What Did Grandpa Know and When Did He Know It

Posted on June 27, 2015 by 40andover

Dad’s world is closing in. He can understand some things. But, he no longer tries to understand the intricacies of his care, his insurance, etc. He refers any material matters to his children. I think that is freeing for him, even as it is an admission — a resignation — that he can’t navigate the bigger world anymore. We are here to catch him before he falls.

But at my son’s Bar Mitzvah, when he slowly came to the Bimah and — relying decades’ old some-kind-of-muscle memory — chanted the prayers before my son read Torah, I imagined that Dad understood that his grandson was being called to Torah as a Bar Mitzvah. Linking the past with the present. From generation to generation.

My son did a magnificent job, by all accounts (including mine).

Dad was in and out of reality during the day. He enjoyed dancing at the reception, as always, cutting up the floor.

But did he understand what happened? Did he understand that his grandson accepted his birthright to become a Bar Mitzvah? To hold the Torah and read from it?

In my mind, I said, “Of course, Dad knew!”

But I had no idea.

Then my son said to me, days later, “Grandpa didn’t understand what happened at my Bar Mitzvah, did he?”

“Dude, I think he did, in moments, but I am not sure that he always understood.”

Silence. Resolution. Generational connection lost. I could feel it in my son’s look and posture. I felt a desperation to keep the connection alive.

Today, I asked his health aide (who was with him at the Bar Mitzvah), “Tell me for real, FOR REAL, did Dad understand what was happening at the Bar Mitzvah?”

“Well, this week, he told the visiting nurse how his grandson read from Torah so beautifully!! Some days the light is on and others he is a little in the dark. But he knew it then and sometimes he knows it now.”

And that is all I need. I hope it is enough for my son.

ULOB

Posted on July 15, 2013 by 40andover

I had a wonderful, relaxing weekend. No one else in my family did.

I was away and SOB wanted to protect me from the weekly crisis.

On Friday afternoon, ULOB was not answering his phone. POULOB, panicked, called SOB. SOB ran to ULOB’s fourth floor walk up in Hell’s Kitchen (where he lives in voluntary squalor). She found him, half dead. He had tripped on a cord and probably grabbed for the chair (with piles of stuff on it) and brought everything down on top of him.

SIDEBAR: We had been begging him to use LifeAlert for so long. But he is stubborn and independent. You could buy him every gadget in the work and he won’t crack open the box, let alone wear it. He doesn’t use an umbrella when it rains. Why? “My father never did.”

ULOB had been lying there for quite a while (based on the level of dehydration). Had SOB not gotten there when she did . . . . Well, let’s just say that she found him in the nick of time.

SIDEBAR: What a difference a day makes. His friend Frank spoke to him on Thursday afternoon. By Friday afternoon, his world had changed.

SOB “unburied” him, got him water, and called an ambulance. She called BOB (who was in town, taking the Dad call) to meet her. SOB rode in the ambulance. BOB and POULOB came later.

Still, SOB did not call me. She wanted me to have a fun weekend in Boston. Even if she was left to deal with ULOB while the other adults were kicking back with cold ones. Even holding back the the gross details of what happened to the urine-soaked pants, and ULOB’s aspiration of gross smoker’s phlegm.

Saturday afternoon, I turned my phone off after seeing my college friends. I really wanted to disconnect a little. What could happen in 12 hours? Hell, I didn’t even know about the last 24 hours.

But during those 12 hours, when I went off the grid, that’s REALLY when SOB needed me.

ULOB worsened significantly as the pneumonia took hold and needed a ventilator. Thank G-d for HOSOB who anchored SOB and kept ULOB entertained.

Sunday morning, the hotel phone woke me. POB, who was having her own nightmarish weekend tending to her much-diminished and ornery father, called and said, “Call your sister. It is not your Dad.”

I called SOB and got the download. I hopped into my car and drove straight to the hospital.

When I arrived, ULOB was on the ventilator but he was alert, hungry and cranky. In reasonable shape, all things considered. We will take the future day by day.

