The last time I visited my father, I walked into his $11,000-a-month room in a posh assisted living residence and found him curled up on the floor. My sister Amy and I knelt down, touched him, and asked if he was okay.
“I don’t know,” mumbled Dad, 96, a retired physician and lifelong outdoorsman. “I fell about 20 minutes ago and no one has come.”
I went for help. Out in the common area, there were no caregiving staff anywhere. I found an administrator and the nurse, who came and briskly hoisted him into his easy chair, where he’d spent most of his time staring out the window at a slice of the mountains. Then they left.
