Sometimes my father feels he has to mug for the camera, and sometimes he just relaxes while I shoot.
Then, like with this picture, I think he looks sad. Dr. Scarmeas always asks him how he feels - if he's happy. And he always says no, he's not happy - but neither is he depressed. He's feeling okay.
I don't see how my father could be happy. He's living in a place where he has virtually no freedom to do anything he might want to do. He has to eat when he's fed. He has to have a fresh diaper when the aide is ready. He can't roam around in the wheelchair because they lose track of him. (Sometimes, though, they let him roam.)
He's become used to people doing things for him because it takes too much effort to argue. They cut his meat (some of them) because they believe he can't feed himself. He can. Perfectly well. But he's lost the will, I think.
Even I find myself doing things for him that I know he'd rather do himself - like open the plastic film on his mandarin oranges or pears.
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