You can't care manage your own parents. I know. I've tried it. I'm a professional care manager. I haven't been successful in making any positive changes on my own father's behalf -- at least not directly, or not so's he'd admit it.

You could never argue with my father, the epitome of the died-in-the-wool conservative. His wisdom was gospel; and he convinced you of that fact with his self-assured manner and nonverbal punctuation to his statements. You ended up believing him, even if you didn't want to agree with him. As my husband said, "Pearls drop from his mouth when Bob speaks." We mean that respectfully. Most of the time, when I was a stupid young adult and he was the insurance underwriter father, he WAS right. His logic was impeccable. If a little dated.

It seems that all my life all I have ever wanted is to sit down with my father and have a grown-up conversation where, when I made a statement, he might answer, "Wow, that's something I never thought of before and you are probably right." Instead, human nature creates in many fathers this type of response: "Prove it to me."

When a national long distance company had their "Friends and Family" promotion, where everyone you recruited converts who saved money along with you, I tried to get my father to leave his beloved lifelong provider. "Prove to me that I'll save any money," he guffaws into the telephone at me. "Fine," I sniff, willing to prove the point. "Mail me your phone bills and I'll figure it up for you, Dad."

Well, when two shoeboxes full of phone bills arrived, you can guess what I did with them (and it doesn't involve any mathematics).

Eventually, however, most of us begin to believe that SOME of our advice NEEDS to be taken for our parents' health and safety. So we try to get up the courage to give some, rehearsing all of their anticipated arguments in our heads beforehand. Then comes the perfect opportunity: My parents and I have just returned from a trip to an out-of-town hospital for an outpatient surgical procedure which was to have been performed on my 79-year-old mother. After hours of agonizing waiting and prep work on her for the surgery, it is cancelled at the last minute and we drive home in a snowstorm - more on that in a later chapter my friends. Anyway, the surgery didn't happen and my mother's health is now more precarious. My father and I are sitting across the kitchen table from each other; he's reading the paper, I'm watching the news. I clear my throat.

"Dad, have you ever considered pre-paying for your funeral?"

"Well, we went down and talked to the funeral guy about what we want and don't want."

"That's a good thing," I say, and continue, "But did you go ahead and pay for it or discuss that option with the funeral director?"

"I don't know why I should do that," he says, peering over the paper at me as if I were from Mars, but at least showing some interest.

I puff up my chest and get professional on him, prematurely confident, "Well, there are at least two good reasons. First, you're taking care of it so no one else has to deal with any hassles at a time of stress, and second, you're locking in today's prices."

"Well, prices could go down," he returns to the paper.

Puzzled, I say, "Inflation's been continuous for many years, Dad."

"There could be a crash." He folds his newspaper and ignores me.

He's right. There could be a crash. A million to one shot, but there could be.

My mother died a few days after that conversation. He paid for his arrangements when he paid for hers. I didn't ask him why; it didn't seem to matter any more.

The same thing happened with the Living Will issue. I brought it up about three days before Mother had her big stroke. I had obtained the proper forms for their home state from the doctor's office. I showed them to Mother first and explained briefly how important they were, even though she and Dad had written out their wishes in a letter form many years before. She agreed to look at the forms later and set them aside. I mentioned them to Daddy, not entirely comfortable with the topic myself although I deal with it almost on a daily basis with my clients. He also agreed to look at them "later."

A week later, when her condition became critical, the hospital called Daddy and requested he bring over the official forms. He signed his own Living Will at the same time that he signed for her.

Soon after Mother died, I felt another urgent need to propose an intervention, suggesting he get an emergency response system. You know, the "help-I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up button".

"I'm not THAT sick yet!" he protested. He was thinking of his brother-in-law who was on continuous oxygen and looked like he could blow away if a strong wind came up. Uncle Dean had been wearing his emergency response button on his belt loop.

I tried using his pet dog as bait: "But, Dad, you live alone now and we all live out of town. Something could happen to you, a fall or a heart attack, and you might not be found for hours or days, and Jill could be starving." Or start eating you!, I thought morbidly, frustrated by his irascibility.

"Well, what's the range on one of those things?" he asked, feigning interest to get me off the topic.

Great, he's interested! I fantasized. "Five hundred yards or so, Dad, the whole house and yard!"

"What about when I'm in the car?"

"Well, it doesn't work then, Dad, it's just for when you're at home," hope faded as I realized he was fishing for objections.

"That won't do me any good, I'm not always home!" he ends the discussion.

And he used to sell insurance. Amazing. Can't see the benefit of a preventive safety measure, but could get people to buy insurance and believed in it wholeheartedly for himself. I'll bet he never had any disability. Just life insurance. Death is a sure thing. My daddy never gambled in his life and wasn't about to start, I guess.

Two days after that, he fell down getting out of his shower. He was able to get up, but was shaken enough to immediately announce, "Maybe I'd better get one of those lifeline things." He's got one now and, thankfully, uses it properly, checking in twice a day to ensure it's working, and wearing it 24 hours. I don't care if he DOES think it was his idea, as long as he wears the darn thing.

I guess what I've concluded from my experiences with my dad this past six months is that I do have an influence on him. He does tell me he's proud of me now, my career, my family. He's amazed and delighted that I have a job that I enjoy ("I didn't think that was relevant," he says). It must be pride that gets in the way of a father totally accepting everything a daughter says at face value; I think it makes it easier for him if it seems like he's complying "in spite of" my suggestions, not "because of" them. After all, HE's the elderly person here, I'm just someone educated in the field. I'm not experiencing what he is experiencing. Yet.

Debra Sorensen, MSW, LISW, CMC, is a professional care manager and owner of Debra J. Sorensen & Associates Inc., a private geriatric care management company serving Northwest Ohio and Southeast Michigan. She can be reached at 419-367-8835 or e-mail Debra@professionalcareforyou.com.