More on role reversal

Posted on January 18, 2013 by 40andover

My daily mantra: “It is what it is”. Nope, not the serenity prayer. Serenity doesn’t accomplish the gritty tasks of daily life. And the serenity prayer implies I am good with the some of the things that children or nieces and nephews should never have to know about their elders.

First, family secrets are meant to be kept secret. That is why they were secrets in the first place. Because no one would understand and the younger generation would be saddened. Not horrified (because this is 2013) but saddened about these lives as they had to be lived. (No, I am not talking about Dad. OTHER relatives in our care.)

The list of things I don’t need to know about my relatives (not my Dad):

that the bed linen was changed some time in the early part of the last century;
that elders can continue live in filth, even if they are part of “good families” and fight change;
that testosterone levels are low (ok, this is a good thing); and
every little detail about urinary tract and colon activity, with visuals.

Now comes the mantra: “It is what it is.”

And SOB and I are the new sheriffs in town and so we need to invoke base level sanitary standards, base level responsiveness to our calls (other than just in times of crisis), and full capitulation to our will and our loving vision of how they will live out the remainder of their lives. Because, although they didn’t ask for it (exactly), they understand that they need us.

Here is my bottom line:

If I need to know family secrets that disgust me and deal with facts on the ground that gross me out, there is a quid pro quo: Disobey SOB’s and my benevolently despotic decrees at your peril.

Because “it is what it is” is more than a phrase to live by; it is a threat AND a promise.

Role Reversal

Posted on January 17, 2013 by 40andover

For those of you who are also dealing with this:

When you have sick relatives and you are the one mainly in charge — whether because of love, obligation and/or by default — there are no simple tasks, are there? There is no streamlined order of command or ways to pay bills, right? Or get the important mail sent to you?

And that power of attorney or trustee status that was the answer to these problems? It only allows you to untangle SOME of the mess.

I know, I know. All of the planning, those hard conversations, and the tears when the car keys were taken away were all supposed to get us to a point where everything that we COULD control was IN OUR control. So, our parents and we didn’t have to worry about THESE things.

Parents are not good at giving up the control over finances, medical issues, etc. And why should they? They have been doing for themselves for more than 60, maybe 70, years and doing fine. Yes, but then time and age crept up slowly for some, and brutally fast for others, and all wasn’t fine anymore.

And because you needed us. We, your children, your nieces and nephews, your dear friend’s children. And we stood up. But you don’t quite understand that you need us. That is part of the disease or the injury. You can’t keep up. Things are going unpaid. The house is looking unclean. You are looking disheveled. We need to get help in the house and we need to make sure the bills get paid. Because we need you need to live in dignity, even if giving up decision-making is itself an indignity.

But parents are used to taking care of themselves, no matter what. And a power of attorney or trustee status cannot prevent an elder from acting on his own, even to his detriment. Dad called yesterday because people confused him on the phone about his credit card and his long term care. He called me to contact these people to make it right. I called him back after I made all the necessary transfers and reminded everyone again that I am the contact and my power of attorney is on file. Dad didn’t tell me (did he remember?) that his muscle memory took over and he transferred funds over the phone and took care of it. Maybe he didn’t understand what he did nor can he remember to tell me. So I duplicated his efforts and while that isn’t bad necessarily, money moved at cross-purposes and, today, there was a crisis.

Trying to sort out the mess was an hours-long process. Because every institution has its rules. And every subgroup within an institution has its own inane rules. So, while I am the designated person for financial decisions, not every bill or statement comes to me. While I am designated as a notice party, nobody calls or writes. And while part of the company accepts my status, the other part of the company has no record that I exist. But maybe I would be interested in a Mastercard? And, by the way, can I answer whether I was provided with excellent service. Are you kidding me?

Too big to fail? That isn’t the relevant question. Too big to help? Absolutely.

I requested fund transfer forms because I was going to yank all the money out of this behemoth. Because I don’t have time for this. Then the issues disappeared.

Give me a local bank, a local pharmacist, a local butcher, a local anything. Because I need people who know my family and who can help me navigate the difficulties of trying to help Dad maintain his specter of “independence” (however much that independence is, in truth, circumscribed by his loving children).

