Just what the doctor ordered

Posted on January 21, 2014 by 40andover

Today is a very snowy day in New York, as it is elsewhere across the country.

After helping my share of elderly up and down the subway stairs —

Sidebar: REALLY? Old or infirm navigating the subway stairs that are treacherous for me, an able-bodied (although middle-aged) person? I thought that’s why we have buses — for the very young and the very old. I will have to email Mayor DiBlasio.

— I was relieved that Dad was home and safe without any need to go out in this horrible weather. And, if he needed something, like medicine, his aide would call SOB or me.

I figured today was a slow day for Dad, being cooped up and all, so I called him earlier than my usual 5pm-cocktail hour time slot.

“Hi, Dad, it is [Blogger]”

“[Blogger] sweetheart!! How are you?”

“I am great, Dad. Some snow, huh?”

Sidebar: Sometimes, after I have seen Dad for two out of three days’ running, I have to dig deep for conversation. And, I say things that I never thought I would ever utter: “cold enough for you?” or other, similarly insipid statements-turned-questions. But, since Dad is not a sportsman, I have never uttered, “how about those Mets?” G-d bless you, Daddy, for saving my soul and my sanity.

“Oh, yes. It is crazy out there. We went out early today. [Pause. A little background commotion follows.] Wait, darling, [health aide] wants to talk to you.”

“Hi, [health aide]. Everything ok?”

“We went out before the snow accumulated. It was safe. Here is your father.”

Sidebar: Not even a hello?

“So, Dad, where did you go?”

“Well, we were checking our provisions, and it was determined that I was running low on scotch. And we needed to get more. So we went up to [a store that is 1.5 miles away] because I like the prices.”

Sidebar: Since my father now buys wine in a drug store, I am a little afraid of the low-cost scotch that might be going into his system. But what impressed me was that, clearly, a panel of experts exists in his house to make these medical determinations. No wonder his health aide felt the need to make sure that I knew there was no ice or snow accumulation because they trekked out in treacherous weather for scotch.

“Dad, would you put [health aide] back on the phone?”

“Yes?” she answered with some trepidation.

“We trust you implicitly so we know Dad is safe. And, you had to get his medicine. Because medicine is medicine, no matter who prescribes it. Would you put Dad back on?”

Dad comes back on.

“Okay, Daddy, enjoy the rest of the day. I love you and, remember, drink the scotch only as prescribed.”

Oh, no!! Another “Dear Mom”

Posted on January 9, 2014 by 40andover

Ok, snuggle in for some navel gazing. If you hold your iPad low enough you can gaze at yours while you read about mine.

Dear Mom:

Tomorrow at 4:23pm, it will be 11 years since you died.

I have learned so much since then.

I have learned that your life was cut too short for your family, but it was long enough when compared to younger lives lost. Your mission was unfinished but close enough; others never got to start theirs or, if started, they may only receive posthumous accolades.

You had a good life; you said so before you died. You had more life in those years than many who outlived you. And as Cousin Ricky said, life is not linear.

Still, I need you even more now than when you died.

Because life is so complicated.

And no one can replace you.

Still, I do have some perspective, I guess.

POB says I should be a type of doula — you know the person who is like a baby nurse but doesn’t let you get sleep or really do anything other than coach you through it.

She says I should be a death/illness doula.

Because I have life experience. I know how to make it in and out of a funeral home in less than two hours, including buying the coffin and burial plot(s). I know when to tell a mourner to stop eating during shiva because she/he will forever associate the dearly departed with weight gain. I know when someone is making a stupid decision and I won’t hold back. I have called a bad situation “toxic” and started decontamination procedures. And I have kept the scary relatives at bay while the mourners are composing themselves.

So, your death, and Cousin Ricky’s and Aunt Betty’s and AROB’s and ULOB’s and Dad’s brain injury, gave me strength to handle bad situations. Not all of them. I still turn away sometimes.

In 11 years, so much has changed. Your grandsons are young men. Your children are middle-aged. Your husband is, well, less than he was.

And yet so much is still the same: Part of me still wonders why my mother was taken away. And parts of SOB and BOB wonder the same.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

Life with Father

Posted on January 5, 2014 by 40andover

On Friday night, at 11:35pm, the phone rang for the third time in 30 minutes. Everyone else in the house was asleep (or trying to sleep anyway).

The first two times were wrong numbers. On the second call, I said to the guy, “I am sorry to tell you, but you wrote it down wrong or the woman just gave you the wrong number.” I felt bad for him and angry at Denise — the woman he was calling.

