Life in No-Fi

Posted on September 2, 2013 by 40andover

We all await the excitement of that moment — that one moment in time — when we are actually in the “4G air space” so we enjoy the rapid connectivity for which we pay extra every month, but never actually receive because we live in a “3G” world.

But I don’t always want to be connected. I also dream of “unplugged” time during which I can relax and think deep thoughts and ponder the universe or my navel (whichever), over wine, music and a barbeque.

And then I spent a year one week in Wainscot (a sub-township of East Hampton) where Verizon has no “G”s at all.

None.

Zero.

Not a “G” within miles.

To get one bar of “G”-ness, I had to go north, cross a highway filled with aggressive sports car drivers and go in the direction of the North Fork. I am glad that Verizon services the crunchier, family friendly North Fork, but Verizon must take pity on those souls who do not, by choice (rather for familial obligations and homesteading), inhabit the tonier side of the highway.

For work-related calls, I had to drive around for connectivity and then find a safe place to park. I got so desperate that two bars of connectivity was a G-dsend. When asked where I was — just to have idle chit chat until all parties to any given call dialed in — I simply could not mention that I was parked in the lot right near the King Kullen supermarket and, as luck would have it, in front of the liquor store.

Yes, yes, the Hamptons can be glamorous. For some.

Being disconnected was not so bad, except for the essential people whom I needed to call or with whom I needed to be in contact.

But talking on the phone was unbearably like that commercial, “Can you hear me now?” except there was no “good” following the answer.

Only, “You are breaking up. Text me.”

Which even worked for SOB, one of the most technically un-savvy 50-something year-olds I know.

But not for almost 93 year-old Dad who isn’t so great on the phone anyway. Even when I had THREE bars in Montauk, it wasn’t enough for Dad.

Hello?

Hey, Dad! It is [Blogger]!

Helloooo?

Dad! It is [Blogger]!

Helloooooo?

DAD, DAD, CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT’S [BLOGGER]!

Yes, darling, how are you and everyone there?

SIDEBAR: If he can’t hear, then he can’t remember. So, he didn’t really remember where I was or why or with whom. Then everything goes to shit. I get why the phone is hard on the elderly.

We are great, Dad.

Who is there? Where are you?

Dad, we are away for a week. There is bad reception. Can you hear me?

Helloooooo?

DAD, DAD, I will text [SOB] and she will call you and let you know what I said. ok?

Ok, sweetheart, where are you now? Hellooooo?

CALL DISCONNECTS. My heart sinks. I have only confused my Dad, not helped the situation by checking in.

I text SOB. I must speak to Dad through an interpreter while I am in No-Fi land.

No-Fi land. A land of legend and dreams. Of gods and monsters. Of serenity but also of being with the person you have become. Good, bad and, sometimes, ugly.

Still, I yearn for this land.

Or so I think.

No-Fi is in the future — when I don’t worry about parents but my loved ones and children (who may be aliens, depending on age and stage) are with me (which may mean building a compound for the multitudes). But therein lies the rub. If I am not worried about my Dad (or aunts and uncles, or fake aunts and uncles), then that means they are gone.

So, I guess I would rather live in Wi-Fi for as long as I can.

No-Fi is not uncomplicated. It is a place you go to heal after life’s journey relieves you of some of your most beloved companions. And the quiet forces you to think about who you are and what you want to become.

Yes, it is easier to be connected.

Closing in on the goal and lessons learned

Posted on August 23, 2013 by 40andover

This morning, my trainer, Wendy, texted me that she had a migraine and couldn’t go to the Rings with me.

First, I thought, “my poor Wendy.”

SIDEBAR: Once a mother, always a mother, although sometimes I believe SOS would pronounce “mother” in that particularly uncomplimentary way often spelled as “mudder”. I hear it only gets worse in the true teenage years.

Then, “Phew, no pain, no failure. Sweeeet!”

Then, realizing that I was drawn to the Rings, I got up and dressed. I took off my wedding ring and my grandmother’s wedding ring (which I wear on my right hand), so I could go mano a mano with my nemesis. For those of you who have forgotten the brief history of pain and humiliation, let me provide a little back story:

There are 8 equidistant rings. The space in between is wider that my wing span and the rings are higher than I can reach; therefore, I cannot take advantage of a running start. The partial view of my chosen instrument of torture and defeat:

I have to build my own momentum or, what I call, the “swing thing”. One of my attempts to get the rhythm of the “swing thing”:

And of course, the out-take video: IMG_1068

And finally to the perils doing the “swing thing with rings”:

So, today, with Wendy in bed with a migraine, I went alone. Without weddings rings and videographer (thank G-d for undocumented foibles), but lots of chalk.

First few attempts were lame, except I was able to hold on and swing with one hand. This is way harder than you would think.

