“I Don’t Want to Go.”

By Carolyn J. Palo   July 5, 2026   This is a chapter in my in-process memoir.      For a while, I was feeling like a beach vacation was what my father and I both needed.  Time out of the house, a change of scenery. That is what I envisioned.  My father was in good spirits and agreed to a week in Cape Cod, MA.  I secured a two bedroom rental that I could walk out and wheel Dad in his wheelchair straight to the beach and ocean.  It was expensive, luxurious and inviting.  I booked it for peak summer season.      The other reason I wanted a week away was to have the hardwood floors refinished. The hardwood floor in the eat-in kitchen was discolored and faded in spots.  After my mother died, I wanted to refresh the space as the carpet was old and the hardwood beneath was in decent condition.  I pulled up part of the wall-to-wall carpet in the living room. I told my father that it would be easier for him to get around in the wheelchair.  The thick berber carpet I reluctantly installed years prior was wearing out.  Walking on it, I could hear the crunching of the deteriorated rug pad and stitching beneath.  He was against it.  “It’s fine the way it is.”  It wasn’t.  The carpet and the curtains needed to go.  Later, the couch, lamps, coffee table and end tables, but that’s another chapter.     I also wanted to replace the heavily worn vinyl kitchen floor with hard wood.  It was an old vinyl floor that, as my mother would say, “had seen its day.”  With my vision of how the new floor and refinished floor would look, I was even happier to go on vacation.  I’m always trying to get the most done and use opportunity wisely.  Sometimes it’s exhausting and thankless, but worth it.    As the vacation time was getting closer, I would mention it to my father to make sure he remembered.  “I’m really looking forward to going to the Cape this summer.”  My father just nodded his head.  I knew he would be somewhat reluctant to leave the house, but figured once he got to the condo, right on the beach, he would be impressed, and happy.  I told him while we were gone we were going to get the floors refinished and have the new kitchen floor stained and finished at the same time.  He would nod in approval, but he didn’t seem fully-on-board.  I worried that I was making changes he didn’t like, or that I was somehow betraying the décor choices he and my mother made, which I understood.  Yet, things wear out.  Having home care workers, physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists and nurses in and out of the home, it needed to be clean and up to date.      It took me some time to realize that my father didn’t really care as much as I hoped, or believed.  He didn’t like change, but knew things needed to be replaced.  I tried to give him the decision-making power and would show him ideas for wood finishes.  “What stain would you like for the floors?” I’d ask, and show him some photos and samples.  He would choose one or two and we went with that.  It was still my father’s house, and I believed he needed to still have control over what was changing.  I knew it was hard for him to give me the authority over things he and my mother managed their entire married life.  As a daughter, I felt he also was reluctant to give me any authority, it was not his free will to do so, but a necessity due to his health condition.  I feared it frustrated him, but he relented as I think he knew I was doing the best with our situation.  I also believe he knew the alternatives were limited, and would most likely offer no decisions on what would contribute to his well-being.  He had been in two nursing homes, as “skilled rehab facilities.”  As much as he wanted to surrender to everything out of annoyance, “I don’t care, do what you want” was heard more than once, yet he also wanted to control his environment, especially because he didn’t have any real control over his own body since his stroke. I wanted him to maintain his pride in ownership, even with his physical limitations.   The whole process would be harder on me than anyone. I knew I would have a lot to do, and I was up for it.  I was looking forward to a break and a beach. Some easy living and I could bring the dog.  All good. I would get take out meals, fisherman’s platters, lobster rolls and easy breakfast foods. A break from scratch cooking and baking (which I love) would be fine on vacation.   As I cautiously predicted, my sister declined to help move the furniture out of the house, which needed to be done in order for the wood floors to be refinished. The floor people would not move anything per the contract.  I had been slimming things down anyway to make for an easier furniture transition to the garage.  