The third time, I was steamed at the spurned would-be lover. And I answered the phone with a serious attitude.

“Hello!!” I answered gruffly and angrily.

“[Blogger], it’s Dad.”

Uh oh. This was late for Dad and there was a worried sound in his voice.

“I don’t know where Mom is. She isn’t home yet and I have been waiting for her. And I don’t know how to reach her.“

My heart leapt into my throat. I knew I could not tell him the truth in stark terms — that Mom is dead almost 11 years, so I opted for: “Um, Dad, Mom isn’t around anymore.”

SIDEBAR: If I were a member of my grandparents’ generation, I would clear my throat (“achem”) and say in a thick East European accent: “Vhat-vhat? [Mom] is dead. Years ago. Go to sleep alrrrready. Staying up won’t bring her back.” So much for the warm and fuzzies.

“I don’t understand!” Dad continued. “No one told me! What kype [“type” and “kind” mashed together — a Dad signature mashable] of an operation are we running around here?“

Ok, so no gentle reminder of Mom’s death was going to snap him back into today’s reality. I swallowed hard and close my eyes. The last thing Dad needed at 11:40pm was to relive Mom’s death.

“Dad, I meant that Mom isn’t around at home tonight. Mom and [SOB] are having a mother-daughter sleep-over. They spent the day together and now Mom is staying over. But don’t call because [SOB] has to get up early for work and they are already asleep, ok?”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I have been worried for hours!“

“Dad, I am sure that you were told. It is that sometimes, people forget. And maybe you did, too, at least this time.”

I heard the sound of Dad’s displeasure. A little muttering that he does when he is unhappy or feels he has to worry needlessly.

“This is good news to me.“

Phew. That meant he was willing to accept this explanation. Because this explanation preserved Mom’s existence.

“Everyone will call you in the morning, Dad. I promise everything is ok. Will you go to sleep now?”

“I wish someone would let me know what is going on around here.“

“Daddy, I know. Please go to sleep and you will see everyone tomorrow. Good night. I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling. But we have to change things around here so I am included in the plans.“

“You are so right, Dad. Good night.”

“Good night, darling.“

Next call is to SOB who was asleep. I dialed, she answered, and I cut to the important stuff: “Dad called me looking for Mom. I told him that she was sleeping over at your house but you had all gone to bed already. Just in case he calls. Go back to sleep.”

SIDEBAR: I am closer to my grandparents’ generation than I thought.

This episode is not uncommon for older people at night or in the early morning, after they wake up. On Saturday morning, he was confused but in a different way. By Saturday lunch, he was generally ok. Lunch today (Sunday), SOB reported that, with gentle prodding, he was able to remember that Mom died. But he repeated something he always says: Mom surrounds him in the apartment and he is happy there [a true love story]. And he is comforted and reassured by talking to his kids.

So, he needs to remain shrouded in his happy memories, in that apartment, until he is reunited with Mom. And his children must keep him grounded in the present. Or lie to him, if necessary, until we can be face-to-face until we can gently guide him back.

Next week: Mom goes on a week-long synagogue retreat for the Sisterhood organization. And she is rooming with Judy Zimmerman, our former rabbi’s wife. [Just like she used to.] Are you listening, SOB and BOB?

Daddy’s Angels (but our devils)

Posted on December 3, 2013 by 40andover

Once an elder needs care, it is not so easy as having loving people come into the house and care for him or her.

No, you have given birth to a family unit, with individuals perhaps older than you. Your elder has new kids. No, this is not science fiction. This, THIS, is the new normal.

Dad has four aides — two share the 12-hour day shift and two share the night shift. Everything revolves around his care. Dad is a lovely man and three out of the four aides have become attached to him, and he to them. The fourth one does her job. And that is all we ask.

But in the fight over who is the favorite and who takes the best care of Dad, there is palace intrigue. They check up on each other and rat out each other. As if Dad is some power broker, rather than a jovial, yet clueless man.

So, these last 14 months, I have had to intervene, referee and speak with any number of supervisors in order to keep Dad’s routine the same. Because we, as a family, do not believe that a night aide who is competent, but not warm and fuzzy, should lose her job because she and Dad don’t “connect”. But there have been “cleanliness” issues and Dad is decidedly uncomfortable with her. Reasons enough to make changes but we resisted, out of respect for a person’s right to earn a living.

Now, there is a battle royale between the aide of whom Dad is most fond and the one of whom he is least fond. For those of you who are old enough to remember, think Linda Evans and Joan Collins in Dynasty.

