Grateful, too, for the echoes of holidays past

Posted on November 23, 2012 by 40andover

This Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful that my Dad is still alive, after these frightening roller-coaster few months. Now, things are settling into a gradual, if at times still bumpy, decline.

Around our table, there were four people over 85, and all in need of home attendants (but only one, Dad (now into his 90s) has someone), 10 people near or over 50 (but younger than 60), and 2 around the age of 10.

I couldn’t help but wonder when and how all those hordes of young children, young-ish parents, grandparents and assorted aunts and uncles and great aunts and uncles of past Thanksgivings vanished, as if in a flash.

Where have all the others gone? Long time passing. Where have all our younger days gone? Long time ago.

But our mothers, our grandparents, our aunts and uncles, great aunts and great uncles — and even the younger versions of us — were all with us at Thanksgiving, reminding us of the past, giving us perspective on the present and, maybe, a little hope for the future.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The day the questions started

Posted on November 18, 2012 by 40andover

SOS has this elective class in school in which the kids, guided by teachers, debate various subjects, ranging from what are effective recycling methods to whether adoption records should be sealed.

Adoption. Yes, Our lives. It had to come up. I didn’t think it was going to be age 10.5. And for a debating class, no less.

SOS has always known that a sperm donor helped us have him. There was never a time he didn’t know that. He has also always known that POB is his biological mother, but somehow he always thought (however irrationally) that he was connected to me in some way that was in addition to nurture. Until today.

So we brought out the old records. Together, we read through the information we had on the donor — his medical history, his academic achievements, his personal statement about funny things that happened to him and his hopes and dreams for his own children. POB described his voice.

We showed SOS the petition for adoption and report by the social worker which was submitted to the Court, as required by law. I didn’t tell SOS this, but the social worker interviewed me for 4.5 hours and made me cry. She asked about my recently dead mother and other pressure points in my life. At the end, she asked how would I deal with having a straight son. I was so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I responded honestly, “It happens in the best of families. And I understand attraction to women, so I would be totally good with it.” The social worker was stunned and I thought, “oh, no, I have blown it now.”

Luckily, the social worker’s report was strongly in favor of the adoption. The judge who originally contorted New York law to allow same-sex couple adoption was the judge who heard SOS’s petition and, as her last act before retiring, she so-ordered our joint adoption of SOS. We told him that this was a big deal to have this judge approve his adoption. He asked to feel the official seal on the certified copy of the order.

SOS told me earlier in the day, in anticipation of this afternoon’s discussion, that I am just as much his mom as POB. I think he was scared and, yet, he was trying to protect me. But new information can change things.

At the end of the discussion, SOS was concerned because he finally realized that it is “only” nurture that connects him and me and that 50% of him is the donor’s genes. So we talked about the power of nurture, love and commitment. I told him that before I adopted him, I could have walked away, without legal liability for his well-being. But I took on that responsibility and I can never undo that. I chose to be responsible for him. That had some resonance, but I could hear the wheels of his brain turning about the donor’s genes.

“Dude, this is not the only conversation we are going to have about this. You may need to seek out the donor. It is ok. I am ok. You are my baby. Ok?”

“Ok, [Blogger], I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy. More than you will ever know.”

And so ended the first episode of “The Questions”.

Fatigue Fatigue

Posted on November 14, 2012 by 40andover

Election fatigue. Fiscal Cliff fatigue. War fatigue. War hero sex scandal fatigue. Bomb Iran or not fatigue. Crazy politicians saying psycho things fatigue. Human-engineered natural disasters fatigue. Finger-pointing fatigue. European debt crisis fatigue. Stock market sinking fatigue. Living in precarious economic times (controlled by others) fatigue. Dealing with a failing parent fatigue.

Wow, I am tired. If one or more of these things come to fruition, it (or they) will dwarf the others and can send our nation, our society and/or just me into a tailspin.

