Firstly, I live in Ohio, my birth father lives in Florida. I have no idea when the VA diagnosed him with dementia, I began realizing over the phone something was wrong a year or so ago. I began getting calls from his landlord (who lived with him) last year and we began keeping in touch. In June, he gave him till the end of July to leave. This was on me as Stan wouldn’t have remembered and they may have had words. I found out a month ago, that luckily, he signed me up as his medical power of attorney. He gave me some paperwork in around 2016 and I assumed it was for after he died. I didn’t really read it or look it over too carefully. Having worked in Children’s Protective Services, (albeit in CA), I assumed it wouldn’t be too hard dealing with the Adult version in FL. Boy, was I wrong. When I say a person has to be out of the house they are renting by July 31st, this does not mean August 4th. But, when you deal with the government, you are on their time. It doesn’t matter what you need or want. I am sure this issue is in every state though, not just Florida. Also, there is more to the story. This is not the man who raised me but a man I have been in touch with a couple of times a year.

Stan gave me up for adoption when I was about 11 and my sister 9. I recently found out I had the ages wrong when Ohio opened Probate and I received my original birth certificate and adoption record. I have spent my whole life talking about being 9 years old when I went to court and the judge asked me about my stepfather. I did at least remember that I was wearing my Girl Scout uniform and the judge seemed to be high up on a dais. He seemed way far away from where I was at. It was quite intimidating for a little girl. My birth father was not there. Stan had already signed the papers ahead of time. My stepfather was tired of fighting him to get child support and made him a deal. He accepted. After the adoption hearing, my paternal grandparents called one last time. My mother informed them that we were Vegh’s now and would no longer be able to talk to them, my aunts/uncles, half-siblings and stepmother.

I was in my mid-20’s when, ironically, my maternal grandmother heard Stan as a DJ on a Christian radio station. She gave me a number to call and we spoke. I met him once in person – at a Wendy’s in California by an amusement park. He drove semi’s hauling yachts cross country from Florida, at that time, and couldn’t park his truck anywhere. It was an awkward reunion, but gave me some closure. He claimed he didn’t clearly understand that adoption meant giving up your children completely and changing their names. He told me a little about his life and then left. After this, we continued to talk over the phone a couple of times a year. He never asked to visit me in California again. When I visited Ohio, I would meet with my paternal grandparents.

Stan went through various jobs before settling on the semi-truck career. He also went through various wives – around five or six that I am aware of. He cheated on all of them. He had four daughters, again the irony. Three of us have had more than one marriage (but only two). The third daughter died awhile ago of complications. She was with a husband she would have left, had she lived. He is now married to the woman he was cheating on her with.

When his own parents died, there were sibling fights to the point that they became estranged from him and even now do not have any concern about his condition. I make them aware though. His last “wife” who was also his third wife that he re-connected with, did not legally marry so that she wouldn’t lose her ex-husband’s money. She died shortly after this “marriage” and her daughter’s – again all women – kicked him out of his home and left him homeless. He was in his late 70’s, early 80’s at this time. I had only met the girls as a child, so I had no relationship with them. I thought it was horrible though to be fixated on money rather than the well-being of an old man. These girls took their grief out on Stan by blaming them for their mother’s death. She died from complications after a surgery. They believe he “talked her into this.” To blame someone for something medical, that you have no control over, I find unconscionable.

Stan had went to a church in Florida for many years, as he was a Christian and they helped him to find a rental property – shared with other men – as he did not have much money. This is where he stayed until this week.

Wait, there is more. Prior to the dementia, Stan was a narcissist and why I only spoke to him two times a year. He was fixated on himself and his grandiose delusions. Ideas that he now has organized in two – four drawer filing cabinets. Talking to him on the phone meant listening to a speaker, who could care less about you. Except trying to turn you in to a born again, but otherwise not much. He would asked a couple of questions about your relationship and then went back to himself. Then he wanted me to send him photos, so he could collect pictures of my sister and I, our families, “his” grandchildren, etc… I did when I had time.

Social Media has turned everyone’s life inside out – we all know this. He has about five or six profiles on Facebook, each with strange looking people from third world countries. One fantasy was working with these people in some Christian effort that he believed he was going to change their life – to his thinking. Stan was about Stan. He has never had real male friends. His biological father left my grandmother before Stan went to the Army. He told Stan, either choose me or your mother. Stan was not about to give up his mother – who he had a very close relationship with, so his dad not only abandoned him, but the younger children – two brothers and a baby sister. He didn’t have a great start, or a nurturing father and I think this is part of his narcissism and inability to have close bonds with men.