You can imagine how little patience one can have for this when it is playing out in my life. Sometimes I wonder if I am on Jerry Springer, i.e., Shit Time in the Day Time. (Is he still around?)

In the end, we set out clearly both our priorities and must-haves with the agency. And what will make us go to another care provider.

I want everyone to keep their jobs. But Dad needs to be happy. And so I was forced to prioritize jobs and positions. In life, my parents have erred on the side of preserving peoples’ jobs, even if it meant less for our family. I followed suit in the Great Recession (some called me a schmuck, but I can look in the mirror and only worry about wrinkles).

The problems started almost at the beginning, and I needed to make a decision. If the internecine battles cannot be resolved, then I voted one off the island. (Or whatever, the reality TV lingo is; now you know the cerebral punishment that is worst than death.)

I am good with my decision. But I am sad about having to make it. But I will stand by it, especially face-to-face with the reassigned aide. Because I owe the aid that respect.

Maintaining Dad’s world is too important. But not without unintended consequences arising out of new situations and relationships.

Nothing in this life is easy. But the saving grace is that Dad doesn’t even have to know.

He can walk blithely on, happy and kibbitzing with his attendants during the day and sleep as well as possible in the night. And, at long last, after all Mom and he did for us, this is the least we can do for him.

But I didn’t know making this type of decisions in this economy was in the bargain.

Dad is fine; my soul is diminished in the process. This is the reality of caring for the elderly and the infirm. The new world that needs the brave (and the compassionate and the guilty).

The Blessings of Underachievement

Posted on December 1, 2013 by 40andover

This Thanksgiving, I was grateful for a very odd blessing. Here is the back story:

Recently, I heard many people say variations of:

“I can’t do that anymore.”

“When I was young, I could do cartwheels!”

“I don’t have the stamina anymore . . . .”

“When I was young, I could speak Yiddish. Now I can’t remember.”

I understand. Actually, no, I don’t understand.

I never was exceptional at anything. I never did cartwheels, run marathons or speak more than one language.

I was certainly good at things but no thing that was ever so a part of my identity that time so that age robbed me of the ability to enjoy it. (Or, at least, I have forgotten about it/them, as happens with age.)

Underachievement was not well tolerated in my family, but my parents didn’t really think there was much else to achievement other than academic achievement. And, well, that was redundant in my family, much like “free gift”.

And while BOB and I are certainly no academic slouches, thank G-d, SOB’s resume sparkled enough to blind Mom and Dad to BOB’s and my more checkered academic pedigrees.

I was never a Olympian, rock star, virtuoso of any kind. I have never had big ideas. I have never been famous or a household name (other than in my own).

But then, again, I have never had to go on a B-list celebrity reality show to regain prior glory, go on Oprah to confess and seek redemption from America’s daytime TV viewers. I have never had to hang up my cleats or have people whisper about whether my best days are behind me (they probably are, but no one really cares enough to discuss it). No one expects a near-fifty year-old woman to do a cartwheel, although I guess many do run marathons.

If you don’t climb up so far on the ladder, your fall is not as bad. My new mantra of underachievement.

Words to age by.

Silver Alert (for Dad and Us)

Posted on November 24, 2013 by 40andover

SOB and I had lunch with Dad and his aide on Saturday (and then on Sunday, with SOS).

As is our Saturday custom, we went through the mounds of scam solicitations targeting older people and settled upon two legitimate charities to which Dad could give. We love that about Dad: He always wants to share his good fortune with others.

And he feels so fortunate. Dad was still a little foggy from a nasty fall he took earlier in the week getting out of bed. But to him, he makes sense. So he is happy. The rest? It is our problem.

SIDEBAR: A few days ago, he had gone to bed for the night but needed to use the bathroom and he got dizzy and fell and hit his head against his night table. An ER visit and seven stitches (right between the eyes) later, we prevailed upon Dad FINALLY to let us move that damned night table, which had been in the same position for 50 years, so that something like this won’t happen again. Thank G-d for the night attendant. He was impaled on the the nightstand and helpless. She helped him, cleaned his wound and called us. Yes, yes, yes, yes. I still have nightmares. And I don’t doubt our decision to spend the money for 24 hour care.

We ambled over to lunch. Shredding scams gives me an enormous appetite.

SIDEBAR: Some serious intrigue was unfolding in the COSUD (COffee Shop of the UnDead). We went over to Sam to say hello and asked after Norma. Sam was with a couple whom Dad knows from the synagogue, but Dad cannot remember their names and neither can SOB or I. Sam seemed so consumed with worry that it was heart-breaking. We offered our help and gave our numbers as we have done any number of times before.