In fact, I was too tired to get all excited that President Obama was re-elected. I was more relieved that the months of uncertainty were over. And BOB, who lives in a Red State, wrote a poignant Facebook post just before the election that made me re-think any self righteous glee after the president’s re-election. BOB wrote:

I don’t post, particularly about politics. Others do, for whatever reason. I am certain that whoever wins the election tomorrow, and his supporters, will continue to be reviled and mocked by those that did not vote for him. I do not care who my friends vote for and will respect the fact that they believe what they believe. I do not try to lobby them and I ignore any efforts to lobby me. The diversity we have is what makes us a unique place in the world and what makes no sense to one makes all the sense in the world to another. So, my hope is that on Wednesday morning we get back to (or start) respecting each other, doing good in our own way and not just complaining about what others are not doing the way we see fit, and working together instead of bullying and demeaning, recognizing that it is too late to take all of that money that was spent (read: wasted) campaigning on all levels to help feed hungry mouths here and elsewhere around the globe. And that’s all I have to say about that.

BOB is a good and smart man.

But Nate Silver (fivethirtyeight.com) is my new pin-up boy (ok, so many levels of complexity there). Nate: you have gotten far too many love letters from straight and gay men and women for a numbers geek. I think Brad Pitt’s agent is trying to have the exact tally sealed. It is a Hollywood thing. And that guy with a girl’s name who is really popular now is soooooo not loving you right now. Neither is Karl Rove and that is just fine with me.

But, I digress, comme d’habitude.

I am so tired of our national issues being treated like a really bad reality TV show that masquerades as news.

I am hungry for good news, for hope, for public service without political advantage. I am hungry for good things happening to good people who work hard and do the right thing. I am hungry for a commitment by those of us who have more to share with those who have less. Not wealth redistribution; rather, compassion.

Good policy and hope come from searching, sometimes emotional, debates about our national values and our common future and how we best meet the challenges ahead. It involves compromise and respect. It is not a winner-take-all game.

Until then, the fatigue will slowly, but surely, become indifference or powerlessness. And, assuming it spreads beyond just me to the greater populace, that will bring a good and mighty nation to its knees more surely than any war or any economic crisis could ever.

Getting Out the Vote

Posted on November 4, 2012 by 40andover

Yesterday, POB, SOS and I joined a group of well-heeled, mulit-cultural (I might add) Upper West Siders on a bus to West Philadelphia to get out the vote for Obama.

We arrived at an Obama field office.

We were given clipboards with lists of voters who hadn’t voted in 2010. We had to knock on doors to make sure that these citizens knew that their vote was important, what they needed for proper ID (and that the Pennsylvania voter suppression law was struck down) and the location of their polling booths.

POB and I were given names on opposite side of the street. SOS tagged along with one of us. People were so welcoming and glad we were out in the cold making sure that they knew where to vote. Many people weren’t at home; the people who answered the doors said they were at work.

West Philly is not exactly the cushy part of town. It was working class until the Great Recession. Now, parts are boarded up.

High unemployment. Crime skyrocketing. See the sign in the pizza place below.

When I was in there buying a pizza, someone came in with a hoodie, and the cashier said, “take off your hoodie, or I am calling the police.” The management is serious about the hoodie thing.

It seemed (to my white, upper middle class, eye) that many needed a reminder that their vote counts. Certainly, with all the attempts at voter suppression, a person could give up hope. But, more than anyone else, their lives are literally on the line — the poverty line — depending on the outcome on Tuesday.

Some places were scary and creepy. SOS was a little unnerved by these places. Especially, a young boy who was outside with no one minding him. (Yes, sweetie, I thought, please think about this when you re-enter your rarefied world.)

Among the three of us, we knocked on 120 doors and got some very enthusiastic responses (once they realized we weren’t canvassing for Romney).

POB, SOS and I talked about our adventure over dinner tonight. I tried to make the point to SOS that his great-grandparents were the working (or sometimes not working) poor who lived and raised their children in tenements and then, later on, in nicer places. But his grandparents had a great public school system and there were jobs for them when they graduated. And that I am one generation removed from this neighborhood. And Grandpa got mixed up with a gang before his brothers intervened (and then beat the crap out of him).