Strong work, SOB. From now on, I will sleep with my phone beside my ear. I will never let you go through an episode like this again without me right next to you.

Hairless and Fearless Part II

Posted on July 14, 2013 by 40andover

(For Part I, see: http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5058)

This weekend, I saw my dear friend who has cancer.

SIDEBAR: I would say, “had,” but I am too superstitious. There is still radiation, to eradicate any stray cells.

I had arranged to drive up to her house in late April, but I got sick. And no one who is a friend goes, when sick, to see someone undergoing chemo. And I knew that to battle my friend’s cancer, the doctors were taking out the big “chemo” guns. The remedy would eradicate the cancer, but she had to survive the remedy. I worried every day about that. (The perils of having a doctor in the family.)

This weekend, the stars aligned. She finished chemo; I am healthy; and she has a break before radiation therapy to make sure the “big guns” got it all.

I drove to the suburbs of Boston. I was early, so I parked a street away and let my thoughts run wild — through the fears of what chemo had done to her body; through the fervent belief that my friend would be there, just as she always was, although maybe a little paler, a little weaker, and little less hair; through everything in between.

I waited 30 minutes, and still I was early. I couldn’t wait anymore. I pulled up to the house. Her husband and I hugged.

“She’s upstairs resting. I’ll get her.”

“NOOOoooooooooooooooooooo!!!!! Let her rest!!”

Very soon afterward, my friend comes down the stairs. Thinner. With a head scarf. But, same smile. Same beautiful eyes. My friend. An indomnitable spirit and with a certain grace that even poison cannot kill.

Letty Pogrebin’s article about her friend’s fight with cancer prepared me for the difference in my friend’s appearance. I knew to focus on the windows to my friend’s essence — her smile and her eyes.

And then she took off her scarf and showed me that her hair was growing back. I ran my hands over the short growth. It was good to feel softness. The regrowth process started gently. I was glad to think that recovery might be as gentle and kind from here on out.

And she is beautiful without hair. And she was relaxed and happy to laugh and recount some of the crazy, Seinfeld-like, stories of various people’s reactions. And eager to listen about the crazy stuff in my life and in Soeur J’s life. Soeur J lives not too far and rearranged her schedule to match mine (thank you).

We had a fun, funny visit. But it was too soon time to go.

I told my friend not to wait for me to pull away because I had to input GPS coordinates back to Boston.

In truth, I needed to let the tears stream down.

Tears? Of gratitude that my friend survived chemo. Of gratitude for her and Soeur J’s friendship. Of gratitude that I, a healthy person, and my friend could look each other in the eyes and be grateful for the moment, the years of friendship, and an abiding love.

Radiation starts on Wednesday. Keep my friend in your thoughts and prayers.

Hairless and Fearless

Posted on April 2, 2013 by 40andover

Below is Letty Pogrebin with her friend, who lost her hair to chemotherapy.

I don’t know these women, but I see something in Letty’s friend that we rarely see in anyone — the drive to live.

I have a dear friend who is battling cancer. She recently had her beautiful black hair (no gray) cut off because it was falling out in clumps. She was scared to look in the mirror.

I haven’t seen my friend without her hair, but I expect she looks beautiful. Just as Letty’s friend is beautiful. Because, when I look at my friend, I won’t see her lack of hair. I will see her love of life and family and a resolve to live. Even with horrible treatments that would test anyone’s will.

I used to think, if I had cancer, I would just let it run its course. I would not go to extraordinary lengths and live in misery for months on end, just for the possibility of a cure. I would die young and leave lots of life insurance for my family.

But I see my friend now. And my plan is not so easy anymore. I see that she needs to live for her husband, her children, her parents and, yes, us, her friends for 30+ years. My friend is fighting hard and her friends are fighting mad that this happened.

And despite the anger and despair of standing by helplessly, my friend inspires me to love life even though I am not facing an existential threat.

I look at my friend and, all of a sudden, my aging body is not a tragedy of lost youth but proof of life and my vessel into the ensuing years. If I am so lucky.

