The Old Demon | Be Here To Love Me...

Old Demons, A Love Story...

“I want my cake and eat it, too…” The old demon sat in his chair at the new assisted living facility I had just moved heaven and earth to move him to. He was speaking specifically about his love life, or sex life.

At 88, you wouldn’t think it would be a priority, but the old demon is, if anything, virile. He had recently reconnected with a woman he met at another assisted living facility and was telling me about her plans to move to the same place he was currently living.

I was gobsmacked, of course, for reasons which will soon become clear. What became clear to me far too late in life was the behavior that was modeled for me when I was young — and what it meant to be in love or in a relationship. More specifically, why to avoid them at all costs.

Without blaming parents, it’s easy to see now how this shaped me. The complete fear of commitment, the sense of annihilation that loomed as the feelings of being smothered by another person’s presence were and are now, too much to bear.

I think as you get older, if you’re working on yourself, the world has a way of helping you figure this out. If you’re like me, you’ve worked on everything else in your life, and intimate relationships have become the final abyss to cross.

People rarely see how far you’ve come. They don’t see all of what you’ve done to become the person you currently are. All they see is what you lack in your present form — and who can blame them? It’s not their job to know the full breadth of your struggle. The bitter and painful truth is that you can stop on this journey of discovery and find a quiet place from which to exist, knowing full well the emotional debt you’ve been accumulating will need to be paid at some point.

But I digress…

Somewhere in the middle of 2024, or maybe earlier, the old demon informed me he had met a lady friend at the assisted living facility and was happy to report they both enjoyed each other’s company.

For my father, this meant they were doing more than just playing bridge. My father had a penile implant installed (see earlier story here) and he was gonna use it. Without getting graphic, the two of them enjoyed their time together doing, well, whatever the hell it was they were doing.

Eventually, the old demon asked me if I would come to lunch and meet her. I agreed. I had no reason not to. Upon meeting her, I discovered a petite, soft-spoken woman with a sweet disposition. I looked at my father, the haggard, unkempt man with food stains on his shirt and long streaks of white hair he combed back using some version of Brill Cream. How the hell did this sweet woman fall for my father’s charms?

The old demon is almost pimp-like in his ability to talk to older women, unlock the sexual longing inside of them, and convince them to enter his chamber hoping to reconnect fully with it. Women, he’s told me, who had not thought of sex or physical intimacy in decades. It was as if he had found that lost and forgotten aspect of their lives and set it alight.

Of course, this is a numbers game. There are ten times as many women who kindly refused his advances, but he never took it personally. He just moved on to the next.

From what I have gathered, his methods involve explaining to these potential mates that sex is about pleasure. It doesn’t have to be tied to a deep love or marriage. At this later stage in life, there is no need to give up. There was nothing stopping them.

Except Jesus.

Many women in their eighties have a religious morality baked into them. Their husbands have long since died or left them high and dry. More than one of these gals had consulted with the almighty and came back with the unfortunate message that God would not approve.

My father once chatted up a woman in the dining room and they seemed to hit it off like a house on fire. It was only later, when she asked him, “Will I see you later at Bible study,” that my father realized he was barking up the wrong tree.

The woman in question, the one he began seeing, was unlike these other women. While she was religious, she did not share the same views on sex outside of marriage. My father and she were happy to meet morning, noon or night for all manner of fun. It appeared he had met the perfect woman. Someone who understood him, his needs, and shared many of the same desires. She was a revelation.

And boy, aren’t those unpredictable? Many times, she would argue with my father about something, get so mad that she would storm off back to her apartment and lie low for a week or so before coming back and starting over again. It was a cycle of behavior. Things would be fine, then things would turn volatile and her anger would force her to retreat.

It became so normal that I didn’t flinch when I learned she had stormed off in a rage. That said, I never once saw that side of her. She was the first to admit that she had a terrible temper, and being around the old demon was no recipe for blissful living, so it kind of tracked. The strange part was her ability to come back.

Around this time, my father informed me that he was running out of money. The place he lived charged him $4700 a month for a one-bedroom. This included utilities, three meals a day, laundry, and housecleaning.

When he moved in there initially, he had enough money to last him ten years. At 82, with his host of medical problems, I thought, how long can this old demon live?

Now, five or six years later, rising costs, his reckless spending, and a general lack of awareness had eaten through the ten-year nest egg. He was going to be flat broke by the end of 2025. We needed to come up with a solution.

