Lessons Learned Oddly Applied

Growing up, Mom and Dad made sure every visitor felt welcome in our home with a (proverbial or actual) warm and welcoming embrace. 

And our cultural, religious and family traditions had to follow suit.  My parents never cared much for tradition that didn’t honor everyone, engender both joy and remembrance and welcome the stranger.

I remember, at one Passover years and years ago, a relatively new friend of Mom (she made friends every day, even in the elevator or on a City bus) came over for her first Passover seder and brought something that she had made and  . . .  

WAIT FOR IT, WAIT . . .

there were noodles in it.  [NOT kosher for Passover.]

It was a shock to all of us that someone would make something homemade (especially to my mother) because, after all, we lived in New York City.

SIDEBAR:  No one “cooked” except for Mrs. Travers (of blessed memory) who made the same cherry Jello mold with fruit since the early 1960s.  Don’t laugh because it became so “groovy retro” in the 1990s.

So my mother was charmed and mortified all at once. Still, what to do about the noodles?

Without missing a beat, my mother put the noodle dish on the Passover table.  As everyone sat down, she thanked her friend for bringing it and advised those observing the Passover dietary restrictions that this was not a dish for them.

Just as it is written that, each of us was liberated from the land of Egypt and we eat the Hillel sandwich of the matzah and maror signifying the bitterness  of slavery and other symbolic foods, the Blogger family ate the matzah, maror and some pasta and veggies, in observance of our tradition and our parents’ rules about joy and welcoming the stranger in our house.

Fast forward twenty or more years to Dad’s Shiva.

Ok, “Shiva” was only one night, so it doesn’t even meet the requirements of the name, Shiva. And, a female rabbi who looked about 11 years old led the service. 

And THEN . . . .

My brother beckons me to the kitchen. 

SIDEBAR: It has taken many years but I think that my brother and I are in a good place.  I know we love each other.  And, I have a deep admiration and respect for him.  And, he is just so adorable and handsome and funny.

“Hey, E . . . . ” he says with his Texas drawl.  “SOB’s [Sister of blogger’s] birthday is in two days and we are going back to Dallas. We brought this birthday cake with these crazy striped pastries on top.  Like the ones Grandma and Grandpa used to bring from the bakery in Brooklyn.”

The following things ran through my head:

BIRTHDAY CAKE. 

SHIVA. 

A HOUSE PARTIALLY FILLED WITH MEN WEARING KIPAS,

A 12-YEAR OLD FEMALE RABBI LEADING MINYAN.

TRUMP THANKING MY FATHER FOR HIS SERVICE TO OUR COUNTRY [see earlier post].

MOM.  DAD.  PASSOVER SO MANY YEARS AGO.

THE LOVE OF A BROTHER WHO DIDN’T WANT HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY TO GET LOST IN REMEMBRANCE OF DAD’S LIFE WELL-LIVED.

“BOB [Brother of blogger], great idea!!  Let’s wait until the Shiva minyan is over and those who would be totally offended have left, OK?”

So, when we thought “the coast was clear” and some of SOB’s friends were still around, out came the birthday cake, with candles and everything.

Also? It was GREAT cake. (Just sayin’.)

And, courtesy of BOB and his family, there was joy for us three kids amid the sadness.  And we bent the traditions so far back that they almost broke in two — but not quite.

And Mom and Dad smiled down.  They were proud. 

And the three of us?  We would not have done a thing differently.

Lucy and Ethel and Nat

I have mostly stopped blogging out of respect for Dad because the week to week life of an aged man needing 24 hour care is something that is reserved for family, on a need to know basis.  To discuss the details, although helpful to those in similar situations, would have been an indignity to Dad.

But some things are funny and sad.  And they need to be shared if only so we all know that life and death, love and hate, laughter and mourning, all exist at the same time, in every moment of our lives.

BOB (brother of blogger) came home to see Dad on a Friday.  Dad’s joy was unparalleled at having most of his family at the dinner table, even though the rest of BOB’s family was still in Dallas (which is to be expected; they have school, etc.).

Saturday morning, Dad was barely responsive and unable to walk.  We knew this was the beginning of the end.  Except, not quite.  Because Dad is the comeback kid.

Still, we all came running.

At around 7pm, by sheer force of family will, we had Dad in a wheelchair in the living room and drinking wine and toasting life.  But we had to help him sip and then we had to get him back into bed.

But, if this was going to be the end, then our Dad was going to have whatever he wanted.

And, in the days ahead, that amounted to wine and chocolate ice cream.