I don’t know if he understood the importance of what we did, as citizens of this country, and as a way to pay forward our family’s good fortune and opportunity by re-electing President Obama. I believe this. And I always will.

an H-E-N-D

Posted on October 31, 2012 by 40andover

H-E-N-D? Human-engineered, natural disaster. Hurricane Sandy. I would have called it a man-made natural disaster, but that sounded too oxymoronic (however, true).

And it would confuse the morons who don’t believe that humans are at least, in part, responsible for climate change. Ok, I don’t have to be insulting, but let’s just leave it like this: it has to better for the planet if we don’t dump toxins in the oceans or let toxins loose into the atmosphere. If we were as gentle with the world as we expect our loved ones to be with us, then maybe we wouldn’t need a political-scientific war of words.

Since I am not good at the big theories, let me tell you about a small, unintended, consequence of H-E-N-D Sandy: Dad’s care.

With power outages predicted, one of Dad’s children or children-in-law needed to be with him, even though he had a home health aide. Why? What if he fell, or became confused and agitated, and the phones were down, how would the health aide — who cannot leave his side — get help? What if, as happened, no one comes to relieve the home health aide because everyone is stranded? One home health aide couldn’t leave for 60 hours; no one could get to Dad’s house to relieve her and she had no way of getting home. We needed to be there to let her sleep and help with cooking and minding Dad. And Dad needs minding. Especially at night.

We are lucky. Dad didn’t lose power. We live nearby. We married good, kind and loving people who were willing to treat Dad like their own dad and take shifts in Dad’s care. I slept there twice; HOSOB once. POB and SOS were there during the day. SOB had to be in her hospital because other hospitals were evacuating very sick people to her ICU.

But so many of the elderly or infirm in this country are not so lucky. Their children don’t live nearby. They can’t come to the rescue in a disaster.

I bet a lot of people went without medications, good food, and proper hygiene during these past three or so days. And I bet they were frightened.

So, don’t think about this on a global scale. Think about your neighbors, whether they are elderly or the children who couldn’t fly to their parents’ rescue. Then, think about your gas guzzler car, your over-processed food, your bottled water. Then, consider how you (and I) contributed to the crazy weather patterns that made H-E-N-D Sandy an epic disaster.

Sights and Vision

Posted on October 26, 2012 by 40andover

You know how when you hear a new word, all of a sudden you hear it everywhere?

It is the same with emotions or family crises. The more you share, the more you realize what weights others carry daily, just like you.

And then you start to look around at the nameless faces on the subway, young and old, well-dressed and not, white, black, brown and every shade in between.

And then, you wonder, are we carrying similar burdens, like taking care of an ailing elder? Or worse, a sick child?

And if we are carrying similar burdens, do we also have similar hopes and aspirations? Why else would we be cheek by jowl in a subway car rushing some place?

I surveyed the subway car today. People with iPhones. People with ear buds playing music way too loud. People not moving into the car to let others on. People having tooooooo much attitude for a crowded mode of transportation.

But, if I talked to each of them, alone and in a quiet room, would I find that 95% of them shared my fears, my sadnesses, and my struggles? Even if different in degrees?

Aren’t we all more alike than we think?

Homeward Bound

Posted on October 23, 2012 by 40andover

POB spent some time with Dad yesterday. He kept telling her that he doesn’t feel as if he is home, even when he is sitting in his living room. His living room for 50 years.

Often, he says, he gets confused and wonders: “How am I going to get home from here?” And then either he remembers or his aide (or one of us) reminds him, “you are home.” Then he relaxes. But this repeats throughout the days.

Last night, when POB told me about the conversation, I had an unusual panic. Does “home” mean something different for Dad?

Even though this has been Dad’s home for more than half of his life, Mom isn’t there, and his memories are hard to tease out of the recesses of his mind. His kids visit, but we don’t live there anymore. There are lovely aides helping him, but they are strangers.

Daddy, please stay just a little longer with us. If “home” is some place else, don’t go “home” just yet. Ok? Stay here with us. Because here is still where you live.

Filling the adult shoes

Posted on October 18, 2012 by 40andover

When we were young, my Dad always wore wing-tipped shoes — brown or black.

