The truths about roller coaster rides.

Posted on July 27, 2014 by 40andover

The first truth about roller coaster rides is that it can be scary, exhilarating, fun and vomit-inducing, but, at its end, it delivers you to its starting point and you wobble out onto terra firma.

The second truth is that you don’t need to go to an amusement park to ride one.

Thursday began like any other day. I was late getting to the office for a call with opposing counsel. I didn’t even try to blame the trains. I emailed him on my subway ride to push back the call 15 minutes.

When I get out of the subway, I receive a text from Dad’s home health aide (HHA).

“Have your sister call me immediately.”

My sister, SOB (sister of blogger] is a doctor. This is not good. I call SOB immediately.

“SOB, it’s [Blogger], call HHA immediately. She just texted that she needs to speak with you. Call me after you speak to her.”

I am shaking. Is this the day? I don’t exactly remember the walk to my office. But as I start to turn on my computer, my ringing cell phone snaps me back.

“It’s [SOB], HHA had to call 911 because Dad is basically non-responsive.”

Is this the day that Dad dies?

SOB and I know that we have to run to Dad’s house before anyone takes him to a hospital, so we can evaluate the situation. He is almost 94 years old and has told us, again and again, that he wants to die in his bed. And, unless there was acute pain or discomfort to relieve, being in a hospital is only torture for a person his age. Old age is old age. This is not a curable condition. It is a fact of life.

I run part of the way there. SOB is still in traffic. I look at Dad. He is now alert and comfortable on the gurney. He knows me and seems relieved I am there. He has no pain but looks so tired. He smiles as he does when family walks into the room. Our embrace is awkward because he is on a gurney.

“Dad, [SOB] is coming any minute and we will figure out whether you need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, darling. Let’s wait for [SOB].”

The EMTs tell me all his vitals are good. Apparently, Dad slumped over at breakfast and HHA couldn’t rouse him. She literally lifted him and had him lean on her while she got him to his bed in his bedroom. The EMTs said he was non-responsive when they got there but with a little rubbing on his sternum, he started to wake up.

Dad hovered between life and death and came back to life.

So, TODAY IS DEFINITELY NOT THE DAY. Still, the crisis isn’t over until the EMTs unstrap Dad from the gurney and they leave his house.

And Dad had mentioned heart disease, so the EMTs want to take him to the hospital.

“Dad is in mild heart failure. Who isn’t at almost 94? There is heart disease in his family, but he takes no medications, except an evening scotch.”

And then Dad says:

“They might not get paid if they came all this way and don’t come back with a patient.”

The EMTs smile. They understand that my father wants to do the honorable thing. They are also a little confused by his seeming clarity in one moment and his dementia in another. The EMTs wait for SOB to arrive (G-d bless professional courtesy).

Then Dad said:

“Before we go anywhere, I have to say goodbye to my wife.”

The EMTs look at me and look at HHA, who is 50 years his junior.

“NO, NO, NO,” I say. “Look at the wall. See the painting? That is Mom in 1967. He needs to say good-bye to HER.”

OMG OMG OMG. This still could be the day. Oh, SHIT.

The EMTs were fabulous. One was a little circumspect, probing about my knowledge of Dad’s medical and mental state. I appreciated his concern and we walked a little away from Dad.

“Look, my father has been exceptionally healthy his whole life. He is at the end of his life. If he is not in pain or gasping, why would I want newly minted doctors (it IS July, after all) poking and prodding him? But, let’s wait for the real doctor, my sister.”

Then that EMT starts to test my knowledge of Jewish culture and Yiddishkeit. The Blogger family name is stereotypically Jewish. And he was testing me to figure out if I understood the Commandment to honor my father and my mother.

SOB walks in and consults with the EMTs. Then she says to both of them:

“Last time he was in a hospital, it was for a brain bleed resulting from tripping on the sidewalk. Although he was in neuro ICU and was watched by a private nurse, he got out of bed twice and fell both times. Since then he wanders. A hospital is not a safe place for him. He has terrific 24 hour care at home. And my sister and I are each a cab ride away.”