The woman of the couple whose name we can’t remember came over to us and started talking to me. “I may be out of line here. . . .” Oh no. What is she going to say? “But Sam is carrying an unbelievable burden and I think he can’t handle it.” Apparently, Norma wants Sam and only Sam to care for her. And he is older than Dad.

“Thank you for telling me. If you think of something we can do, please let us know.” What do I say? Sam won’t tell us that. Maybe he doesn’t see it. We want to help. Our families have known each other for 50 years.

Sometimes, there are no answer for these intractable issues. And then you give thanks for having parents who understood when they needed help and accepted help and guidance from each other and their children.

We sat down and Vassily came to take our orders. “I am saving you for last,” he said to me, “because you are so difficult!” At least he said it with a smile. COSUD is really growing on me.

Today, we wanted to have an activity more than just lunch. Dad is less inclined to schlep to museums these days. Dad needed to keep moving and not give into the weariness and fogginess that resulted from his fall. So, SOB decided on TJ Maxx which is two blocks away. We were going shopping and Dad loves a good bargain. SOB wanted Dad to have warmer pajamas for the winter.

Dad was a little confused about why he was there. Luckily, he was kibbitzing (light-heartedly arguing) with his aide. Like the Odd Couple.

Dad said, “I need boxers. I only have one pair.”

“You have a month’s worth in your drawers!” said his aide.

“But I only wear one pair at a time, so I need more.”

Well, all right then. He has a logic all his own. They were choosing among the clingy, perfect-gay-man body elastic boxers. And arguing whether they would be a good fit. OBVIOUSLY, I couldn’t listen to it, but they were having a good ol’ time. So I went to find SOB.

I found SOB. And then I looked back at where Dad and his aide were standing. All of a sudden, Dad and his aide VANISHED.

SOB and I were getting frantic. “Is it a white alert? A gray alert? An aged amber alert?” I asked SOB, barely containing my concern. “Silver Alert,” SOB said in a calm voice that belied her feelings.

“Wait! I will call [the aide’s] cell!” I dialed.

Voice mail. Turned out we were calling each other at the same time. They were sitting below sight line.

Phew. I bought pajamas and 20-something boxer shorts for the perfect body for my 93 year-old father. Doesn’t matter. It costs what it costs. Sand on a beach, as they say. He is happy and maybe will think he is Adonis. Ewwww Ewwwwww. Stop.

SOB and I crawled into a cab after seeing Dad and his aide safely across streets to his block. Because SOB and I have creepy twin speak, I don’t remember who said what:

“Remember when Mom used to hand the phone to us and say, ‘give your grandparents a thrill’ and we were so resentful of the two minutes out of day it took to call them?”

“I know. Kids don’t know what it means, our generation finally understands, and the grandparents live for it. Knowledge and appreciation come with age. This is the way it is with the young, the middle-aged and the aged. It will never change.”

The insightful comments must be my sister’s.

Why is the voice of a grandchild better than any medicine? Because when, as it happened today (Sunday) at lunch, the young and old enjoy each other’s company, it transcends time.

And brings joy to every generation at the table.

Operating Instructions

Posted on November 10, 2013 by 40andover

People gave us books when SOS was in utero and after he was born. For every cry, there were three interpretations and four potential psychiatric problems that could arise from handling that cry incorrectly. I thought I would go insane. Do I read more and get totally neurotic or do I do what feels rights and put money away for SOS’s therapy fund? I opted to do the latter.

When it comes to the cycle of life, when the elderly become children again, there are no books. I guess because babies are blank slates, but grown children and their aging parents have lifetimes of issues and patterns of behavior that make meaningless those grossly generalized “operating instructions”.

After much heartache, I finally realized that there is no right way to navigate this time in our lives. I cannot “cure” Dad of his loneliness and his confusion. SOB, the NYC family and I can see him three times a week, and at least two of his three children call him every day. And poor BOB flies in for less than two days every few months.

But there are hours — those damned, never-ending hours in a day — that no one other than Mom (who is gone almost 11 years) can animate. We cannot replace this with our calls, and the kibbitzing he enjoys with his home aides. He is lost even more now than in the years that followed Mom’s death.

And I cannot beat myself up about that.

And when he wants to take over his finances again, because as he says, “I am embarrassed that I haven’t been following up,” I have to be firm and relieve him of responsibility: “Daddy, you cannot manage this anymore. That is why I am here.” He always seems relieved and yet deflated. He knows that he cannot handle these things.

