I've always heard the story with a child as the punchline. I'm working on an essay on what appears to be a sort of logical fallacy, a sort of polar opposite to Appeal to Authority.

The ignoramus in the comments section of any article on climate change who knows far more than the geodetic scientist because s/he read something once on the internet by an unknown source. And I wonder if these same people would consult a neurosurgeon if they needed brain surgery, or if they'd talk to a guy who once knew someone who hit their head. There's some sort of logic gap, and I don't know what it is, but I'm tying this truck tire legend into it.

Yeah, I remember seeing the tire thing as a question in a brain-teaser book when I was a kid. I thought it was clever and asked my dad the question, and he knew the answer right away and said that that puzzle had been around when he was a kid.

Have people heard this one?

A guy has a flat tire right next to a mental institution. He removes the bad tire and puts the lug nuts in the hubcap on the ground. Then he accidentally kicks the hubcap, sending the lug nuts down a storm sewer where he can't get them. While he stands around not knowing what to do, a resident of the mental institution comes over and tells him to take one lug nut off each of the other wheels, and use those to attach the spare tire.

The driver says something like, "Wow, how'd you know to do that?" and the guy says, "I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."

I think I've also seen this in the form of a brain teazer (without the crazy guy).

Kristin, congratulations!

I'm pretty sure I had that bridge scenario as a brain-teaser in elementary school too - I've never heard anyone refer to it as a thing that actually happened.

I'm working on an essay on what appears to be a sort of logical fallacy, a sort of polar opposite to Appeal to Authority.

Ooh, I want to read this. I'd love to know if there's an official name for this phenomenon, and also if it can be killed with fire.

instead of trying to find a place for her to be comfortable before she was as far down the dementia path as she is now, we moved in with her, it was a mistake.

Gah. I'm so sorry, Dawn.

It's not like we didn't try to plan for this, either. We kept asking them about their long-term plans, referring them to some really nice long-term assisted living situations, inviting them to California, but there are so many personal issues there. They kept saying, "Not decrepit yet!" until they were and they'd run out of options.

If my mother had been willing to get therapy thirty years ago, to deal with her anxieties, much of this would have been avoided. But nope.

Would the Emperor's New Clothes work pretty much the same as the tire story to illustrate that?

I'm going to come down on Ginger's and Dawn's side of the question. Both my parents had that irrational fear of "the poor house", and made me promise them when I was in my twenties that they would never end up there.

We cared for my dad at home for eight years after his pyschotic break and resultant drugged to placid state. That is, H and I cared for him, and our teenagers helped, because Mom just went on with her life as she always had done, with Dad at the center of it, but basically doing what she wanted to do around his presence as a touchstone. He might have benefitted from the stimulation of other people and activities in a nursing home. He was always an outgoing, gregarious person. But isolated with Mom most of the day and with H and me and the kids at brief intervals for bathing and getting into and out of bed, and toileting, he had no outlet for interaction. He was desperately clingy for those times we were with him, but because it was unpleasant and painful for us to see him that way, we curtailed our time with him, or restricted it to just getting the unpleasantness over with.

I so very much regret not getting him into a facility. His last years would have been so much more interesting, he would have been so much more engaged and happy, and Mom would have had to learn to lump it.

She survived him for nearly twenty years, and it was only after a series of falls, hallucination episodes and obvious breaks with reality that I broke my word to her and got her into a nursing facility.

And she was incredibly happy. They spoiled her, which she had always craved and which I could not do, at least not adequately. Attention always meant more coming from not-family. She had no responsibilities, no chores, no worries over roof repair or storm damage or taxes (though we'd taken all those on, as long as she was *there* on the premises, she had to supervise). She could just look out the window or watch other people or doze and dream.

And not having to jump every time I heard a strange noise, to be on the alert for a fall or an urgent need at ungodly in the morning to discuss why I hadn't turned in my geography homework in fourth grade (she was cleaning out a drawer and found my report card. At ungodly o'clock), or helping her find the dog we'd had put to sleep two years before. The relief of constant vigilance was incredible. I was actually able to spend time with her and enjoy it. She was able to light up when I came into the room, and not have a list of grievances that I was supposed to resolve ASAP, or at least listen to her gripe about them till she ran down or got distracted.

Assisted living, or a good nursing facility, are godsends. And you should take advantage of them. This is your life, the only one you have. You owe your parents the best end-of-life experience you can provide. Most of the time, that's not being cared for in your home, or in a home you share with them. At least, not in my experience.

Geez, I have been other places and discussed other things today. I just realized I've posted stuff about caregiving both here and in Bitches. I need to go find a randy, topical subject to post about. BRB.

We were in much the same boat with my mom. For twenty years she refused to talk about end-of-life care, nursing homes, insurance, anything. Can't blame her; she was scared, but it made things much more difficult when we had to make those decisions without her input.

Assisted-living facilities are indeed very expensive. We did it private-pay, so that Mom could keep her assets, and we were able to afford it only because a combination of Mom's income and (I think) an insurance policy through her former employer was just barely enough to cover it. During the years Mom was in assisted living, we slowly moved money out of her accounts and into an account that my sister and I held jointly. By the time Mom was sick enough that she had to go into a nursing home, she had no money left in her own name, and so Medicare (Medicaid? I can never keep them straight) paid for the nursing home. This is all entirely legal, if you do it right.

We were lucky in that my sister and I trust each other and have similar priorities. We were also lucky to have a good lawyer.

FWIW, I urge everyone who can, no matter how young you are, especially if you have a family, to get a long-term care insurance policy. I get mine through my employer.

Taking care of your parents at home is a wonderful thing to be able to do, IF you can do it. My sister tried, bless her, and it nearly wrecked her. My mom needed a lot of care, and nearly-full-time supervision, and my sister, who had a full-time job, simply couldn't do it. At one point Mom's meds made her aggressive, and she would hit people, and I think that was the point when Lil realized we had to get Mom in a facility staffed with people who could care for her. Mom didn't like it there at first because it was unfamiliar, but it wasn't long before she made friends with everyone there and started feeling comfortable there. It was the right decision. Lil's a better person than me, because I wouldn't have even tried. The most complicated creature I can care for is a cat, and I know it.

He was desperately clingy for those times we were with him,

Even though my mother can still get out and do things, she's kind of this way, because between years when she had no time to do anything but look after Dad and the years before when she couldn't do anything social because of his drinking, she ended up with few friends. She resents the ones she had who didn't want to deal with Dad at his worst. (I have, on occasion, pointed out that we didn't want to deal with him either.)

And on that dreary note, hookers and blow!