His pride and my sanity are on the line.

P.S.: Tomorrow we will discuss how we live with TOO MUCH information about our parents.

The COB Removes a Blob

Posted on January 12, 2013 by 40andover

Sidebar: I promised that my blog entry today would be more upbeat than these last few weeks (ok, months).

Everyone should have colleagues and friends as supportive as mine. I have many (some, even, who do not yet have acronyms). But this entry is about The COB. (He really likes having “The” as a part of his moniker.)

The COB, being a kind and gentle sort, was really disturbed by my decidedly gloomy (read: depressing as hell) blog entries, and took to heart my pledge to write less about death and aging and navel-gazing.

So invested is he in my mental state (and my blog) that, not only did he undergo a procedure so I could blog about it (ok, not really), but he took a picture for me and gave me title options for this blog entry. “The COB Removes a Blob” won. Here is why the other entries didn’t win:

“Don’t Sob, Dear Cob” — a potential winner, except my sister is SOB and that could be confusing.
“The Cob Gets His Head Bobbed” — my brother is BOB and he is a peaceful man.
“Corn off the Cob” — when you see what was removed, this doesn’t do it justice.
Using “Blob” was ok because I determined that that acronym would not go over well for anyone and so there would be no risk of confusion.

So, here is how the story that led to this blog unfolded:

The COB walked into my office one day, closed the door and sat down in a guest chair, all with an air of something important to say.

“You know that thing on my head?” he started.

“What thing?” as if I didn’t know.

“The thing-on-the-side-of-my-head thing!”

“Oh, the thing that I stare at when I lose interest in what you are saying? That thing?”

“Hey, you can only tell when I get a haircut!!”

“Really, are you sticking to that fantasy? Stop, stop, stop. Tell me!!”

“I am getting it removed. It is time.”

“But what will I stare out when you are droning on?”

“My ears. I stare at yours when I can’t possibly pay attention to you anymore.”

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. What’s wrong with my ears? Still, it is about him and his thing and, showing uncharacteristic restraint and selflessness, I let that slide. For now.

The COB had the procedure this week, and as I was waiting impatiently (ok, somewhat frantically) to find out if he was all right and if it was a benign growth, I get an email entitled, “It is what you think it is!!” with the following attachment:

So, based on the tone of the email, I knew all was ok. Based on the picture, I realized that it wasn’t really a thing; it was a gross thing.

I emailed him: “We have broken the grossness barrier in our friendship. It looks to be about 15% of your brain. How is the other 85% doing?” Based on the grossness factor of his email, I am thinking that his intelligence was heavily weighted in that 15%.

“That could be another good title for the blog!!” he emailed back.

Dear COB, I adore you so.

There is always joy and hope

Posted on December 22, 2012 by 40andover

Ok, not always. But even when the world is too much with me, when death and dying are all around, when senseless violence takes our young (and senseless people try to defend the indefensible), there is still joy.

Joy in a lover’s touch,

Joy in a child’s embrace,

Joy in the dark humor that binds us in loss and tragedy,

Joy in colleagues who become friends (and friends who become family),

Joy in the endless possibilities (outside of Washington), even amid the challenges, for our world,

Joy in lives that are no more but were well-lived, and

Joy that the world did not end on December 21, 2012.

And there is still hope:

in the energy and drive of kids, like SOS, to take care of the planet,

in the power of an individual’s ability to heal the world just a little bit, and

in the power of the example of a person’s life to cause others to do good in her or his memory.

Tomorrow, our family will bury a loved one, but we will not bury hope and joy. Those live on as our inheritance. More valuable than anything else.

And then there was one. . . .

Posted on December 21, 2012 by 40andover

Dad is the last of his generation in our family. Weakened and confused, but nonetheless, here. He is our only link with the past.

In his papers are where my great-grandparents’ graves are located. And a family tree. And what happened to Grandma Dora’s ship-shvesters (ship sisters) whom she met making the arduous voyage to America. I haven’t thought about that in years. And was my great-grandfather’s wife named Tillie? There is some confusion.

