My father is at an age when the body breaks down beyond repair. This essay describes my attempts to sustain what little sense of autonomy is left to him within the constraints of his physical limitations and to contain the anger generated by them. As I negotiate with a host of medical authorities, the most vexing of whom is the all-important psychopharmacologist, I am reminded of earlier interactions between my father's psychiatrists and me. These memories allow me to tell the story of our fraught, if loving, relationship. For a gay man, this telling is marked by the homophobic attitudes that funded many of my ostensibly therapeutic interactions with psychiatrists, as well as by a celebration of the queer genealogies through which I feel at home in the world.