I was ready to stomp off in a “Woe is I” sort of self-pity. Then, I remembered how I was really getting a groove last week before I had to stop (on account of blood).

I stopped. I thought. I chalked up. I felt the stillness of a near empty park on a cool late summer morning. I focused on everything that needed to be in synch: I needed to turn to ring I was dropping, crunch my abs, kick up my legs (like a swing) and then let my arms flow with the momentum to bring me up. Then let go the minute the swing of the legs hit its height and let the momentum carry me forward as I grabbed the next ring. I needed to trust my body and let go of fear.

I needed to soar.

And then I did.

I almost grabbed the seventh of eight rings. I didn’t do the whole thing.

And here is the only picture that shows I was there. Swollen chalked-up hands.

But I did soar. And it was great. And there is work still. A goal that seemed impossible in June and now seems within reach in September.

And I have to reach that goal. Because, among the many personal reasons, there is one reason that stands out — the silent lessons we teach by action or inaction, or giving up, or persevering, when the going gets tough or frustrating. I have to credit my friend, TsanOB, in making me think about this.

First, I want to be proud of me and, second, I want SOS to be proud of me, even if I will be the “mudder” of his teenage years.

Oh, the relationships we find in this City

Posted on August 1, 2013 by 40andover

Unfortunately, our family has frequent flyer miles at a particular funeral home. We all hope that it will be a while until we need these services again.

ULOB was buried on Friday. Yesterday, I received a call on my cell phone from an unrecognizable phone number. Usually, this is not a good sign.

It was Frank, the man who assisted us in the recent burials of AROB and ULOB.

SIDEBAR: Uh oh, I thought. And, then, I thought, is the Grim Reaper REALLY “phoning it in”?

Frank called to make sure that we were happy with the funeral home’s services. He also wanted me to know that he was dropping a customer satisfaction survey in the mail to me and that he is available when we were ready to deal with the headstones and any other internment needs. Really?

I know, you are all thinking of the personal relationship I have with MiniStorage (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5153 and http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5168). Well, there is another relationship I didn’t mention…..

With Disaster Masters. When it looked like ULOB might be able to get out of the hospital and want to go home, SOB and I met with a consultant who prepares homes of elderly people for assisted care. He has a whole shtick, he visits the house, takes pictures, gives an assessment, and tells you what he can do and what he can’t do.

“‘Clean’ is a bad word. This place will never be clean. You see that yellow on the ceiling? That’s from 60 years of smoking. We are going to try to make this place habitable. Let me state even more narrowly: habitable so the home health attendant doesn’t do the ‘I quit dance’!!!”

And then Mr. Disaster Master demonstrated — spinning around with hands flailing in the air.

ULOB was off the respirator and possibly leaving ICU and I was so scared that he would be discharged before we had time to sanitize the place. Mr. Disaster Master wasn’t in a rush — probably because he has seen this before so many times. At first he only wanted to speak to me because I had power of attorney, but when I wanted him to make the place habitable whether or not ULOB ever came home, he only wanted to speak to SOB, because as a doctor, she understood the vagaries of life and post-trauma health.

I congratulated him on figuring out who was going to be his ally. And I told him that, nevertheless, I wanted a plan after the weekend (I had given him a downpayment).

I sent him a reminder email over that weekend, to which he responded:

“[Blogger]:

I need to learn how [ULOB] is doing physically and mentally. These issues often change people. Can he do the stairs after this trauma? The PT and OT people should be TOLD that he lives in a tall 4 flight walkup when he gets into rehab. These places generally only give one hour a day and ½ of that is billing time. We want to assure that he is well up to speed. If not, then we may be looking at a downsizing move for him. When I understand exactly what the deliverable is I will then be able to provide the right solution. Till then we just play the what-if game and that is a waste of time for all of us.

Best, [Mr. Disaster Master]”

This guy sounds like an infomercial spokeman but, whoa, he could read a situation.

Anxious nieces.
A disgusting home.
A dying uncle who would, assuming that he survived the hospital stay, would surely die if he couldn’t go home to his disgusting home.

He knew so much about us — SOB, ULOB and me — in that hour that we were in ULOB’s apartment that it was eerie.

I really believe that he knew that ULOB could never go home again and he didn’t want to prey upon my willingness to throw money at the situation on the off-chance that ULOB pulled out a miracle. It was frustrating in the beginning to feel that he wasn’t in a hurry, but he said it was because he knew his business. And I believe that. And he just didn’t think that his services would be needed after all.

Ron Alford (ron@theplan.com) is the one to call when needs like these arise.

He is a good man in rough city who helps people during heart-wrenching times.

Dear Mom

Posted on July 28, 2013 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

A lot has happened in these past four weeks.