Both EMTs understood. The circumspect EMT (who turned out to be an observant Jew) was more comfortable when we knew some Yiddish and when we told him that we had been through this drill before and we had tended to our mother in her dying days.

He said, “We have to call the supervisor. I fear Hashem [G-d], my wife, gobblins and my supervisor, and your dad said he wanted to go to the hospital before you both arrived.”

“I get that. Make yourselves to home. Can we give you something to drink or eat?”

The observant Jew demurred. The other EMT said, his wife packs food. So I asked, “you fear both your wife and Ha-Shem on this score.” He nodded.

The EMTs and Dad start to talk. They ask how he feels.

“It is the end.”

“End of what, sir?”

“The end of my life.”

Those words hang in the air, until interrupted by the arrival of the supervisor. The supervisor calls the doctor on duty. Everyone groans.

“What’s wrong with this doctor?” I ask, thinking the nightmare has just begun.

“He’s been sued a lot. He will want to enforce transport to the hospital.”

WAIT. WAIT. I have power of attorney. My sister has health proxy. We, and our 24/7 nursing care, take excellent care of Dad. We see him all of the time. We know his wishes, his medical history and, hell, what he eats in the diner and what he hates in a museum. We speak to him everyday and see him every weekend. Dad has told us what he wants and he trusts us. And we love him.

DIDN’T YOU SEE THAT HE WASN’T AFRAID ANYMORE WHEN HIS CHILDREN ARRIVED? THAT HE PERKED UP? HOW CAN THIS DOCTOR OVER THE PHONE ENFORCE THE TRANSPORT TO THE HOSPITAL?

Well, he did. SOB and I would not stand for it. Dad was sitting in a chair talking and feeling comfortable. He didn’t need to go to the hospital.

“Call the doctor back. NOW!”

At this point the EMTs are rooting for keeping Dad home. And I was ready to name Dr. [Blank] in a lawsuit. After the doctor spoke to Dad, he asked to speak to the daughter who is the lawyer. NOT THE DAUGHTER WHO IS THE DOCTOR. This is some paranoid dude.

“Yes, Dr. [Blank}.”

“Ms. [Blogger], BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH” – I made the universal hari kari sign so everyone in the room could feel my pain — “Your father could have any number of issues.”

“Dr. [Blank], he is almost 94 years old. Can any of those potential issues be prevented by a hospital visit today? We can agree that the answer is no. And you have our family’s thanks for not compelling transport to a hospital. I appreciate your advice on guardianship. Thank you, doctor.”

The EMTs cheer the outcome. We hugged one EMT and I said to the observant Jew, “I won’t hug you or shake your hand, but I would if you weren’t observant.”

“Thank you. In this case, I fear my wife first. Hashem, second.”

SMART MAN, THAT EMT.

All non-essential personnel left. I went out to get pizza for everyone. To celebrate success after the two hours that felt like ten. We ate. We all sacked out for an hour.

SOB went into Dad’s bedroom to check on him. He was glad that he stayed at home. He was glad to have his children around and he felt loved and supported by all of his children, even though our brother lives far away. He told SOB what a lucky man he is and what a good life he has had. The drift toward the inevitable is beginning.

We all got up a kibbitzed. Soon it was cocktail hour.

“Dad,” SOB started, “there needs to be a new rule in the usual [Blogger family] protocol in these circumstances: If ambulance comes, no scotch at cocktail hour.”

Dad wasn’t so ok with it. So I had to draw it from him. The new addition to our protocol:

IF AMBULANCE,

THEN

Dad fought it tooth and nail and enjoyed the tussle with his kids. He was present in a way he is not usually. His mind was more clear (but still out there). He was a little pale, but he survived.

The day turned out to be a great day, because:

We met wonderful people — the EMTs — who care about the people they help.

And, Death took a holiday of sorts for our family.

SOB and I stagger off the roller coaster. The ride was rough but everyone survived.

And the White Knight is Talking Backwards

Posted on July 13, 2014 by 40andover

What do Grace Slick (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grace_Slick) and Dad have in common?