I am honest and, I hope, gentle. He was concerned about his taxes today. “Daddy, I have it covered. No worries.”

Still there is a part of him that doesn’t want to accept that he has given up control. I love that because that is my Dad trying to break through the confusion. The never-let-go and never-give-up fighter who is my Dad. So, I go over everything with him and explain all the expenses. He deserves this and I, quite frankly, am accountable. It is a sacred trust.

But, every week, I have to shred mail he sends back to scam outfits. That is also my sacred trust.

He won’t believe that they are scams and we have to substitute our judgment for his. We no longer tell him because it unnecesarily sets up a challenge of his pride against reality. No one needs that. And we, his kids, need to navigate that gray area between what is the right decision for him and the preservation of the specter of his independence and pride. The bubble of his life — safe, even though mostly lonely and a little confused — is too important.

I know how long precisely how long his savings will last at his current “burn rate” (24 hour care is expensive). And it is a good long while, but it won’t last until he is 120 — Moses’s age. The problem is I made him promise he would live at least until then. So, his kids will pick up the slack if we are lucky enough for him to be with us for another 27 years.

Because I can’t lose Dad, even if he hasn’t existed as such for a long time. I lost my “dad” when Mom died. I lost my “father” on September 19, 2012, when he tripped and had a brain bleed.

But the lovely old man who inhabits my daddy’s/father’s body is a lovely, cheerful, optimistic man who loves us and makes no sense when he tries to be in the conversation. But we know what he wants to say and we respond to that. And we love him.

And I owe it to my father to shroud him in the same abundance of love and safety in which Mom and he raised us. Until 120 or whenever.

Tales of Aging in the City

Posted on October 27, 2013 by 40andover

It was, more or less, a typical Saturday.

SOB and I disposed of a week’s worth of scam mail that Dad receives. Official-looking scams targeting the elderly. Here is t hree days’ worth on its way to the shredder: Dad was affable enough about our rummaging through the house in search of mail and chucking it. I guess he was hungry and wanted to see his pals at COTUD (Coffee Shop of the UnDead).

Yes, the Coffee Shop of the UnDead

(cue suspenseful music)

En route, we bumped into a man who was once our upstairs neighbor and our playmate 40 years ago. His mother, who always seemed a lovely woman, still lives in Dad’s building and she is sick. And he is taking care of her. I wanted to think kind thoughts but he is a convicted pedophile. He wanted to hug and kiss us all hello and I wanted to vomit. I kept my distance. I was so close to screaming and beating him about the head and face.

(Cue clip of Mariska Hargitay of Law and Order: SVU ‘cuffing him.)

He served some (not enough) time and was released. As a citizen, I believe in a criminal justice system that gives convicts a second chance. As a mother, I believe in the death penalty for pedophiles and other predators.

Sidebar: Ain’t the old neighborhood great? There are scary, bad secrets scattered all along the sun-soaked streets of the East Side.

I decided I didn’t need to remind my father of this former neighbor’s felonies. I didn’t think Dad could process it. There are some things Dad doesn’t need to remember. I, of course, was thinking about castration.

We were late to COTUD. I wondered if any of the regulars wondered whether Dad might be more than undead, as it were.

(cue suspenseful music)

No table for us. It was bustling at COTUD. But, because we are regulars and we don’t stay all afternoon, the management likes us. So do the main waiters, Nick and Vassily.

Vassily asked an old woman with a walker to get up and move, so they could put tables together and accommodate us. I was mortified. I went over to the woman and apologized and thanked her.

(cue sadess about the indignities of being old in a fast-paced, youth obsessed world)

We saw Sam and his long-time companion, Norma, who were eating with Norma’s daughter and sons. We had never met Norma’s family.

(cue immediate suspicion)

It was good to see Norma out and about. She is frail. As people grow older, their face lifts and other work seem so distorted against the natural aging (and sagging) of the rest of their bodies. (Just a note to those who are considering “face work”. Even her daughter’s face work could use a little — how do you say? — refreshment.)

Last time SOB saw Norma at the COTUD, they had a pleasant conversation, after which SOB overheard Norma say about Mom:

“Elsie was a special person. It was the first time at a funeral that people used superlatives and they were true!”

(cue sigh and teary eyes)

Ok, so we love Norma. And Sam.

Vassily didn’t even give us menus. The only thing that needed to be said was “french fries, too”.