But we must sort it all out. Because this is our history. We are the grandchildren of the surviving remnant of formerly European Jews. Most of the family got out before the Holocaust, but after the pogroms — the massacres — that scarred them for life.

We must now take ownership. For we are the elder generation. And if you don’t know whence you’ve come, you cannot chart the course ahead.

We can no longer rely on others to remember, recount and record our history. It is ours to do now. Cousin Gentle, with great foresight, has already started that project.

We must search our minds for stories because it cannot be that the lives of our great-grandparents, our grandparents and, alas, our parents will fade from memory. There must be someone always to light candles of remembrance in their names. To bring their memories out of the darkness and into the light.

Helpless in New York City

Posted on December 20, 2012 by 40andover

Aunt Glue is fading. The end is soon, according to her son. Aunt Glue and her son and daughter-in-law have a plan to keep her pain-free and peaceful in these hours. I need to respect that. SOB needs to respect that. BOB needs to respect that. But SOB was trying to get coverage at the hospital and BOB was looking into flights to come here. And I was trying to rent a mini-bus to schlep everyone to see Aunt Glue.

Because you can never say, “I love you,” too many times or squeeze someone’s hand too often.

Because death is permanent and, right now, she is alive. And she has a right to die the way she wants. That is the last decision a person can (with any luck) make. And that decision is sacrosanct and unimpeachable.

And, here I am, helpless and hopeless in New York City, waiting for the word that the woman

who introduced my parents,

who (with my uncle) shared my mother’s last days and minutes on this earth,

who was such a large figure in my youth,

who hosted the happiest family celebrations of my childhood (never mind, the overcooked chicken),

who was my solace after Mom died,

who embraced POB and SOS,

who, defying all odds, came to my wedding and danced, and

who was the only one to whom SOS would ever write a letter, much less maintain a correspondence,

has died.

She had a long and good life, but not an easy one.

Dad is sometimes clueless as a result of age and brain injury. But he is so very aware of Aunt Glue’s condition and has a very heavy heart. Some relationships are so deep that even dementia and brain injury can’t erase them.

One of our greatest generation is losing her fight with time and disease. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But soon. Yet, on her terms (as much as is possible under the circumstances).

And that is the way it should be for our greatest generation. Even if it breaks our hearts not to see her just one more time.

Up to bat

Posted on December 16, 2012 by 40andover

In these days in December, the world is often too much with me. So much more so this year.

This is the tenth anniversary of Mom’s death, HOSOB lost both his parents in this year, Dad and Aunt Glue are both failing. So, frankly, are the remnants of Mom’s family. Their deaths will seal a generation. They were the first ones born on American soil and they laid the foundations for our generation to grow and thrive. We stand on their shoulders.

SOB and I know that we, along with our many first cousins, will soon assume the mantel of our family’s eldest generation. The ones who are supposed to know everything, have the wisdom of the ages, the memories and secrets of the past generations, and the answers to the questions (whatever they may be) and, yes, the next wave of those to leave this earth (G-d willing). We are up to bat in a baseball game, as it were.

It is only now that these giants of my parents’ generation seem so young and human. Now I understood that Mom and Dad and the uncles and the aunts were as clueless then as are we now. The mantra, just keep moving because it is better than running in place or, worse, standing still, is still the mantra of our generation.

As long as Dad and Aunt Glue are still alive, there is always the illusion (although, not the reality) that there are elders who know more, who can bless us and what we do, and who can lead us out of the darkness and into the light.

But the truth is that wisdom comes from reflecting on the past. Humility comes from failure. Regret comes from somehow knowing if you were sure enough of your convictions and felt strong enough to press your point of view, the outcome would have been better.

The lessons of the generations that must be learned again by each succeeding generation. Over and over, until the end of time.

This is life and its journey. These are some of the immutable facts that govern the species.

One day, maybe this will change. Until then, I will try to act with kindness, with humility and with the memory of those who came before me — what they did right and what went terribly wrong.

Whence comes the light out of this darkness?