Ok. It sounds like a trick question.

Grace Slick’s nickname was Acid Queen. Dad’s nickname was Nachy, short for his given name Nachum (his older brother later changed it to an American name).

She was the doyenne of Acid Rock and her heyday was the 60s. Dad’s heyday was the 40s and 50s.

Grace Slick tried to slip Nixon LSD (we later learned that he was on far better stuff). Dad made a killer Rob Roy — very, very dry, with a twist of lemon.

Grace Slick’s songs had surrealistic, metaphoric lyrics, sometimes using the mundane as “cover”. Dad, a sculptor, was firmly rooted in realism but sought to imbue a sense of emotion and motion in his work.

But both believed in change; both were against Vietnam. Grace protested on stage. Dad marched on Washington.

I loved Jefferson Airplane as a kid because it spoke to my as-yet-unidentified angst and different-ness. When things didn’t make sense, I would think of the lyrics of “Go Ask Alice” — “and the white knight is talking backwards. . . .”

And when, as a preteen and then a teenager, I knew I didn’t fit into the heterosexual world and felt let down by everyone and by G-d because I was different, the first lyric of “Somebody to Love” reverberated in my head:

When the truth is found
To be lies
And all the joy
Within you dies

Don’t you want somebody to love?
Don’t you need somebody to love?
Wouldn’t you love somebody to love?
You better find somebody to love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ug32SjIWfKs

So, what does any of this have to do with Dad?

Well, it is complicated. As little as Dad understood about the turmoil in me, he was my champion. He held me once in what was almost my rock bottom and said, “hold onto me. And nothing bad can happen.” He held onto me then and so many times after that when I thought I would have otherwise been consumed by my demons and by my different-ness.

Over these few years, Dad’s mental capabilities have diminished. Most times, in person or on the phone, he gives me enough reality so I can make a conversation around it and maybe even garner a laugh from him.

In the last week, it has become almost impossible to identify something in what he says that I can’t spin back to reality and bring him back to us. And I keep thinking, “Oh shit, the white knight is talking backwards and I hate Alice in Wonderland.”

And Dad probably hated Alice in Wonderland. We are too logical. Which makes this most recent decline even more difficult. He is still razor sharp on some things, but those things have become islands in an archipelago, where once the archipelago was a seamless land mass.

And so Dad is talking backwards. And he lost his love, my Mom. And he lives a psychedelic existence that is not tethered in reality or surreality. But is not just a “bad trip” in 60s and 70s parlance. It is old age and the vagaries that come with a life (maybe) too long.

But he is truly happy when his family is around him, even if he cannot follow or contribute to a conversation. I feel it in the hug and our saying, “I love you” to each other. And through the haze, he sometimes says that he knows we are here and he is grateful for our love and support.

And I cry.

Because he lives life like a Grace Slick song.

Because my white knight is talking backwards and it is my turn to save him.

Snakes and their charms

Posted on May 27, 2014 by 40andover

I envy snakes. They shed their skins every year (or so).

Sidebar: I have no idea about timing, but I know that some snakes molt at some point in their life spans because I took enough science courses to meet the prerequisites to graduate from college.

Sider-bar: I will confess to taking “Holes and Poles” (Human Sexuality) and “Oceans” (Oceanography) and, for the latter, doing a project called, “Songs, Jokes and Catch of the Sea,” where I played sea shanties, served the professor a gourmet lobster meal (purchased from a fancy restaurant) and, while he was dining (linen napkin and all), I told him jokes related to water.

Sidest-bar: As disgraceful as it is, it would be more disgraceful if I hadn’t been graduated from college and then my parents’ hard-earned money would have seemed like even more of a waste.

SIDEBAR uber alles: Are you rethinking the importance of an Ivy League education?

[Oh, dear, I even digressed from sidebars!!!! It will get worse, still, I promise.]

Snakes don’t get younger. Their skins just lose the scars and damage of the year’s mistakes, fights and punishments.

And the snakes begin again.