And, through my friend, I learned that my clever plan was just plain selfish. I need to live for my family, my friends and all those I love. And I need to live for me and the joys (and pain) that come with every day on this earth.

To my dear friend: You are beautiful and the power of your life force resonates hundreds of miles to me here in New York and, in possibly the most perverse twist, gives me strength when I should be shouldering some of your burden.

I love you, my friend.

My morning with Bessie and other things in a random day

Posted on January 19, 2013 by 40andover

I am sick (with the flu) and have been home almost all week. The problem with being home (besides cabin fever) is that you notice every imperfection in your house, every age spot on your legs and those barely perceptible (to the naked eye) and asymmetrical droops in your breasts.

I was feeling pretty ok this morning. And I needed to get out of the house. And I was despondent over missing a Soeur reunion in Cancun. And my bras didn’t provide the necessary level of support. So, off I schlepped to the local mecca for women’s undergarments. This is the place where, for decades (until her death), the Dowager Countess of Ladies’ Undergarments would cup your breasts in her hands and yell out a size and style and point you to one of the dressing rooms. And if she determined that your current bra was ill-fitting, she would pitch a loud fit. You had to have self-esteem or you needed to be high to deal with her. I never went while the Dowager was alive.

POB and I went to here to get our undergarments of steel for our wedding dresses. Bessie, an older Southern woman, helped us. She noted that day that I was wearing “some kinda ratty bra.” http://40andoverblog.com/?p=4354

Today, I walked in and saw Bessie and strode straight for her and said, “you helped me with my wedding undergarments and I promised I would be back and here I am.”

“I remember you. You was with a friend and you was both gettin’ married.”

“To each other,” I responded, gently.

“You had a ratty bra that day, I’ll tell yoooooo.”

Sidebar: OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK, really? She remembered? And I was here to rectify that. I was thinking that I wasn’t feeling better; I was just delirious. And why do you think I don’t go bra (other than sports bra) shopping often, huh? A little humiliation every other decade or so lasts a looooooong time.

I spent 90 minutes topless in a dressing room that others had no problem entering at will. I must have tried on 30 bras.

Bessie commented on each: “Now that one make you almost look perky!” “You don’t fill that up anymaw. Betcha you did once!” “Now, that is a beautiful cup on you!!”

“But, Bessie, it is electric blue!!!”

“It don’t matter what color it is. A good fittin’ bra is a good fittin’ bra. You don’t turn your nose at a good fittin’ bra. Not when we’s our age!!”

Pause. We are NOT the same age. I may be going on 50 but she is 70. Wow, I really was delirious.

“I’ll jest put this in the buy pile.” She walked away. Ten bras (of varying colors; some electrically so, some not) later, she went to find matching bottoms. I prevailed on nixing the dull blue and brown striped one that was almost like a bikini top.

“You a full-cut or a thong type?” She yelled for everyone to hear. Of course, the entire conversation was for everyone to hear.

“How about we look at the matching bottoms and then I will decide.”

Bessie packed up all the things she decided I needed, less the bra that I would not, could not, buy. “Now, send your friend on in here, hear?”

Wow, I needed a long snooze.

POB and SOS were doing G-d’s work, by having lunch with my Dad, so I could rest. Or be delirious, whatever.

We arrived home at the same time and had a little rest hour. And then POB and SOS set about making a cheesecake for SOS’s friend who is recovering from serious back surgery. Our hearts were on standby to be broken if anything went wrong. An 11 year-old’s undergoing serious back surgery is a parent’s every nightmare. He came through like the champion he is. And he wanted cheesecake. “Then, give the boy a cheesecake,” said (and did) POB and SOS.

So we all hovered in the kitchen while POB did most of the heavy-lifting, SOS helped a little and I helped not at all.

SIDERBAR: Hey, there needs to be a slacker in every family. I proudly claim that mantel. In fact, I “gold-medal” in it, without the need for performance enhancement drugs. (It is a non-performing sport.)

