The first hundred days, one chapter at a time

If you only have ten minutes tonight

Open How do I actually help Dad now that Mom is gone? first. It turns the fog into three moves: write down what she did, set one visit he can count on, and find one other person who will see him during the week. Then read Dad isn't eating since Mom died, because food is the thing you can see from across the table and fix by the weekend.

If the night itself is the problem, skip the reading. Call or text 988. If he is in danger right now, call 911.

Days one to seven: the house she ran

For decades one person kept the calendar, the pill box and the grocery list, and she never wrote any of it down. The first week is about making those jobs visible before any of them quietly stop.

1. Mom did everything, and now Dad can't manage. Make the list of her jobs, then split it among him, you and whoever else is close.
2. Dad forgets his pills since Mom died. Rebuild the Sunday routine with his pharmacist, without taking it over.
3. Dad is living alone now. How do I tell if he is okay? A walk through the house tells you more than the phone call does.

Days eight to thirty: when the casseroles stop

By the second week the neighbors go back to their lives, and the patterns that worry you start to repeat. This is the stretch where a note for his doctor earns its keep, and where you learn which problems are about grief and which are about a skill he never needed.

1. Dad is depressed after Mom died. What can I do? What the NIA treats as ordinary mourning, and what it sends to a doctor.
2. Dad never cooked. So what does he eat now? A kitchen that feeds a man who is not going to learn to cook.
3. Dad is losing weight since Mom passed. What to write down before the appointment.
4. Dad's house is a mess since Mom died. One path cleared, one light on at night.
5. Dad will not take care of himself, and Dad is drinking more since Mom died, for the two conversations nobody wants to start.

Days thirty to one hundred: a week he can count on

The last stretch is less about emergencies and more about shape. A good week has company in it, a reason to leave the house, a plan for winter, and a clear idea of who drives.

1. A companion for an elderly widowed father is not a nurse, then My father is lonely since Mom died.
2. Dad stopped going out after Mom died, then A senior center near Chesterfield for my dad, which carries the phone numbers.
3. Dad is still driving after Mom died. Rides first, the talk second, the state last.
4. The first winter alone for an elderly dad, a checklist for the season she used to plan.
5. How long does grief last for a man his age? The NIA offers no finish line, and this chapter explains what it offers instead.

Keep the good-week card

The front page carries a short card of what a good week looks like for Dad: real meals with another person, the pill box empty on the right days, the mail opened, a trip out that is not an appointment, and one more set of eyes. Every chapter adds to it. If most lines are true most weeks, you are doing enough, even on the days it does not feel like it.

When you need a person, not a page

The local help directory lists the St. Louis area numbers we checked on their own pages, from Aging Ahead's meals and senior centers to the state's hotline. If the missing piece is a few hours of company or a hot lunch on weekdays, the front page has one paid, clearly labeled placement for a non-medical home care company, and we explain that arrangement on how we write.