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.

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.