Then SOS remembered that Cousin Gentle and he are going to visit a Sikh enclave in Queens tomorrow and he needed to learn, “hello”, “good bye” and “thank you” in Punjabi by tomorrow. Cousin Gentle sent a link to a primer on Punjabi.

So, now, I sit in a warm kitchen with wonderful smells wafting through the air, blogging about my day and over-hearing my son practice words in Punjabi.

Yes, yes, I must be delirious.

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.

Things I learned today (and Phoenix was awesome)

Posted on September 24, 2012 by 40andover

I learned why the health care debate is bullshit. It is sterile and removed from reality.

When a family member is ill and you cannot care for him or her, you must rely on strangers. Strangers are not always reliable; not because they don’t want to do their jobs but because there are so many in need that your loved one is not necessarily the first on the list.

So, health care is flawed. It is a morass. It is frustrating. It isn’t the well-intentioned attendant’s fault; it isn’t the overwhelmed agency’s fault; it isn’t the government’s fault. (Sure there are bad people out there, but let’s discount that factor for a moment.) Illness is at fault. It is a problem that we are not all health care professionals who can leave our jobs to care for our loved ones. Forget Federal Medical Leave Act during bad economic times. Most people are too scared that there will be some other pretext for the employer to fire them.

When you delegate, you lose control of the outcome. That is why there was poison in toothpaste imported from China. That is why we throw away electronics when they stop working because it is cheaper to buy new than to fix the old.

People don’t fit into an economic model. There is value in keeping people healthy; there is joy in adding quality to the waning years. There is pain when science keeps the body going after the mind and soul have left.

I have lived the cushy private system for only a few days and it is hell. When a patient can’t help him or herself, then it doesn’t matter who is providing the service. If you are lucky, you can telecommute and keep an eye on the situation and reassure your loved one, with your words, hell, with just your presence. But most people are not so lucky.

So, don’t talk to me about vouchers or Medicare or the Great Solution. When your family member is in need, there are no good answers.

DAD UPDATE:

Dad remembered my name today. He was true to his word last night. He also remembered a host of other crazy facts and information. We all thought he earned that scotch tonight with his hors d’oeuvres. (Ok, let’s be honest, club soda with a splash of the good stuff.) Clap if you agree. (Yes, we hear you. Thanks.)

Don’t bet against Phoenix. He is roaring from the ashes.

Phoenix rises, then stumbles. Repeat.

Posted on September 23, 2012 by 40andover

Take anti-nausea pills before reading. It is a little like being a castaway at sea.

Dad came home yesterday afternoon. He was relieved to be home. There is an amazing “muscle memory” about being home. He knew how to motor around the house to find the things he wanted even though he was wobbly on his feet and could not put the words together to talk to us. Also, we ordered a wheelchair, a walker and a cane because we didn’t know his needs.

Shortly after he got home, he wanted very much to call the United Jewish Appeal but the reason made no sense. And it was the Sabbath. His frustration was rising and logic wasn’t working. So I dialed POB’s cell and I said (actually, I was desperately directing her), “Dad needs to speak to the UJA, so pretend.” I passed the phone to Dad, and turned up the volume so SOB and I could hear. “Hello, Mr. [DOB], this is “Rachel” from the UJA. Thank you for your pledge . . . .” She went on until Dad said, “ok, thank you very much.” Dad was satisfied and almost looked as if he would nap . . . Nah, no luck.

Sidebar: POB should be nominated for an Academy Award, since she performed while on a crowded bus with SOS, who was quite confused. (She told him that we were testing his phone skills and SOS loved the cloak and dagger of it.)

SOS was scared to see Grandpa injured. We were all scared of the future. BOB was busy cleaning out all of his junk mail and organizing recent files. Man on a mission. We all found ways to soothe our individual terror at our new reality.