The fries came. I offered them around. Something was stuck to the underside of the plate.

It was gum.

Peppermint gum.

First, what cretin sticks gum on the underside of a plate and, second, what dishwasher doesn’t clean that?

And this place has an “A” health rating.

(cue visions of the horror flicks like, ‘Wilbur,” about a killer rat.)

Ugh. I scrubbed my hands raw in the less than Grade A bathroom.

Then Harvey came in. He had to take a cab the 1.5 blocks from his apartment building to the diner because it was uphill and he has two canes. (I saw him through the window.)

He took a table right next to us. We greeted him warmly and asked about his wife and (now middle-aged) son.

Barbara, his wife, was at home. “She has dementia and cysts on her legs. But me, I turned 90 and I still work and drive!”

OMG. This is the second public menace we have met today.

I was worried about the driving thing but he can’t get in and out of a car without assistance, so I am pretty sure he doesn’t really drive.

He said to SOB, “you look great — just the same — and still working hard, I am sure.” He looked at me. “You look different.”

Harvey, whom I never liked, was telling me I looked old. I liked his wife, even with her screechy voice. She was always making a jello mold. She always had a bouffant “do”. She perpetually lived in 1969. Even in the 1990s, she brought jello molds to my parents’ Yom Kippur break fast. By then, it was totally cool and retro.

By the end of lunch, SOB and I staggered out. Overwhelmed by the faint smell of peppermint. Horrified at seeing the pedophile free among us. Wistful about time gone by for Sam, Norma, Harvey, Barbara and Dad.

Dad, however, thought it was a fine time in the neighborhood. And that is how it should be for Dad at 93.

93 and going

Posted on October 7, 2013 by 40andover

Dad turned 93 on Saturday. We had a celebratory luncheon at a restaurant.

SOS and I were late getting ready and hopped a cab.

“E-Mom, I am nervous.”

“Why, buddy?”

“Because I feel you are nervous. And I get nervous when you are nervous and my stomach starts to feel queasy.”

My child, the speaker of truths. “I am sorry, buddy, to put my nervousness on you. You are right. I am nervous because I think about the party we had when Grandpa was 90 and he was so strong. And I am scared that he won’t be so present today, because some days are good and others not so good. And it is my dad, and it is hard.”

“It’s ok, E-Mom, I get that. But now that Papa [FOPOB] is just like Grandpa, Grandpa will have good company no matter how he feels.”

Out of the mouths of babes. . . .

“You are so right, buddy. You know, you are wise—”

“E-Mom,” SOS interrupts, “we are almost there and I need quiet to get ready.”

Thank Goodness for SOS’s peculiarities keeping it real; otherwise, I would go to Tibet and claim that he was the future Dalai Lama.

We had a lovely lunch with family. People came from far and wide — BOB from Texas, Cousin Gentle from the Upper West Side, and in the strongest showing, FOPOB came from the upper East Side.

The restaurant is in the Museum of Art and Design, with spectacular views of Broadway and Central Park. We could even see the early signs of leaves changing color for the Fall. The changing of the seasons. The passage of time. The changing of the guard. It was all so bittersweet.

Still, Dad looks so strong as he is making a point about something. Somewhere, deep inside that forgetful, enfeebled, needy, nice old man is our Dad. And sometimes, he is as strong as ever, as supportive as ever, and as opinionated as ever. And in those moments, I could live a lifetime.

Happy birthday, Dad,

When the Laughter is Gone

Posted on September 4, 2013 by 40andover

Laughter comes from understanding irony, timing, and the unbelievable, but true, life situations.

All my life, Dad loved to laugh. He loved to bask in Mom’s aura and take in her stories. He tried to tell a good story (not always so successfully). He loved to play with kids and he laughed and smiled and shared in a child’s delight in playing the hokey pokey. Ask any of my cousins. (But he wasn’t always light and fun, I promise you.)

Dad also appreciated a good story or that welcomed relief from the pressures of the mundane, when you look at the world with your head tilted to the right or left and laugh at the sheer madness and irony of life. Those “no-one-will-believe-it-but-it-is-true” episodes that life hurls at us.

And then, one day in this past year, and I don’t know the precise day, Dad stopped laughing.

It wasn’t the immediate result of his fall and brain bleed. But the trauma probably accelerated, over time, the deterioration of his mental faculties and his logical reasoning.

Laughter is also the last stand against despair and the mundane. And now, Dad, when he needs that relief the most, it eludes him.

But, I will always remember his laughter, even if he can’t any more.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Aging