feels deeply; and at this moment, he wants to comfort his daughter. I’m filled with a familiar, soothing warmth, the same warmth I felt as a little girl when he would pick me up and kiss my scraped elbow and tell me I would be okay.

And I realize I am okay. This embarrassment is just a scrape that will eventually heal. So what if the secret is out? I’m facing much bigger obstacles. I squeeze Dad’s hand and smile to let him know I’m fine, then sit up straighter and glance around.

The staff members stare at the floor. The residents, less inhibited by good manners, are openly surprised. They’ve witnessed the positive effects of my money on Dad’s lifestyle: his lavishly furnished private room, private aides to entertain and engage him, and a married couple who do physical and massage therapy. I’ve brightened the residents’ lives, too, with clothing, toiletries, and many dollar bills used for snacks from the vending machines. Dad’s pronouncement likely has them coming to grips with what my being “broke” and not coming here anymore means to them—no more gifts.

Glenda’s question hangs over the room like an overinflated balloon ready to pop. I meet her menacing eyes. Just say it. “We’re not broke, Glenda. We’re making adjustments, but we’re comfortable enough to have Dad live an easy, good life with us in our home.”

“She’s got a big mansion, plenty of room for me,” Dad declares, pleased to share a glimpse into his new home. Wow, he’s hitting on all cylinders today.

Before I can refute his grandiose statement, Della asks, “May I come live with you, too?” She looks at Dad with longing.

I’m beyond relieved when Rhonda, an angel of a CNA, steps in. “All right, that’s enough. Joe’s lucky he gets to live with Rachel and get away from you nosy folks.” There’s a twitter of laughter. “A chocolate cake is sitting here, ready for eating. Let’s give Joe a proper send-off.”

Rhonda begins slicing it into generous portions. The confused and melancholy mood dissipates. Someone from the back of the growing gathering asks, “What does it say on that cake?”

“It says Goodbye Joe,” Rhonda blasts so that everyone can hear; otherwise, she’ll be repeating it ten more times.

Dora, a resident who lives in the past, circa 1950, has been playing her usual repertoire of melancholy tunes on the piano in a corner of the dining room. Now she executes a wild riff on the keys and starts singing in a wide-open voice. “Goodbye, Joe, you gotta go. . .” She bangs the keys as though playing in a Cajun honky-tonk. From the ironic “Try to Remember” to “Jambalaya” in a heartbeat! Wide eyes and surprised laughter tell me I’m not the only one who’s astonished at her abrupt turn from melancholy to mania. The residents start dancing where they stand. A few of the livelier ones clog to the tune with surprising agility and gusto. Dad claps his hands, smiling, oblivious to how off the beat he is. The atmosphere has turned festive and fun, taking on the proportions and character of the party scene I’d hoped for.

Besides the excellent care, this is why I’ve loved having Dad here. These people, despite their confinement to a facility—or maybe because of it—jump on opportunities to entertain themselves, and each other. It’s been a good atmosphere for Dad. It certainly won’t be as lively in my home.

He loves it here. The staff is excellent, dedicated and kind. No other facility in Asheville would take him in his condition. With his trifecta of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and diabetes, in addition to the after-effects of a broken hip he’d suffered while still living in Florida, I kept getting directed to nursing homes. But for the right price, Crestview took him in. Homey, safe, spotless Crestview. Yet again, I have to push down the anxiety that’s threatening to resurface at the thought of Dad’s moving in, upending my comfy life, and depending on me, David and our big black Lab, Nick, to fill his world.

But David and I can’t continue subsidizing his civil service pension, VA disability, and Social Security to the hefty tune of three-thousand dollars a month. It’s been almost three years since the 2008 real estate market meltdown, and with the Great Recession that followed, we’ve struggled more each year to subsidize Dad’s living here at Crestview. What money we have after liquidating all we could is slated for mortgage payments and living expenses over the next two years. We simply have no choice. Goodbye, Crestview, we gotta go. . .

If Dad hadn’t broken his hip—and in a hospital, of all places—he could have continued living in the posh assisted living facility in Florida, where he enjoyed a luxurious and activity-filled life. The surgeon’s post-surgery prognosis that Dad wouldn’t live for more than a year because of his infirmities prompted me to move him up here to North Carolina. I wanted him nearby so I could oversee every aspect of his rehabilitation and medical care. It was an outright effort to defy the surgeon’s death sentence. Five years later, Dad’s still here—a testament to both our wills.

Now he’ll be nearer than I ever imagined. Even as we’re enjoying chocolate cake, David and the movers are down the hall emptying Dad’s room. I’m taking Dad for lunch and a drive on the Parkway while David gets everything set up at home. At least, that’s the plan.

The residents have forsaken dancing for cake. I certainly wouldn’t want their afflictions, but I almost envy these people for their ability to live in the moment with no worries about the future. I dare say even their concern about no more gifts has been forgotten. Crumbs decorate their shirts, faces, and the dining room floor, but they’re oblivious. Those who have finished start to leave. They’re not being rude; they’re just being themselves. Everyday life, as they know it, goes on.

It’s time for the final farewell. “Well, it’s time for us to go home, Dad.” I stand and turn to the selfless women who have given my dad five years of loving care. I hug and thank each one, then stand by as they offer Dad hugs and kisses, along with words of love and encouragement.

“I’m really going to miss you two,” Sissy says, sniffling, “but I’ll come see you and Joe, I promise.” She looks past me, noticeably brightening, and adds conspiratorially, “Don’t leave just yet. You didn’t hear it from me, but they have a little something for Joe.” She points to the corridor. “See? Here they come.”

The residents are filing back into the dining room. Grace, Crestview’s self-appointed spiritual leader who wasn’t at the party to pray over the cake, is leading them. She’s holding her Bible tight to her bosom, as always. A picture of Mighty Mouse is taped to its back. I never asked.

“I hear you’re going home, Joe,” she says. She closes her eyes and bows her head. “You’re going to a better place.”

“Um, he’s not going home like that, Gracie,” Sissy says.

“His journey home to eternal life.” Grace raises a hand high in the air.

“No, not yet,” I tell her. “He’s coming to my home, to live with me.”

I swear she looks disappointed as she hands Dad a sheet of paper. She’s written “Psalm 23” at the top, and there are scribbles underneath. Dad thanks her and lays it in his lap. It’s her going-away gift, she tells him.

The assortment of odd gifts, including a single brown glove, an empty ring box, and a doorknob, grows in his lap.

Dad thanks each person graciously, until he doesn’t, because he’s becoming overwhelmed. He’s managed to engage each giver as he’s accepted the gifts, but that’s a lot of sustained activity for his muddled mind and shaky hands. When he folds his hands in his lap, bows his head and closes his eyes—his way of powering down before he’s completely drained—I take over in accepting gifts.

Celia gives him the best gift of all—a paper grocery bag with handles.

“You knew just what he needed, Celia, something to carry these gifts.”

She hugs me tightly. “Please don’t ever forget me,” she says.

Please don’t ever forget me. That’s what I silently plead with my dad, each and every day.