When SOS, POB and HOSOB arrived, we all gathered around and went through recent pictures to jog his memory. SOB and I had previously gone out shopping and HOSOB brought some liquid relaxation (wine). By this point, it was “cocktails and hors d’oeuvres” hour because that is the way one does things in Dad’s house. Since he wasn’t so steady on his feet, we pretended to give him a “scotch” but it was club soda. The upside of a little dementia — he thought it was scotch.

Cousin Gentle arrived later on. By the time we ate dinner, he knew that he was surrounded by family, and very happily so, but only remembered the names of the eldest, Cousin Gentle, and the youngest, SOS. Also, his evening attendant ate with us, so we could weave her into the fabric of the day (and she is lovely in any event). BOB stayed until today, so at around 9:30, the rest could leave for much deserved rest.

Sidebar: At this stage, rest is elusive. Sleep is a non-starter.

The night was long and difficult according to BOB. And BOB looked like he hadn’t slept.

By morning, Dad was better, but still inconsistent in strength, gait and comprehension. Dad was using the walker and BOB was playing in the wheelchair. BOB challenged Dad to a race. It was actually very funny to watch them go back and forth. A little insanity amid pervasive insanity is very healing. And it demonstrated that Dad’s personality is intact. It is his memory that needs work.

He started to nod off after lunch and had a long nap. SOB and I went out to get supplies and some fresh air because we were either trying to keep Dad engaged or listen for any sign of a problem while he slept. We saw this in the drug store and thought it captured our feelings — we just wanted to SCREAM out of fear, frustration, lack of control, uncertainty of the future, you name it:

And, then. And, then. Good ol’ Phoenix.

He woke up able to walk without any support but the real proof that Dad was Phoenix rising was that he did not go for the fake scotch at cocktail hour. I had to put a little scotch in the club soda so there was a faint smell of liquor. Dad was still not happy but mollified somewhat.

POB and SOS came over for a surprise visit at dinner because SOS wanted to see Grandpa and he was sad that SOB and I might be lonely and scared “alone” with Dad.

Sidebar: I can take no credit for the soulfulness, generosity and sense of family that is in my son’s heart. POB is responsible.

POB was talking to Dad and he had some good recall of random things. And, he was even grousing about the fake cocktail. I overheard this, and I said, “Dad, you have to earn that cocktail!! Get strong, get steady, get your memory back!!” Everyone laughed. My father saluted me. He knows his kids are his bosses — his essential personality shining through.

It was time for him to go to sleep. The attendant was going to help him wash up.

I kissed him and said, “Goodnight, Daddy, I love you.”

“Goodnight, my darling, I love you.”

“Can you tell me my name?”

He hesitated. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Ok, Daddy, maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe, tomorrow.

Meanwhile on the other side of town . . . .

Posted on June 11, 2011 by 40andover

Some back story (again). TLP (our son, the little prince) asked BYP (beautiful young princess) to marry him two years ago. BYP said, “Sure!!” And they have been betrothed ever since the tender age of 7 years-old. The Yiddish name for the relationship between parents of a married couple is “machertunim”. The mothers are “machertenesters” and the father is a “shver” (not a really pleasant translation).

So, while I was having my well-documented endoscopy, our machertenester was having laparoscopy to remove her not-quite-burst appendix.

How did we find out? Our machertenester was emailing from her blackberry to tell us because they had to cancel our dinner plans for tonight. Really? Really? That was on your mind as you recover from surgery?

Laparoscopy, open-heart surgery, whatEVERRRR. Surgery is surgery.

The emails went something like this:

“We have to cancel dinner tomorrow night. I had my appendix removed this morning.”

[Blogger side bar: I am thinking, WAIT, WAS THAT WRITTEN IN THE SAME WAY AS, “Sorry, we couldn’t get a babysitter” ??????? Really, machertenester? What, all of sudden, you like minimalist and Bauhaus in an emotional context? Are you too assimilated?]

“OMG, what happened?”

“What do you mean ‘OMG what happened?’ You have an out of office message about an unanticipated absence! I am freaking out!”

“No, you can’t freak out because YOU-U-U had major surgery?”

“Not so major; it was caught before the rupture. What did you have done?”