Older, and

maybe wiser, and

surely as venomous or constrictive as the year before, but

certainly, EXFOLIATED.

And, when my skin is exfoliated (and, ok, throw in a collagen treatment, just for grins), well, there is NOTHING that this 50 year-old can’t do. (Except afford the next facial.) And I can dust myself off and try again to be all I could be.

Ok, some boys and girls won’t understand this. But, those who do, and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, know that I am right on this.

Life Is Beautiful

Posted on May 22, 2014 by 40andover

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined the immense joy in seeing my nephews happy and proud. Never did I think I would have a child, much less adore him, warts and all.

Never did I imagine that I had warts. (Ok, we ALL grow up.)

Never did I imagine that my brother-in-law would be my brother, too. Or that my sister-in-law, 7 years my junior, would evoke such respect, love and awe for her “male management” in the Shap Shack. [I wish we were closer in geography, time and heart.]

Or that my brother and I, sometimes so diametrically opposed yet so alike in manner, in humor and in comic timing, would sit companionably at a table where he and my son were feasting on pork in a Jewish home.

Or that my brother’s son would come north and share sleep away camp with my son, his cousin.

These are the gifts of family. Gifts of age. And, with age, the gift of perspective.

But most important, these are, yes, the gifts that make life beautiful and bountiful and safe.

The gifts that wait for us to grow, change, reject what was, and then, coming full circle, accept what was and, as a consequence, what is.

And the gifts for which, even in the moments of sorting out the affairs of the living and the dead (and those hovering in between), I am grateful. Because it means that SOB, BOB and I will have each other. And, that, in bad times, in desperate times, in unfair times, we can rely on each other.

Because no matter how far off any of us travels, or how bad things get, there is, at long last, the ties that bind. The door that is wide open. Even more important, the loving arms that beckon us into a secure embrace.

And that makes life, indeed, beautiful and full.

[P.S.: I rented a Texas-size car for visiting day at camp. Just in case SOB and HOSOB want to join the road trip.]

Saturday in the Park . . . .

Posted on May 19, 2014 by 40andover

I have been pretty overwhelmed by life and responsibility.

Then, as if from on high (ok, via cell phone), comes a booming voice:

“I read your blogs. I have a few comments: Schmuck, you are 50. Count them, I will wait. [No waiting time] Ok, I will bottom-line it for you. 50 years old. Are you going to spend the next decade in the dumps? Because your father will live that long. You know he will —”

“But,” trying to get in a word, “there was AROB and ULOB and —-“

“Done. They are gone. It is hard to clean up after people who are dead. But you are not hurting them by selling their stuff and doing whatever you have to do. It is a job.”

Pause. I am trying hard not to shriek, “You don’t f&^*ing understand! It has been toooooo much these past two years!!!” But I didn’t.

I did seethe, however. And think about my martyrdom. I felt sooooo self-righteous. And then I remembered I was Jewish and there is no sainthood.

And, then, I thought: Really, [Blogger]? Are you kidding me?

Martyrdom?

MARTYRDOM?

MARTYRDOM?

Do ya read the newspapers? [NOW, I am calling myself, schmuck.]

I stopped. Mostly because I exhausted myself, even without uttering a word. And, I was letting stuff get me down which, if I stopped for a little perspective, is hard but so life-affirming. I was getting stuck in a quagmire of details and legal issues and I forgot to be grateful for the lives my elders lived and my part in making those lives happy and secure at the most vulnerable times.

But, perspective can be tiresome and short-lived, especially if one is a self-indulgent, overly-consumptive New Yorker. (Oops, that would be I.)

Still, even I couldn’t shake the idea that I need to think differently about a situation that isn’t going to change (until the BIG change). Saturday was such a sunny beautiful day that it was hard to feel sad.

I decided walking to Dad’s house for lunch (at the you-know-where) was just the thing to put me in a good mood.

I walked the three or so miles there, through the city streets and Central Park.

It didn’t start out so well.

I heard a woman ranting at her boyfriend (possibly fiancé) about how much money he gives to his dead-beat dad. The man didn’t even utter a word. She just kept on responding to his unspoken answers.