I sold some end tables, a bed, a desk, and a bureau easily online.  The rest I moved myself.      Check-in time to the condo was 2pm on Saturday. I got a confirmation call from the landlord who said I could check in early if I wanted to.  “Great!” I thought, just one step closer to the respite I was craving.      I had fallen behind in my furniture moving, packing and lawn work. It was an unusually hot day with high humidity as well. I was moving slower but made huge progress. I emptied the bedrooms and living room of their contents, and packed them into an already crowded garage. The only thing that was not moving was my father.  He continued to sit completely relaxed in his recliner in the living room. I started to worry that this was going to be a case of major coaxing.  It was getting close to 2pm already.  The car was packed.  Everything was in the garage.  I needed a shower and wanted to wash my hair, but time was slipping away and I wanted to get on the road. I had no idea what traffic might be like on a Saturday afternoon, but I surmised at least a three hour drive. And I was already tired from moving and the heat.    “Ok Dad, we’re ready to go!”  I said cheerfully.  He did not answer and nodded his head “No.” I said, “The furniture is all in the garage and we can head out now and check in to the beach house (I thought this sounded more appealing than “condo”).  He wasn’t moving.  I was hinging on exasperation.  My father was speech impaired since his stroke, but occasionally his speech was clear.  This time he clearly said, “I don’t want to go.”  My heart sunk. I replied with, “Well, your bed and everything is in the garage because we are going to have the floors refinished (I had also removed the wall-to-wall berber carpeting by hand the week prior, no small task).  “I’m staying right here,” he said.  Major worry is setting in on my part, because it requires his cooperation to move from the recliner to his wheelchair, and from his wheelchair to the car, the slide-board from the wheelchair to the front seat.  He wasn’t having any of it. Pure refusal.    There were no alternatives, and I was not going to lose the money I had prepaid for the week at the Cape.  No way.  He was going, because there were no other options except a nursing home for the week, but I had tried that before and no one would take him. “We’re booked” was what I heard more than once.  I suspected it was because he wasn’t “easy enough” and one requirement was he needed to be able to toilet himself, and he couldn’t.  I needed help.  I needed coercion at the highest level.     As his daughter, my authority was limited, unless he bought into whatever I was trying to sell him, like COVID vaccines.  “I don’t want it and I don’t need it.”  Yet there was one thing my father would listen to and abide by, and that was the words of a man of authority (also worth noting, most men held authority with my father for simply being male).  My father fought the COVID vaccines, and I couldn’t force him to get vaccinated and this kept me vigilant with mask wearing, hand washing, visits from friends, etc…  Then, thankfully, he watched the news at noon on television.  The Massachusetts governor at the time, Charlie Baker, would give his update on the pandemic, and urge everyone to get vaccinated.  After my father watched that, he said (clearly), “Well, I have to get vaccinated, let’s get in the car,” and off to a hotel in Westboro we went.  Thankfully. I didn’t have time to be miffed by this.  He was who he was. Shaped by generations before him.    I knew I needed that type of authority now.  I was physically tired from moving furniture and packing for the trip.  I was becoming mentally drained from trying to coax, coerce and slightly demand my father “Get in the car.”  My patience was thin, I was propping up my exhaustion with Pepsi and potato chips because I emptied out the refrigerator and only packed what fit in the cooler.        My father was a reserve police officer in town for almost 17 years.  He respected the law and the badge.  As much as I didn’t want to do it, I quietly called called the police station and asked for help.  Two officers arrived, I explained the issue.  They said, “We can’t force him to go, or do anything.”  I replied, “I know you can’t, but I’m short on alternatives right now.”  They came in the house to see it was empty, everything packed in the car, including the dog.  I said, “He wants to stay here, can you just talk to him?”  I knew I looked like hell and probably smelled like a barnyard, and they could probably easily sense my desperation, exasperation or whatever you want to call it. I wasn’t at my best. Both of the officer’s eyes surveyed the kitchen, and landed on the famous 1958 Norman Rockwell framed print “The Runaway.”   