SIDEBAR:

THIS IS AN IMPORTANT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:  Ask your loved ones for their ice cream of choice for end of life/palliative care purposes.  I was surprised that SOB wanted chocolate (I was sure the answer would be vanilla) and that BOB has no preference (I was sure it was strawberry). Avoid the wrong ice cream choice at all costs.  Don’t worry about the meds (other than the “chill” meds).  Worry about the ice cream.  TRUST ME.

By Sunday, BOB was having his first goodbye moment with Dad before he left to fly home to take care of his family.

ANOTHER SIDEBAR: Dad never goes down on any of the first fifty counts.  How else do you think he got to 96.5???  We all knew BOB was coming back before the FINALE.

Monday afternoon, we re-enrolled Dad for hospice.  He had been kicked off of hospice three times because he so far outlived every guestimate.

Tuesday afternoon, the hospice doctor was scheduled to come to examine Dad.  Earlier that afternoon, Dad awoke from 36 hours of total unconsciousness and wanted fruit and ice cream and wanted to get out of bed.

EVEN BIGGER SIDEBAR WITH PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Death is never as linear, neat or as easy as in the movies.  It is a war of attrition.  At no point is it clear that the elderly or infirm person will die; it is clear however, that the caretakers might kill themselves.  Resist the urge to go out the window.  Close them.  Child locks are best.  Just sayin’.  You eat more and drink more than ever you thought was possible. Go with it.  The gym and the drying-out will have to wait.

So, Dad is being fed ice cream and fruit in the dining room, just as SOB is saying, “he needs to be back in bed before the hospice doctors get here….”

Sidebar:  It was important for the hospice doctors to see him how he was — dying — and not judge him by his “perk” in mild energy and appetite. We needed hospice so that when he died, he would go from our warm embrace to ritual cleansing to burial and there would no interference by EMT or NYPD because that would defile his body.]

DING, DONG.  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

OH, SHIT.  THE HOSPICE DOCTORS!!.

SOB slow walks to the door, yelling, “coming!!!!” as I pop a wheelie on Dad’s wheelchair and careen him toward his bedroom.  I stop to get my scarf that is strewn on a chair, because I want the full-on Snoopy “Curse you, Red Baron!!” look.

Janet freaks out — but we need to have flair in these difficult times.

As Janet opens the apartment door, I finish my dash into Dad’s room where his wonderful aide is taking a short break.

“Quick, into the bed!!!!”

“Sorry, Dad, I know this is hard. . . . .” as Heather and I left him and place him on the bed, and then swing his body so that he is lying comfortably.

Dad goes back into his semi-coma before we even get him on the bed.

Heather and I barely assume our places in the chairs in Dad’s room before the hospice doctors come in.  But everything is like a movie set.  If this were the 1950s, we would be casually smoking cigarettes, as Dad is resting comfortably.

SOB looks at Heather and me and mouths, “strong work.”

The doctors note Dad’s strong pulse but acknowledge that hospice is indicated.  And they order all of the appropriate comfort paraphernalia  — from medicine to diapers.

Dad never regained consciousness.

And Lucy and Ethel took their bows.

And the band played some more

So Aunt Roz was finally correct.  Her younger sister, Shirley, is dead. 

But if you read http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5014 and http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5029, you will get the idea of the odyssey.

The shunted child of an immigrant generation.  The “not-right” child that was institutionalized.  And forgotten.  And to all who asked, she was “dead”.

But she was, in fact, very much alive.  In state-run assisted living buildings; in state run psychiatric facilities.  Aunt Roz visited her once and put a deposit on a burial fund.  Aunt Roz’s nephew discovered her existence by chance, by going through Aunt Roz’s papers after her death.  He did not let up until he found her.

Shirley is her name.  Shirley.

And then that nephew — my adopted cousin — claimed her as kin.  Which no one had done for over 60 years.   60 years. 

My new-found cousin visited this sister every other week and she started to speak after decades of silence.

Back story:  My cousin is Aunt Roz’s blood nephew; I am not technically related to my aunt because she and my (blood) uncle never married.  Before I had to contact my cousin upon my aunt’s death, I never spoke to him.

Shirley died today. 

But because of my cousin, she did not die as an unknown, unclaimed soul.  She died as a member of a family.

And so, she needed to be accorded the burial and last rites of a family member. And I needed to have her buried next to Aunt Roz so that they can figure it out in heaven (if such a place exists).  My cousin was crying at the funeral home.  Shirley’s ability to reach out to his wife and him and speak, if only in monosyllables, touched his gentle soul.

My cousin is by birth Jewish, but only recently discovered this. I sat with him in the funeral home as we talked through the ritual requirements of burial.  He held my hand so tight, I thought I would lose circulation.

