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Luckily, my sister Lisa is a lawyer, so I asked her how, if it came down to a court case, we could explain our inevitable lack of calls and visits. Her first idea made me appreciate the subtleties of the legal profession. "We'd have to basically pull the 'They weren't specific.' We'd have to lie," she said. Another tactic she suggested was to blame their excessive individual needs on their divorce, which was a strategy she had used to get a TV in her room, a cell phone, a gas credit card, a car, a wedding, a down payment on her house and, I deeply suspect, my birthright.
Meanwhile, Lisa said my dad's request for daily phone calls was unacceptable. "We're negotiating that point," she said, suggesting we count anything over 10 minutes toward future phone-time debt and that only one child need call each day. "Maybe we could stretch that out further by having the grandkids call. And maybe our significant others call once in a while," she said. If that was going to work, I was going to need China to pass a law forcing your wife to take your phone whenever you try to hand it to her.
But mostly, Lisa wasn't worried. "I'm not going to get sued. I'd be more concerned about you," she said. "You're not going to bring them large-print books. Or PediaSure." I don't know where Lisa is getting her elder-care knowledge, but I fear one day seeing my parents in onesies trying to eke nourishment by gnawing on Sophie the Giraffe.
But she's right: Lisa is more devoted to our family than I am, lives much closer and would do more of the caretaking and visiting. So I asked her if she'd at least be my lawyer. "It would probably be a conflict of interest. But I'd help you find a lawyer. I'd get you a good one," she said. When I asked if she'd also get our parents a good lawyer, she said, "I'd probably have to. But I'd be on your side behind the scenes." As long as I don't have to call and visit her too, that's good enough for me.