He had one pair of Keds sneakers and several pairs of tuxedo shoes. Maybe he had another pair of shoes for the weekends, but this was the 1960s after all. And a man of my father’s generation didn’t wear jeans until the late 1970s and sneakers — gasp — only when old-style shoes were too tough on his aging feet. Dad and his wing-tips. That’s what men of a certain age wore.

I remember the weekly walk from synagogue after Sunday school and Dad’s racing me the last block home. He wore his wing-tips and I wore my Mary-Janes (which I hated). Dad and his wing-tips. That’s what men of a certain age wore. Even when playing with their kids.

Dad and his wing-tips. I used to try to walk in them after he had taken them off and put on slippers (another thing that people haven’t done since the 1970s). They were so heavy and unforgiving. I used to clomp around and fall and get up and keep trying.

In the early 1990s, Italian designers started selling women’s wing-tipped shoes. More refined than the clunky saddle shoes of the prior decades. I have several pairs in black and brown, although I went for a simpler look:

For years, I didn’t wear them because I thought I looked too dyke-y in them. Since Dad’s fall, I wear them again.

If I am going to be as good and kind to him as he was to us, I need to walk in his shoes. The shoes he wore when he had all the answers.

Out of the darkness into a warming light

Posted on October 10, 2012 by 40andover

Some times, people think I am too open about my emotions and observations. And talking about sad things can really depress people. And if you only talk about the stuff in your life, not only do you lose friends, but you risk losing those essential human traits of empathy and compassion for others and what inevitably are their challenges, fears and bags of trouble.

Here is one of the great surprises. Many of the friends and family who have held me close (physically and figuratively) have also shared their past and present sadnesses and allowed me to try to comfort them or share in their memories. And I am grateful.

I guess we all walk the paths of crises, loss, joy, exhilaration and near-misses, but not at the same times. Friends and family allowed Dad’s crisis to open me up, rather than close me down. And it is hard not to be joyful about his long and happy life. And it is hard not to feel the heartbreak of others whose family members aren’t as lucky as Dad has been.

Life is a journey. Success is having made that journey surrounded by loved ones and friends.

Stuck in the middle

Posted on October 7, 2012 by 40andover

Wherever you are, you need to be somewhere else. And whatever you are doing wherever you are, it is a little inadequate, a little late and a little unfocused.

This is the life of the sandwich generation.

I called Dad this morning and went over the plan for the day and who was visiting and what he needed to accomplish.

“Are you coming?”

“No, Dad, not today. I am spending the day with SOS and we are going to the Met.”

“You are choosing a museum over me? Tell my grandson I am so sad that I might cry!” Dad said jokingly.

Jokingly (but not fully joking) and quite manipulatively. We have played this game before. Dad doesn’t want me to feel bad after I hold firm to my decision. He doesn’t mean to make me crazy or sad.

But now it is different. Dad is still full of life and he is being hemmed in by things beyond his control. He is a prisoner of a few block radius around his apartment and the vagueness and forgetfulness of his mind in areas where he had his brain injury. So, I want to cry and throw up. Before this, the man could play a concerto on my emotional buttons. Now, he is maestro.

But SOS is my priority. We went to Arms and Armor because boys love their implements of destruction. And, certain things about men don’t change from the middle ages to the present, as noted by the expanded “pocket” on this particular armor. Front angle and side angle.

Too funny.

SOB and a family friend had lunch with Dad. SOB did strong work this weekend, covering the “Dad call” so that I could chill a little and catch up on family and work. I have the “Dad call” part of this week and next weekend. (We use medical terms because, as Jews, we act as if we are all doctors, actual licenses being irrelevant.)

And I will go over tomorrow for cocktail hour. And no doubt he will want to dance a few turns with me before his make-believe scotch. That man still dances better than I ever will. And he remembers the songs and tunes of the Big Band Era better than most people. He is quite a remarkable man.

So we will see whether he can go for a longer and further outing this week. Maybe even to the Upper West Side for brunch next weekend.

Speaking of sandwiches, today I had a pastrami and corned beef on rye. Because if you are stuck in the middle, taking care of the older and the younger generations, a little soul food goes a long way.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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