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As my father's yahrzeit approaches, I find myself thinking of him every day. When my mother died, my father was 90. He lived in an apartment just a few miles from my home. He couldn't stand being in that apartment without her and, within a few weeks, asked us to get him out of there. They had been married for 68 years and loved each other deeply.

Certain that he had some good years left, he wanted to spend them in a place where he would be taken care of. So we looked around and found a great independent living facility just seven minutes driving time away from us. With two cars, either my husband or I could be there in moments if needed.

Getting him out of that apartment and into the independent living facility as fast as he wanted it to be done was no easy task. My husband and I had to go through everything my parents owned for a lifetime. The good furniture had been donated to a newlywed Chabad-Lubavitch Hassidic couple in New York before they came to Florida. The contents of closets and cabinets full of clothing, utensils, mementos, linens, groceries, medications, bills, and records had to be examined and either packed or discarded. All the while, he urged us to hurry up and get him out of there quickly.

When at last he was moved over, he needed a lot of stuff to settle in -- a table for two, a foot stool, a new television and VCR, a beach chair for the balcony, a lamp, a frying pan, and on and on. We were on a daily marathon to take him to doctors, buy what he needed, and do our own work, too. In addition, we had to engage a realtor to sell the apartment as fast as possible because he needed the money to cover his rent at the new place.

The new apartment was truly beautiful -- one bedroom, studio kitchen, living room, bathroom, and balcony. The closets were adequate, there was an elevator, and the halls were carpeted. The dining room looked like a fine restaurant and the food was good. There was entertainment regularly and a rabbi conducted services every Friday night. We arranged for the resident nurse to dole out his meds every day so he didn't have to remember which pill came when. On the wall above his bed, there was a button to push each morning to notify the staff that he was awake and okay. Together with Dad, we selected paintings and hung them as well as photographs of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Exhausted, we breathed a sigh of relief when we finished installing him in that place. We urged him to make friends. He made one friend whose family spirited the man away unexpectedly during the night to their home in the Midwest. The two old gentlemen never got a chance to even say good-bye. He met another man with whom he had worked many years before. The man was also a resident. We assumed that this would be good. Dad took no interest in the relationship beyond his initial delight at finding him. A woman made some friendly overtures. Dad remained polite to her but would not accept any invitation she made.

He attended none of the social functions at the facility, never used the VCR, and wouldn't use the balcony for fear of falling while going in and out. We called or visited every day, other family visitors came, we took him out to eat and made sure he had everything he needed, including delivery of the daily newspaper.

He had arranged for two meals in the dining room. When he began to lose weight, we discovered that he was not eating breakfast at all in the apartment. We arranged for an aide to get him up and down to breakfast every day. We sent the resident psychiatrist in to visit him. The psychiatrist said Dad was depressed. Dad insisted he was not and threw the man out.

Dad wanted something live in the apartment but was unable to take care of a dog. He asked for a fish tank. We got a pet shop owner to bring in and set up a large tropical fish tank complete with bridges, plants, lights and such. He loved it and never tired of watching the gouramis kiss. He tenderly overfed them. If a fish died, we quickly replaced it. We thought the fish tank was helping.

One day when we were visiting, we noticed that he had placed my mother's framed picture on his dresser. Sheepishly, he said that he spoke to her every night. We knew he was lonely; we had expected that he would be. But Dad had always been an outgoing, friendly, likeable guy. He had many interests. He and we expected that the move would help him survive. Unfortunately, it did not.

Within two years, he fell, had a major injury, and died unexpectedly in a rehab facility when he was expected to recover. We think he wanted to die. We think he died of loneliness.

When you move from one place to another, you can't leave loneliness behind with the trash. You take it with you. It sticks to you like glue.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.