Not because he was scared, but (I think) because he has only begun to discover his lost family and now they are gone.  And he didn’t know what to do with his pain.

Except we are his family.  We are not related by blood or paper.  But by love.

He is my cousin and I am his, his wife’s and his daughter’s.

He was embarrassed that I put out my credit card.  I know that he would pay if he could.  But he can’t.  And it is ok, because I, too, claim Shirley as one of us, if only to bring her out of the darkness and loneliness, and, post-humously, into the bosom of family.  Because that is what I must do and it is a blessing that I can afford to do this.

May Shirley live in our hearts in her death because we did not know her during her life.

Baruch dayan emet.

The Future is Bright

I am executrix/administrator/trustee/attorney-in-fact for quite a few in the elder generation, whether alive and dead or, frankly, somewhere in between.

When ULOB died, he had no will.  So his only heirs at law were those immediate blood relations who survived him — SOB, BOB and me.   The word, “heir,” has a connotation that one sits back and someone unknown official throws money and jewels at such lucky heir.

Now, back to reality.  There was an apartment to clean out, assets to be gathered, debts to be paid and tax returns to be filed.  And that means that at least one person has to step up and seek appointment by the surrogate’s court as administrator.  Translation:  At least one of SOB, BOB and me.

I drew the short straw.  I don’t actually think we had a contest.  I think SOB and BOB met when I was in the bathroom and decided that I was in charge.  At least they apologized.

And so, I became the court-appointed administrator for ULOB.  The gathering of assets and paying of debts were not difficult.  Figuring out the fate of the annuities that named the two women of his life — AROB and POULOB — as joint beneficiaries, was harder.

SIDEBAR:  All I can say that if AROB and POULOB had both survived ULOB and I had to divide these annuities between the two — well, I would not think so kindly of ULOB.  AROB (z”l) made life less uncomfortable by predeceasing ULOB.

And then, there are three tax returns — one for the year in which ULOB died, one of ULOB’s estate and one that I have to file as the fiduciary of his estate.  Every one of these measures different periods and sometimes counts the same money.  “Whatever,” the three of us say, it isn’t going to bring ULOB back to life so we pay unto Caesar that which the Tax Code says.

Except we didn’t know much about ULOB’s finances.  I chose to continue using ULOB’s long time accountant to make sure we covered everything.  Continuity is important in these matters,  And, because ULOB’s accountant was probably older than ULOB, I also have a lawyer overseeing things.

I sent the stuff off to ULOB’s accountant and hadn’t heard in weeks.  I emailed the lawyer, wondering if perhaps the elder CPA had  . . . .  Luckily, he emailed me that day.  “I am missing social security and pension information.  Can’t do returns without them.  Also need 1099s through date of death.”

SIDEBAR:  ULOB never had very steady work, so who knew he had a [as it turned out, miniscule] pension?  And because I am also consumed with Dad’s taxes, I forgot about the 1099 for social security.  That was my oversight.

Aaargh.  The latter request was easy.  But what pension?  And the Social Security Administration?  The mail had stopped coming long ago.  Oy Oy Oy Oy.

KILL ME NOW.  I WILL MAKE IT EASY AND LIE IN THE MIDDLE OF SIXTH AVENUE.

I looked in ULOB’s decrepit files and figured out the pension source.  But I had to email my siblings.

From: [Blogger]
To: [SOB]; [BOB]
Date: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 16:23:25 -0400
Subject: [ULOB]

 

So, I learned that [ULOB] got a pension from the Equity League.  Trying to get a 1099.  Also, on the phone with Social Security Administration for a 1099.  I am never being anyone’s executor again ever. [emphasis added]

 

I thought that was a clear statement of my intentions and future wishes.  In retrospect, I should have had a court “so-order” it.

Actually getting the 1099s were time consuming but not difficult (but absolutely bloggable –especially at the SSA office — at another time).  [P.S.: if anyone needs a guide through the morass, just call or email me.]

In four hours, I got both replacement 1099s.  In triumph, I sent an email to my siblings:

 

Got’em

[Blogger]

Sent:

Thursday, March 27, 2014 12:51 PM

To:

[SOB]; [BOB]

Went to the Equity League pension office AND the social security administration and got both missing 1099s!!!!!  I am basking the glory of a productive day.  (although not so productive from a career perspective.)

 

 

But still I do not want any more responsibilities, especially since managing the world of Dad (may he live to 120) is a constant project.  And then SOB, ever the protective older sister, sends me a reply email, gently quieting my fears about the future, all the while adding an additional burden:

[Blogger], Thank you for managing all Dad’s finances and [ULOB]’s will and finances.