Posted on December 16, 2012 by 40andover

Last night, at our family Chanukah gathering, my cousin and I got into a conversation about the shooting in Newtown. His premise was that we were being egocentric about this being a tragedy in comparison to what happens the world over — and especially in comparison to the children who die each day from our drone warfare.

I accept all he says as true. If the United States is killing children, then those who order those attacks are war criminals. But, just because it happens the world over, doesn’t mean that we should just sit back, throw our hands up and look away.

I cannot change Afghanistan or Congo or Somalia or . . . fill in the blank. But I can stop my neighbor or my fellow American from spewing NRA-sponsored platitudes.

It must start somewhere.

I asked my cousin, “what am I, as a parent, to do? Just put this in a larger geo-political context and just accept that human life is cheap?” “My job,” I told him, “is to protect my child. And I am not sure that I can do that when mentally ill people have access to guns.” “Well,” he said, “you can tell your children that you will try to keep them safe but you can’t promise.”

OK OK OK OK OK OK.

My child deserves my unconditional promise that I will keep him safe. Every child, the world over, deserves his or her parent’s unconditional promise.

Now, the work begins:

What do I need to do to make that unconditional promise to my child?

Stand up to the conventional wisdom. People with guns kill more people than people without guns. And, as a society, allowing a mentally ill person to buy (or have access to) a gun is the same as everyone of us driving the shooter to the school and giving him extra ammunition. We all need to point the finger in the mirror.

Yeah, we need to solve the fiscal cliff and avoid upsetting the Republicans. Yes, we need to tiptoe around the NRA with its $250,000,000 lobbyist fund. Yes, we need to wait for someone to do something.

BULL SHIT.

I have a promise to keep. And, I better get busy.

Marching, donating, talking to people and pressuring our political leaders.

And be ready to throw myself in the way of a bullet spray should it come to that.

Lunchtime in the Coffee Shop of the Living Dead

Posted on December 8, 2012 by 40andover

I went down for a quick lunch with Dad. We went to a nearby place that isn’t good, has bad service and smells like a bad diner. But it is popular for the over-senile/decrepit set because it is a close walk from many once-bustling-high-rises-now-de-facto-old-age-homes (welcome to the Sutton Place area). At the diner, there is a special area for canes and walkers, once the elder has been seated. There are less chairs available than one would think necessary because — well — the proprietors need to accommodate wheelchairs.

Dad looks better than most there.

As we are looking at the menu, he says, “I don’t remember when I last had a hamburger.”

Sidebar: I think BUT DO NOT SAY, “Of course, you don’t remember, Dad. It was last Saturday when we had this same conversation at the other diner, you know the one that is far enough away so there are fewer undead people there? You had a hamburger.”

Still, Dad sometimes surprises me by retaining information from one day to the next. “How was POB’s job interview?” he asked. Whoa, POB told him about it on Thursday. Awesome job, Dad.

I know many of the peope in the Diner of the Living Dead from the neighborhood. I grew up here. One, who is Dad’s friend, came over and wanted to talk to me only, almost ignoring Dad and Dad’s health aide (are people invisible?).

Odd because he is usually a warm and friendly, if homophobic, guy.

He was clearly in despair. He needed home heath care information for his companion of decades. Her kids were handling matters without talking to him and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even bother to brag about his daughter’s life as a married, wealtlhy, successful, procreative heterosexual. Now, that was a red flag for how the situation has deteriorated.

I listened and gave him what information I could. He seemed unable to cope with the little I was able to offer. I will follow up with him but I think he needs care, too.

Sidebar: I might have to call his daughter. I will start the conversation with, “as a married, well-to-do (before the crash), successful (before the crash), procreative (after a fashion) homosexual to you, the person I was supposed to be: get your ass back to New York and take care of your dad.”

After the conversation, Dad said in a sad but resigned way, “he doesn’t look or sound so good.” I nodded.

And then I screamed so Dad could hear (relying on the deafness of those around me):

“Dad, you are doing so much better and you had a brain bleed that shorted out some electricity!!”

We are nothing if not blunt.

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”.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Life