His retirement amounts to about $2800 a month. While he could definitely find an apartment for that much, there was no such assisted living place that even came close to it. The situation was dire. The money was draining faster than ever, and it was up to me to find a solution.

A stomach-churning anxiety clawed at my insides. There was only me. I could not pawn this off on anyone. The level of stress this caused me was something I rarely let anyone see. Instead, as is my way, I told hilarious stories about how crazy my father was driving me in hopes I could manage a solution.

Then, the old demon called me. He had found a solution. He decided to leave the assisted living facility and move into a small apartment with his girlfriend (who was also paying an extortionate amount at the facility).

A meeting was called. Details were laid out and promises were made.

“Between the two of us, we can cook for ourselves and clean,” they proclaimed without an ounce of irony. “And best of all. We can live within our means.”

It sounded great. The idea that between the two of them, my father would not be hemorrhaging cash and living alone was music to my ears. Right around this time, the hit-and-run incident was unfolding (See here for that debacle), adding extra stress to the situation.

It was all too much. However, if I could just get him into the apartment with his girlfriend, the situation might calm down enough for me to avoid complete adrenal fatigue.

That was not the case. While preparations were being made for the move, the cycle of angry departures and walkouts continued. Several times the old demon asked me to just find a single studio apartment as quickly as possible, only to discover a day or two later that she had returned and all was well.

Both of us were concerned that she would try to do this after moving in together, leaving him high and dry in the process. We comforted ourselves in the knowledge that both of them would sign leases and that running off would not be an option. Whatever issues were coming up would need to be faced and resolved in real time.

Crisis averted. Problem solved.

Both of them moved into the one-bedroom apartment in Whittier in February 2026. Everyone was happy. It was all coming together.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

This wonderful respite did not last long. Almost immediately, his girlfriend became an angry, foul-tempered shrew. I didn’t believe it at first until I saw it firsthand. The old demon had met his match. Nothing was ever good enough. She complained to him day and night. Complaints, I might add, he could not hear from his near-total hearing loss.

More meetings were called between the two of them, her son and me, to smooth over the situation. When all of us were present, she returned to her almost mousy, gentle form. If you didn’t know, you’d think everything was on the road to being fine. More than fine, in fact.

The old demon, for his part, stayed quiet. It was such a strange change from the decisive, no-nonsense man of my childhood. Now, he was like a stunned puppy dog. He was happy to just exist in this crazy space with her while she was clawing to find a way out.

In her defense, I wouldn’t want to live with the old demon for love or money. He is a need machine who quickly forgets the last needy request he thrust upon you. No, thank you.

Well, within two months, I got a call from her son, who said the old demon was abusing her and that she feared for her safety. He was getting her out of there as soon as possible. I asked about the lease obligation, and he said he didn’t care, as his mother’s safety was of paramount importance.

Fair enough. I know the old demon would never lay a hand on her, but I also know you can’t force someone to stay in a place they feel unsafe, even if the threat is non-existent and/or simply perceived as one.

A few days later, I received a call from her, and she tried to tell me how scared she was and why she had to get out. I didn’t argue with her about it, but I mentioned her behavior of storming off and coming back, and that this was a case where she simply couldn’t just leave.

I’m not naïve. I know it takes two to tango. Nothing is one person’s fault, but we can all be adults about it. A few days after that, she called my father and informed him that she would not be coming back. Now the full rent would be on his shoulders, and a life of complete isolation would descend upon him.

To say I was angry is an understatement. I was furious. Mostly for myself, but also for him. Clearly, the two of them couldn’t manage together, and now that he was alone, he was falling into a depression that would surely make things worse.

He needed support. The financial support I could try to manage, but he needed in-home care. Something the social services department told me: he made too much money to receive. It was a horrible dilemma. My father and I had become one of those stories on the local news about how the system is letting down those in need and there was nothing that could be done about it.

As I did my best to manage the situation alone, the old demon told me that his girlfriend’s son was coming to the apartment to collect some of her things. I decided it would be in my best interest to be there to make sure everyone remained calm.

At the scheduled time of arrival, in walks his girlfriend and her son, all smiles and lovey-dovey talk. She embraced my father as if she had just been on a long vacation.

I stood there, pie-eyed at the display. This was the woman who feared for her life. The woman who simply couldn’t spend another second in that apartment in terror.