SOS went to sleep-away. The camp owners post daily pictures of the campers on a private website. SOB looks everyday for pictures of SOS. She lives vicariously through SOS’s summer (as do I).

I have learned so much from you, Mom. Total control without any fingerprint evidence. My camp “boyfriend” one summer has a son who is a C.I.T. at the camp. And he was in SOS’s bunk! Another old time camper sent all her kids and her son is now also a CIT. And SOS knows exactly how to get to Pearl’s house if he was having a really hard time.

Spies in position? Check.

Camper happy and yet unaware of the mini-cam and walkie-talkies? Check.

A mother calmed? Yeah, no so much. But better than I would have been.

A dear friend sends her daughter. And funnily enough, guess who SOS was sweet on? I smiled such a big smile when I received a text from my friend about their budding flirtation.

A mother happy? Hell, yeah.

Knowing the family of your son’s romantic interest? PRICELESS.

And a legacy at camp? Get the wedding planners.

SIDEBAR: SOS’s “intended one” from age 7 and her family are beloved in our family. I am hopeful they will find their way back to each other or find wonderful partners (like my friend’s young daughter).

And the young girl was staying only half the summer and was leaving that day. SOS hugged her good-bye and shook hands with her mom. The most adorable sight ever.

SOS looked happy and connected when we saw him at visiting day. He was glad to see us, but wanted to make sure we would not kidnap him to New York at half-season!!

SIDEBAR: I miss him so much, but there was no way that I would bring him back for the shit show that was in full swing in New York City.

In proud Blogger family tradition, I did post a story about a tragedy at a different camp for the camp owners to see. But, possibly thanks to modern medicine, I watched calmly as SOS went on a sail boat, intentionally tipped it over and then didn’t surface for a few seconds. I took a series of pictures in real-time so SOB could freak out. SOS was fine and safe at all times.

Do I hear you say something, Mom? Could you speak a little louder? OKOKOKOK, not THAT loud. Oh, OF COURSE, he had a life preserver around his neck. In fact he had to expend real effort to stay submerged with that thing on. Just to test the strength of my heart valves. Since I didn’t keel over, I guess I have good constitution.

We watched him swim and do other stuff and he seemed comfortable in his skin. He was so happy to be in the beautiful place where you and Dad sent us for so many summers.

SOS spoke to SOB and Dad. He was so happy to hear their voices.

And then he wanted us to hug him and kiss and reassure him that his reentry into the real world would be ok. And then he wanted us to leave. And I was glad for that because a kid at camp who is having fun should want his parents to leave after a while.

And as a parent, I am grateful for the right choice made.

SOB and I talked shortly after visiting day ended. ULOB wasn’t doing so well. We left that night to get back to the City.

Dad wanted to make sure that we did not tell him that ULOB, FOPOB and Dad are failing in different degrees. He didn’t want SOS’s mind cluttered up with what was happening at home. See, Mom, through the haze, Dad is still there.

Back to ULOB. You know the story, Mom. I made a deathbed promise to Grandpa to take care of ULOB. And then I made the same deathbed promise to you. Promises to keep.

But in those hours when his death was imminent, it wasn’t about those promises. It was about ULOB and easing — in whatever way SOB and I could — his passage from life to death.

We were, in the end, taking care of a hero of our youth, in his less-than-heroic condition. Giving back to someone who gave us so much, so long ago. Someone who shaped our lives and senses of humor.

The funeral went as well as possible. POULOB joined Dad, SOB and me. ULOB thought of growing old and death as such indignities that we couldn’t let his dance-world friends see his coffin. Everyone needs to think he is still dancing the Argentine tango someplace else. ULOB would have wanted it that way. We are having a memorial service soon for him where he taught dance.

SOB and I led a good service at the graveside. BOB sent a wonderful remembrance, which we read.

SIDEBAR: On the way up, from my conversation with POULOB, I got the distinct impression that ULOB didn’t think of SOS as his great-nephew. It really flipped me out. But I kept it inside. I can’t go into it here, when that feeling is raw, but the things he said on our Saturday afternoons together recently suggests that that might be true. But I need to think more about this and factor in all the times over the last 12 years he was in our home and try to come to peace with this.

After the funeral, I had to go to the office and could not stay for lunch. SOB produced the money she had from ULOB’s wallet and suggested that ULOB would take everyone out to lunch — to a diner, of course.

SIDEBAR: I made a mental note that that money was in his urine-soaked wallet when SOB found him almost dead.

I asked POULOB if ULOB had listened to my advice and taken her to a nice (non-diner) dinner. She said he had and swallowed hard before paying. Well, then, he would certainly want to take his family out for lunch after his funeral. I agreed with SOB. ULOB should take everyone to lunch.