I wanted to scream. Oh, please, shut up. Did you ask what he gets out of it and what pain he avoids by doing this, even though you say he doesn’t want to give his dad money?

I heard two joggers disagree about whether helmets save lives.

Ok, thought for the day: it may or it may not, but what the hell, wear it. I couldn’t hurt.

OK, this walk in the Park thing is — how shall I say it — no walk in the park.

Then, I heard one biker, who apparently had been cut off by another biker, yell, “Youw mothah is a man!!!” [English translation: your mother is quite unattractive.]

So unexpected in a City where, in fact, his mother could have transitioned from, or to, a man. Such a throwback comment, ripped right from the urban playground where we born-and-bred New Yorkers cut our teeth in the 1960s and 70s.

I don’t know why, but I laughed so hard. Maybe because it was a different kind of nostalgia — ludicrous one and so out-dated. And the laughter made the sun felt brighter and warmer. And I hummed all the way to Dad’s house, even skipping a little.

I think I will try to walk to Dad’s as many times as I can.

#THROW BACK THURSDAY

Posted on May 8, 2014 by 40andover

I am a pop-culture idiot.

Early on in college, when the Soviet Union existed and the Cold War was the only threat we knew, my friends assumed that I was a Soviet spy.

Not because I spoke Russian when drunk, or could take down a lascivious frat boy with one hand as I drank beer with the other. No, no James Bond movie scenario.

The reason was rather simple: the lapses in my pop-culture knowledge could be attributable only to the lack of social osmosis that occurs naturally with kids growing up in the United States.

Ergo, I grew up in an opposite environment. Ahhhh, the Soviet Union. Somewhere between the truth and the propaganda lies the truth. And painful disparities on so many levels between how we grew up here and how our peers grew up in many countries within CCCP.

So, the facts that I even know about Throw Back Thursday and know that there is even a hashtag #tbt ARE SO BIG.

SOOOOO BIG.

And it gives me a chance to show off my beautiful mom and handsome dad and adorable siblings when life was more simple.

And my pop-culture prowess. Because I know hashtags (thank you Janet2).

Except, please tell me, who on Earth are the Kardashians and why should I care about them? (P.S.: weren’t they an alien species on Star Trek?)

The Years Spin By and Now the Girl is 50

Posted on April 30, 2014 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

So I have moved 50 times ’round the seasons.

And my dreams have lost some grandeur coming true.

There were new dreams along the way. Some of them still matter; some were fantasies of youthful exuberance and abject cluelessness.

I am not scared of growing older. (Ok, I am not happy with droopy eyelids you gave me.)

And now I drag my feet to slow down time (or the circles, to keep the Joni Mitchell motif). Really, to hold onto to the stories and memories of you, Dad and the older generation. I look at the old pictures to remind me of the people who made me (for better or worse) the person I am today. Those fallible, lovable and wildly eccentric (ok, our family once was poor, so I think we only qualify as “crazy”) people.

I am starting to forget some of the stories. Dad has forgotten almost everything. I can’t lose you any more than I already have. And I need room to experience and remember the joys of your grandchildren, all three wonderful boys, and especially my little guy, SOS.

Years ago, when I imagined turning 50, I thought I would have security, maturity and direction in life. And I fully expected that you would be telling me the story about my birth, as you always did. Life doesn’t conform to expectations; they are really hopes and desires locked into a time and place.

Even though life at 50 is nothing as I expected, I feel lucky looking in my rear-view mirror and I am (cautiously) hopeful about the road ahead.

Ok, maybe I am scared a little about the road ahead. I have to remember that I am strong and the road these past years hasn’t been a cake walk and I am still standing. And I have to draw on the memories of those who made me strong without wallowing in the past.

But it is hard when you, my biggest cheerleader, are gone. And sometimes, late at night, when the world is too much with me, I need a guiding hand, a loving voice, and my Mom who had lived through so much, quieting my fears. I try to imagine you. It doesn’t always work.

