One day my father asked me to help him clean out the trap under the basement sink. It was a simple job, requiring little skill -- some quick adjustments to the jaws of the wrench for a snug fit, a few firm shoves on the end of the long orange handle to loosen the nuts, and the trap could be removed easily by hand. Hardly open-heart surgery.

As I sat cross-legged on the cool concrete floor, ducking my head to avoid the tub, I muttered under my breath at this disruption of my Saturday routine. Besides, I wasn’t getting along all that well with Dad; his drinking, always a problem, had gotten worse since retirement. By evening his speech was slurred, he was irritable, and he sometimes forgot what he said from one sentence to the next.