I’m sorry but  I listed you as my executor, but don’t worry as we will both be demented and incompetent so you will be excused from the task. [emphasis added]

 

Love,

[SOB]

After a moment of shaking my fist at the screen, I laughed out loud.  SOB always brings me back to the proper perspective.  We will both be in our 90s (G-d willing) and then . . . who cares?  I will be executor.  No problem, SOB.  Bring it on.

The future is, indeed, bright and carefree, after all.

 

Hairless and Fearless Part II

(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.

The Downside of being POB

POB has never really embraced this blog.

She has grown accustomed to it, as one does a dull pain in the neck.  Sometimes, she is afraid of what I will write; I seem to have a more inclusive sense of what is an appropriately bloggable moment.  It is a boundary thing: I have few (for better or for worse) and POB has a few more (for better or for worse).

SIDEBAR:  Even I have boundaries.  Some of the Soeurs were shocked to hear that there is such a thing as an unbloggable moment.  Yes, there are life moments too intimate, too painful, too sad, to share.  And there are moments that can’t be shared yet.

I think what really got to POB this week was that at each event she attended — lunch, coffee, gathering — she started to tell a story and someone would say, “Oh, yeah, I read about that on the blog!!”  She has her own way of telling a story and her own viewpoint.  “Why can’t I tell stories my own way, without worrying that you blogged about it first?!”

Why?  Well, dear POB, for the simple reason that I may not be there to correct you.

If you write it, it is real.

Hairless and Fearless

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

tWGdjCO - Imgur 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.

The COB Removes a Blob

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:

FROM COBSo, 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.

 

 

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Our Camper

After a summer of day camp, SOS’s last week at camp was sleep-away.

He was adorable in his red baseball hat and red shirt (that was his color-war team) and his blue shorts.  Our little boy sleeping away from us.  We kissed him good-bye on Monday morning, in the house, because we simply couldn’t in front of his friends.

Sidebar:  I learned the “no-kissing” rule on the prior Tuesday, when I walked him to the bus pick-up and SOS turned to me as we were in the middle of 110th Street, “E-Mom, you can leave me here.”  “DUDE, I am not leaving you in the middle of a busy two-way street!!!” As he was harrruumphing, I walked him to the sidewalk, said hi to his counselor and waved to him as he was off with the other campers.

Our hearts’ heaviness at his being away was, however, immediately lifted by the sheer elation of being untethered to a child’s schedule and needs.  Recall that when you have children under 12, parents can’t spontaneously go for a romantic walk (ok, not so romantic in the sweltering heat of New York City) without having planned for a babysitter.  Which then defeats the spontaneity.

The camp has a website where parents can email children and see pictures of the days’ activities.  We saw SOS in that same cute outfit day after day after day.  While we later learned that he showered and changed his underwear, he still thought it was ok to put on the same muddy clothes each morning.

He is a boy and this is camp.  There is hope:  he changed his clothes for the Thursday night dance with the girls.

Gee, I cannot wait for adolescence.

The wonder years

POB recounted this vignette to me after SOS was asleep.  It makes me realize that while being at home is harder work, it is also a lot more fun and challenging.  (The COB can take credit for this insight.)

POB picked up SOS at the bus stop after day camp. They amiably walked the few blocks to our apartment building.  When the elevator came, a skinny teenage boy with acne and long hair emerged.  [I never described boys like this until I was a mother of one.]

The elevator had a smell that SOS could not identify.  It was, however, immediately obvious to POB.  And I am not talking body odor.

“Mommy, what is that smell?”  A teachable moment arrives.

“Sweetie, that is the smell of pot.”

“Pot?”  No name recognition.

POB tried again.  “Dope? Weed?”  [Hell, this kid is growing up in New York City.]

“Huh?”  [Ok, this parenting thing is getting harder.]  “It smells awful.”  The elevator opened to our floor.

“Sweetie, it is the smell of drugs.  That boy was smoking marijuana, a type of which is commonly known as skunk weed.”  [I taught POB that.]

“Eeewwwww.  I was inhaling drugs?????” he asked in horror.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie, nothing bad is going to happen on that short elevator ride.”

Worry over.  Moment forgotten. Back to play and carefree late afternoons after camp.

A missed teachable moment about that urban legend, “contact high,” to keep our son even farther away from smoking dope.  I hope he reads this blog entry when he is 15 years old and using cheesy aftershave and chewing gum to try to cover his tracks as he squeaks in just under curfew while I am pacing in the foyer.

[Note to SOS at 15:  Just remember, dude, once you thought it was disgusting.  Love, E-Mom.]