Easily, the officer spoke with my father, and asked him why he didn’t want to go on vacation, to which my father had no real answer.  Easily, the officer explained what a great trip it would be, and the new floors would be ready for when he got home, and an ocean view in the summer sounded pretty good…”  “John,” he said, “Will you go for me?  Will you go with your daughter to the Cape for me?” With maybe two beats of hesitation, “Ok,” my father said.  “We can help you to the car John, do you need me to help you?”  “No,” my father said, “I can do it.”     I was jubilant with joy.  I wasted no time wheeling him down two steps and out to the driveway, sliding him into the front passenger’s seat.  I thanked the officers profusely and they were kind with “Have a great trip.”  “Dad it’s going to be a nice trip, you’ll see.”  His mood had changed dramatically, he was smiling, “Yup, ok.”      What my father needed was male company.  To reinforce what he could do, to remind himself of the authority he once carried, and possibly believe that he still carried it. That the men in blue knew my intentions were true and good, and he could abide by that.  It’s one of the biggest challenges in dealing with aging parents, they often don’t want to give up any authority their children have taken on on their behalf.  The words have to come from a respected source that is convincing them to do the best thing for them. I’ve seen situations where a total stranger’s words carry more weight than the daughter or son.  I don’t think it will ever get easy for a spirited, independent person who is under the care of someone who doesn’t wield the authority or respect they may have undertaken to care for a loved one.  “Why should I listen to you?”  Well, in many cases, like mine, there is literally, no one else.    In the car, I was completely relieved, yet worried that the trip was over 2 hours delayed, we’d run into traffic, my father would get restless and he may require a bathroom trip on the way.  I prayed we would get there in 2 hours or less.  It was now after 4pm on a Saturday, it was possible traffic would be light, we’d get over the bridge in no time.  It all played out well in my mind and the GPS confirmed that we were good as gold now. I turned out of the driveway with renewed joy and optimism, and a lot of relief. The dog was fast asleep in his crate in the back seat.  I was going on vacation!   Except one thing.  As we got closer to our destination, Old Whale Road, the GPS kept stalling and circling, and resetting.  It was taking me to addresses that were just open spaces, no mailbox, no house and not where I wanted to be.  It couldn’t find the address.  It was getting dark, my father was getting frustrated and was trying to open the car door to get out.  It was over two hours, the landlord called and said “I had to leave, but the back sliding door is open.” My phone wasn’t ringing, for whatever reason, the message went straight to voicemail.   I parked in a parking lot with the ocean to my right, to get my bearings and calm my father. I looked at my phone map for clues as to how far away I was. I knew I was in the vicinity, but just could not find the address. Intuition said, “Pull out and keep going.”   Then it dawned on me.  It was a scam.  I had prepaid for a week at the Cape, securing an address that didn’t exist. I did it on the internet, on a respected booking site, but it was fraudulent! It had to be! Panic flooded over me. I began to sweat, the dog woke up and started whining.  I pulled into an address that would have been next door at 401 Old Whale Road.  There were people sitting on the deck and I said I was looking for my rental, but this didn’t seem right.  They said, “We don’t know, we’re not from here.”  Right, why would a vacationer know where I was supposed to be?  I called the landlord, left a message as calmly as possible.  The wi-fi was intermittent as we were at the coast now.  My father knew something was really wrong.  I started to search online for hotels as that would be the only option for us.  It was getting scary, I was getting angry and the dog and my father were now helpless at my hand.  “I should probably call the police,” I thought.  What hotel could take us now?  I figured everything was booked.  I pulled into another empty parking lot to gather my thoughts.  My father said he had to go to the bathroom and again tried getting out of the car. The dog was barking and panting as his calming medication was wearing off. My father’s wheelchair was on top of everything my little wagon could tote.  I said a few prayers (“God help me” was one) and decided this was a nightmare and I would wake up.    