“Endoscopy, with Michael Jackson drugs.”

“And you thought you were going to the office after THAT?”

[OK, this conversation is going in the wrong direction.]

“Wait, we are talking about your almost disastrous brush with rupture, peritonitis and shock.”

I look up exactly what happened to Machertenester. Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

(ruptured appendix)

(surgery)

“I’m fi-i-ine.”

“Should we take the kids? Do you need ANYTHING?” [I am thinking if she said, “New cable box or blender” I would have gotten it for her.]

“We’ll check in tomorrow.”

Ok, Machertenester is a strong woman.

I don’t care if our kids marry. She is my machertenester forEVEH.

The View From Inside

Posted on June 10, 2011 by 40andover

This morning I had an endoscopy. For stomach, esophagus and duodenum. Not colon, thank G-d.

But first the back story. DOB (father of blogger) has horrible reflux. SOB (sister of blogger) sometimes has bad digestive episodes, but she never complains. DOB, however, does complain, but if you ask him, he would say that he just describes the sensations searing through his digestive system.

[You can tell that the family parses these distinctions at the dinner table because, after all, Jews can talk about anything with their mouths full. A curse and a blessing, that tribal trait. But I digress from my back story.]

Like DOB, like Blogger. I try to be more like stoic SOB, but recently I had become concerned about the severity of the reflux. I even went to a doctor last Friday. SOB went with me, in case I did not present the key elements of my “case”. (Doctors are that way.) The GI Guy (gastro-intestinal doctor) lectured me on how I need regular check-ups and screenings.

All the time I am thinking, “you are a really nice man and come highly recommended but, GI Guy, if I don’t listen to SOB, why would I listen to you?” But GI Guy is SOB’s friend and colleague and I didn’t want to make waves.

Maybe GI Guy is a mind reader because he suggested that I consider an endoscopy. Or more probably, based on my sparse history of going to doctors, he must have realized that I must be concerned if I was in his office. We set today as the date for a look-see down my throat. Then, SOB reiterated the lecture about getting checked out regularly. So, I asked her if she practices what she preaches. Pause. I told her that she was unashamedly hypocritical.

It is amazing what you can find on the internet. Pictures of not so good results:

I thought the procedure would look like this:

But not exactly.

Anyway, enough back story. Fast forward to this morning at 6AM. I picked up SOB in a cab and we went over to fancy shmancy East Side for the procedure. But at 6AM, even the tony, tony neighborhoods look like hell:

Still, I am not so unnerved by this. I figure a relaxant and then a tube and a few pictures and that’s that. And there was a spa two doors down…

Ok, not so much.

Blogger is on a gurney (the first picture is to show off the pedicure) next to really enthusiastic GI Guy – it IS 6am and the civilized world is still asleep or at least in their jammies. (SOB is in the room (and taking pictures).)

The anesthesiologist shows up. ANESTHESIOLOGIST????? He mumbles questions and we had a little Marx Brothers routine, where he asked questions in English mumble, SOB translated into English non-mumble and then I answered in Blogger-ese. SOB then had to translate into doctor-speak. It could have been the United Nations, except we were all speaking some dialect of American English.

Thank G-d for SOB. She gave me a good luck kiss on my forehead, but I knew she was staying right next to the anesthesiologist. She is my bodyguard and I am hers.

In went the IV and the propophyl (the stuff that killed Michael Jackson). I had to bite down on a plastic ring and off to sleep I went. I was awakened after the “scope” and tissue was scraped for biopsies.

First question to GI Guy when I awoke: Did you take pictures for my blog?

I stayed loopy for a while. GI Guy’s assistant told me: Do not to resume normal activities (she doesn’t know that no one ever ascribes “normal” to anything I do); do not go to work; do not make any important decisions; and do not sign legal documents; do not make business decisions. As if directed at me specifically, she told me: Do not do anything that requires unimpaired concentration or judgment. I don’t get it; that is how I live every day.

So, I went to sleep. That propophyl is awesome.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Being sick