My father, meanwhile, followed her around the apartment like a little puppy. He asked her if she was really leaving, and she said yes. He told her that he loved her and she responded in kind.

I was so disgusted; I told the old demon I had to go. I was about to explode and didn’t want to upset the delicate balance.

The next day I called him and told him what a farce I thought the whole thing was. I reiterated the story of danger and fear she told her son, the landlord, and me to gain sympathy. He was surprised to hear it.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really, Dad,” I said. Of course he would forget this conversation happened soon enough, but now I was furious on his behalf.

Days and weeks passed after that, and I watched him struggle to manage on his own. I did my best to help him, but nothing was ever enough to set things on an even keel.

“Son, I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he said.

Living alone in isolation was killing him. He needed to be around people; he said. He had spent his life not needing anyone, and now, at long last, he realized the error of his ways.

I knew I had to get him out of that apartment, but where would I move him to? A search of most nearby assisted living facilities proved to be out of reach financially. I was ready to give up when I found one that had a studio apartment that took pets and had a rent that was just a hair over his monthly pension and retirement amount.

This couldn’t be real? I inspected the place, and it was great. I took the old demon to it and he hemmed and hawed.

Typical.

I told him this was his only choice. I wanted him to like the place, but that wasn’t a necessity. This was happening whether he liked it or not. As before, his meals, laundry, and cleaning would be covered. Everything else would be out of my pocket.

Now, all I had to do was get a handle on his runaway spending. It took a lot of work, but working all by myself, through the stress of it all, I got him into the new assisted living facility.

Since he was functionally broke, I had to front about seven grand to get him in there. It was money I would never see again, but it was worth it to make this all stop.

The mental toll it had taken on me had pushed me to my limit. It affected every aspect of my life. Every time I opened my mouth it was to complain about the nightmare he was causing me.

It affected my core relationships with family and very close friends. I hated myself for the person I had become. No one, however, could ever know the deep, unsettling strife I felt deep inside. I simply told people I was fine and that I could handle it.

I would say I was handling it, but now that I look back, I realize I was doing anything but handling it. Despite my complaining, I pulled away emotionally from people and kept my pain internal. I refused to share the burden with anyone.

Eventually, with my father settled into his new place and his finances basically on track, things quieted down. By the time I had let the dust settle, I looked around and sensed that everything had changed. My life was at a crossroads, and I was too self-absorbed to see it.

All of this mayhem and its unfortunate aftermath forced me to look closely at the way my father modeled love and relationships to me. It forced me to look at my life and see that in my desperate attempt to control my emotional equanimity, I had twisted it into a knot so tight I could barely breathe.

So, as I sat in the studio apartment of his new assisted living facility listening to him tell me about how excited he was at the prospect that his ex-girlfriend was trying to have her son move her to the same place as him, I could only shake my head.

“Dad, what are you doing? She’s crazy. She caused both of us so much trouble and expense. Why in the world would you want to spend another moment with her?”

“I dunno, son. I want my cake and eat it, too.”

Subsequently, his ex had spent a few days visiting him. Their relationship is back on, and nothing will convince him it’s not worth it.

Is it love? I don’t think so. I think it’s about some form of companionship. And sex, I suppose, but that’s besides the point. He needs her to be there to love him. Not the other way around.

Is that what I learned from him? That people are to be used for your own comfort, and when that is taken away, you panic and tantrum like a child until someone puts a bottle in your mouth?

It turns my stomach to think that I’ve treated people that way, which I know I have. Mostly out of fear. It certainly wasn’t overt. In the end, however, that’s mostly a difference without a distinction.

Life is about more than having people be here to love you. You need to be there for them as well. It should be a zero-sum game, but nothing ever adds up the way you think it will.

Subsequently, as I was leaving the facility, I was waiting for the elevator to come to his floor, and a small woman pushing a walker approached me.

“You know Jesus?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered, “I know Jesus.”

“That’s good. Praise Jesus.”

I smiled, not wanting to get too involved in an unwanted religious discussion.

She looked me up and down and asked, “You visiting a friend?”

“My father,” I responded.

She nodded.

“He’s the ornery Scotsman with the small dog,” I said.

She nodded again, but this time with a level of disdain. “He doesn’t know Jesus. Sad.”

Clearly, they had talked before.