Then, my phone rang.  It was the landlord, he said, “How are you doing and where are you?”  I told him where I was and he said “You should be here by now,” and I said I couldn’t find 400 Old Whale Road.  He said, “What?  No!  It’s 120 Old Whale Road, you are only about a mile away.”  Stunned, I thanked him and in no time was pulling into the driveway that was shown on the online listing.  I thanked God.    I’m not a particularly religious person.  My sister and I went to Sunday school at the non-denominational church in the center of town, where we were baptized. The United Parish, predominantly Methodist.  My father was Methodist by his mother’s lapsed affiliation, but my father was sent to catholic school as he was failing out of public school and was often truant.  My grandmother had no problem with private school teaching him the catholic religion.  My father said it was the strictness of the nuns that he needed and they were all business when it came to his learning. My father later kept to his Methodist religion and considered himself and us, “walking in the path of Jesus.”  Yet, he was not a church-goer and told us that after Sunday school was over, we were free to do as we liked.  We met the Reverend at the time, went to services, but were never considered “devout.”  In fact, the story of why we stopped going to church is an essay for another day.    I believed then and now, that my crisis was alleviated by some type of divine intervention. A deus ex-machina, if you will.  A helping hand that reached down when you really needed it. Who or what exactly it was, I don’t know.  There are many religious icons, prophets, dogma and other belief systems that could easily take the credit.  An idea that when all else fails, and there is no other way out, the deus ex-machina suddenly appears and solves the problem of the moment, unexplained, unforeseen, possibly unplanned, always unexpected but often pleaded for.  It happens.  It’s also a historical tool of many writers and playwrights.  How art imitates life sometimes amazes me.   It was now dusk, and getting darker by the minute.  I got out of the car and walked up the path to the sliding glass door. I could hear the ocean rolling onto the shore, there was a slight breeze, there was music playing far off.  I opened the slider and was happy to see the place looked just like the website photo gallery.  I chose dad’s room and went back to the car and wheeled him in.  He seemed happy and said he wanted to lie down.  I’m sure the car was getting cramped for him and I felt bad that we didn’t have a smoother experience, but did remind him that our delay was really his delay.  He agreed and said he was sorry.  I’m sure I looked like a wilted flower, and he probably saw my current state and possibly felt somewhat responsible.  It didn’t matter.  He went into the bed as a happy camper and was asleep in less than ten minutes. Right before falling asleep he said, “I like the ceiling fan.”     The dog was thrilled to be out of the car and went on a sniffing session around the building, down to the water and all around.  I unpacked everything and set things up as fast as I could.  I wanted to sit outside and face the ocean, under the moonlight with a glass of wine and a strong sense of relief.   Our time was the break we needed, or I needed.  I had time to write, to enjoy the beach, meet new people and manage some fun.  I knew before booking the vacation that it would most likely be my father’s last time near the ocean.  I wheeled him out to the deck area everyday, he took it all in. We ate seafood, ate ice cream, cinnamon rolls, deli sandwiches, a fisherman’s platter, and plenty of Cape Cod fare. Even pizza.     I realized that I was also being selfish.  I wanted to have this last time with my father be a meaningful, happy memory.  Our history as father and daughter was often fraught with frustration and some dissension. I wanted that to be put behind us. We needed to heal from that.   It’s true, he didn’t really want to leave his house. That’s what he knew, that’s where he was safe.  I did, in a way, forcefully take him out for what I believed were the best intentions, but they were really my intentions, laced with an upside of home improvement.  But it was our improvement, simultaneously that was the gift.   Arriving home, the new floors looked fabulous.  Refinished after fifty years of stains, accidents, mistakes, frustration, being walked on, anger, resolve and forgiveness. A father and daughter refinish.  An improvement.   I know he forgave me for removing him from his realm, and maybe he also realized that this one time, it wasn’t just about him. I needed the refinish as much as he did.  It was also about me.  And that was okay.