He most likely turned to women for comfort, but avoided intimacy and responsibility. To my knowledge, he used up other women’s money as well or if they had it.

This is the background and here we are today. For the past year, I have called Adult Protective Services (APS) in Florida and made about three to four reports. I learned they do not have social workers, so their “investigators” have no formal education and do not have a clue what dementia looks like. Before the move, only one investigator spoke to me on the phone – venting about the drive to get to his then home. She told me he was fine, his house looked good, they had a house cleaner that came out two times a week and he knew his social security number and date of birth. For anyone who is working with APS, you would think that they would, in the very least, explain what to look for in dementia. I found that all the investigators were very good at talking A LOT and misleading you.

I told the talkative investigator that he was giving out his information on the phone, ran to the front door several times/day looking for a Fedex package (scammers had told him this) with his millions of dollars inside. I told them that he had lost a few thousand dollars which the bank took care of. I told them that he hadn’t been to the VA appointments for a year. I told them to look at his car (which was still there at the time of the talkative investigator) and to ask him what happened. He did not know. I put these things in my online reports too, requesting an investigation but evidently this wasn’t enough to be concerned. Not until I said he would be homeless at the end of July.

I called the state of Florida and while this agency didn’t serve Stan’s county (even though it was called state), they gave me the regional director’s contact information for APS. The VA had given me information too – but it was all useless. I learned the VA was pretty much useless, I had to do everything myself. Only one agency, that the VA gave me, has since called me back and this was over a month after I called them. By this time, APS was moving like a turtle, but involved. Once I told them the landlord was kicking him out and he would be homeless, they stepped in. The regional director passed me on to a supervisor (the supervisor I had originally called a month prior never called me back) and she led me to believe she would take care of assigning him to someone to get him moved. She did, but then did not explain the investigator she had passed the buck to was out sick the week before he was supposed to leave. She also did not give me this person’s information. I eventually got it from the landlord – very professional don’t you think?

The final week, the supervisor kept stalling, and I knew she was. She said she had located a placement. She would get back to me the day before “the move that never happened when it should have.” She knew I had the power of attorney but didn’t think to make the investigator aware of this or pass along my paperwork. The last day, I finally sent her an email and was a little perturbed as I had trusted her to at least get back to me. Then she just ignored me period. By this time, the landlord had heard from the investigator and was satisfied Stan would be out in a few days. He was naturally anxious to find a new renter to pay his bills.

Finally, I hear from the investigator, I explained things to her – none of which she knew. I again emailed forms I had already sent her supervisor and the regional director. My signature was what she needed. We got him moved this week.

Stan is now in his new placement, not the area he would like, but apparently it is a nice home. The manager seems very informed, very experienced, and is taking over from here. We are dealing with Stan’s fantasies of buying a new car and a house, because this is where he really wants to be. Naturally, he doesn’t want to seem useless. The landlord, of his previous rental, had convinced him to sell his car. He did not remember this, nor the accident I have photos of, and kept calling the police saying it was stolen. No one was brilliant enough to have him sign his signature on a receipt, so the police had to assume it was stolen as there was no proof of sale to a junkyard. (It had no engine by now either). We keep telling Stan “Okay” when he talks about “I am going to buy me a new car,” or “The VA is going to give me a loan for a house in …” He is 88 years old. When we explain why this won’t happen, he becomes agitated, so we have stuck to just saying “Okay Stan.” He has no money, so it doesn’t really matter. He can’t get anywhere without the assisted living people talking him there and then explaining that he has dementia. I think we are safe that he won’t be buying anything anyway.

It is one thing to help a parent that you love and adore who you have spent your life with. It is another to help a biological parent who gave you away and then was not capable of reintegrating. Not only is he a big talker and full of it, again, ironically, he is introverted, shy and incapable of carrying off most of his plans. He is a strong man, according to the placement he is now in, so I asked them to make him feel useful. Give him chores, maybe have him help around the house. And so, to help a man you have no relationship with is very difficult and emotionally taxing. To deal with another state, with services designed to help seniors – hundreds of miles away, I am just glad it is over with. Hopefully this will be his last home and he can live out his final days – however many this will be – with some nice people. I am glad he is in a safe place with knowledgeable staff and this gives me peace of mind.