Tonight, we had a pre-birthday dinner. SOB and I fought over the check. (Could you tell her to let me win just a few times?) SOB and I told the stories you would have told about SOB’s birth, BOB’s birth and my birth on our birthdays. The same stories, over and over again. And they get better with each telling.

One of the best stories concerns SOB’s birth. Aunt Gertie, who had three sons, waited until you opened your eyes to storm into your hospital room and screeched at Uncle Leon [Dad’s brother], “See, Natie could give Elsie a girl!!” Mom, you always said that was the most painful part of childbirth.

Have I mentioned recently how much you would have loved and adored HOSOB? Such a pity you never met. And I know you would be so happy that Cousin Gentle rounds out the crew. I know, I know, why can’t Dallas be closer to New York? You tell me, Mom. You are as close as they get to the Big Guy. Ask Him to work on plate tectonics or something. See what you can do.

Mom, you are the missing person at every gathering, every simcha and every sad time. And I miss your warm hand always reaching out to hold SOB’s or BOB’s or mine. Even at the end, you always reached for us.

And we still reach back, hoping you feel us across the great divide.

I love you forever, Mom.

~ Blogger

Life in Triage

Posted on April 27, 2014 by 40andover

I have news for you, Forrest Gump and your mama, life is only a box of chocolates for so long, and then it becomes a mine field.

A mine field. And, still, you never know what you are going to get.

Which is scarier than when the box was really filled with chocolates.

With age, comes crazy issues. Some older people have an aversion to the sensation of water on their bodies. They must be reminded to shower. Others, who were meticulously responsible accumulators of wealth fall prey to scams promising easy money. And, sometimes, even choices on a menu are too daunting.

There is an art — which I have not learned — to coaxing an older person to the right decisions. And there are right decisions — yes to shower, no to scams.

There is also a way to guide the choice for lunch while still letting them be in control. SOB is great at it. I am — um — impatient.

“So, you will have the turkey club for a change of pace. And fries, because they taste good.”

“Are you sure about the fries?”

“Absolutely, Dad. Besides, look around at the rest us hungry people. We will be happy to snarf your fries. You brought antacids, right?”

BOB, SOB and I often discussed various ways of dealing with these issues without making Dad feel that he isn’t as “independent” or in charge as we try make him feel.

It is a tough brew. The main ingredient is love, cut by family meshugas, simmered to sheer impatience, then mixed with wanting-to-fix-everything, followed by a dash of why-can’t-things-be-the-same-as-20-years-ago, drizzled with a fine reduction of resolution and understanding. Served at room temperature.

A complicated stew, indeed. When served, it looks way better than I cut a brisket.

But careful of the exploding ordnances along the way.

Time Machine

Posted on April 26, 2014 by 40andover

I bought an external something-or-other drive for my computer. It was about time that I backed up iPhoto and iTunes, having crashed my computer a few times.

There is, of course, an app for this. Time Machine. And my external whatever drive has 2 TBs of memory. That means gigabytes on steroids. Or so I think that that is what it means.

And I have lots of photographs and days of music.

I had been meaning to get one for a long time, but kept forgetting. That other memory thing.

Pictures are more important to me now that my generation is the keeper of all the memories of the prior generations. But pictures are not the memories. They evoke the stories that keep the memories of people, and their insane characters, alive. And the pictures won’t matter when I don’t recognize the people or remember the stories behind them.

And the eleven days of music in my iTunes library won’t matter unless they evoke the emotions and memories that make the music meaningful to me.

If I stick the USB connector in my ear, will this amp’ed up drive store my memories? Will it remember the stories behind the pictures or the identities of the faces for which I was too lazy to run the face recognition software? Will it remind me to cry when I hear Jim Croce’s Photographs and Memories?

So, while I finally remembered to buy the drive, it isn’t all I need. I need to store my memories. And, that is what computers cannot do.

Yet.

I am willing to believe that there will, in fact, be an app for this, some time in the future. As long as the hook-in site is any orifice above the waist, I am good.

Hurry, please.

The Future is Bright

Posted on March 29, 2014 by 40andover

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.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Aging