SOB had a lovely shiva on Saturday night. It was hard on POULOB because there were so many pictures of ULOB and AROB together. I tried to console POULOB but it was a fact of their lives. AROB is our family.

So, Mom, another end. All of your kids needed to talk to you about it. ULOB is the last of those who knew you since childhood. We took care of ULOB — for you, for him and for us.

A door is closed. A library is lost.

ULOB, Part II

Posted on July 21, 2013 by 40andover

SIDEBAR: Visiting day at camp with SOS was great. More about that later.

On Saturday evening, I spoke with SOB about ULOB’s status. It was critical enough to get in the car at 6pm, after a long (and wonderful) day with SOS at camp, to drive 5 hours home to New York City.

End of life can be harsh, unforgiving and terrifying.

Today, I met SOB at the hospital at 10am-ish. I had packed my gym clothes, planned to stop by the office, see Dad and get ready for a Sunday late afternoon wedding.

But ULOB didn’t look so good. I felt a foreboding aura.

Life in the hospital continues to move along, no matter whose heart is still beating. At 10:30am, in his room, the intercom interrupted my panic. “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

After SOB called POULOB to say that things were looking grim, I decided to walk around the corridors of the hospital, for “fresh” air. A disturbed woman was walking around and I thought I could help her by pointing her to the other side of the floor — the Addiction Unit.

SIDEBAR: I later learned that what I surmised was a drug issue was actually the absence-of-psyhotropic-drugs issue.

She found her former girlfriend’s room. But the putative father of the former girlfriend’s baby was there as well. Apparently, the disturbed woman had put her former giirlfriend in the hospital. Upon seeing the boyfriend/ex-boyfriend, the woman grabbed a mop as a weapon. When that weapon was taken away, she reached for a glass vase and threw it at the former girlfriend. And then another. SOB was within range and I could not get to her — there was a battle line between us. Security, the cops, crazy calls from the jilted woman threatening to kill the ex-girlfriend patient followed. “She’s coming back. She ain’t stupid. She’s psychotic. Why you think I broke up with her!”

And, in a room in the midst of a war zone, lay my uncle not so gently dying of complications from a fall. His lungs were full of fluid and no antibiotic was helping. He was not lucid.

12:00 noon: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

SIDEBAR: Who is Mildred and why is she MIA? And why did her parents name her that?

ULOB’s breathing became increasing labored. Sometimes he looked like he was in sheer terror and I told him to squeeze my hand, and he squeezed so hard that I felt faint.

Other times, I think he was in a different time and place. At one point, I said, “Am I Elsie?” referring to my mother, his sister. He nodded and calmed a bit. He had happy memories with Mom.

But mostly there was desperation at not being able to catch his breath. Regardless of the oxygen in his nose and the medicines coursing through his veins, ULOB couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe easily and couldn’t shake the pneumonia that developed in his lungs. He was in a death spiral.

1:00pm: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

Mildred, for G-d’s sake, please answer the page or quit. You have been AWOL for hours!!!

POULOB arrived in the time it took for my to drive from the middle of Cape Cod to Stamford, Connecticut. (3 hours.)

ULOB perked up when POULOB came. POULOB didn’t want to understand the severity of the situation. She wanted to know what to tell his friends when she went dancing tonight, as ULOB and POULOB often did.

SOB, POULOB and I took turns holding his hands and reassuring him.

3:30pm: The ex-girlfriend patient was at the nurse’s station retelling the story to anyone who wanted to hear what happened. Needless to say, many patients in hospital garb with open flaps were in the hallway to hear the story that proves life is a carnival (i.e., a freak show).

5:00pm: “Mildred, please call the nurse’s station. Mildred, please call the nurse’s station.”

Really, Millie?

5:30pm: ULOB had some chivalry left in him. He didn’t fall of the cliff, as it were, until POULOB left.

SOB and I held his hands and whispered gently in his ears that we loved him and he was safe as his breathing got shallower, and as he got less agitated, thanks to modern medicine.

6:00pm: “Shia, wakey, wakey!!” ULOB’s roommate was asleep for too long and needed some exercise. Earlier, another inmate had come by, looking to be amused by the man who talks to himself. But Shia was sleepy, sleepy.

Note to self: if there are no private rooms, go to a different hospital.

In the cacophony of the world, ULOB’s breathing got slower and the blueness of death was in his fingers.

Slowly, gently, quietly, ULOB left this world living life on his terms, except for these last ten days.

Time of death: 7:15pm.

Rest in peace, Uncle Larry.

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.

Life as it is

Posted on July 7, 2013 by 40andover

In my experience, life is about getting up after you have been smacked down. Every privilege has an underbelly. Even a smack-down has an empowering attribute.

Of course, I am speaking from the position of society’s fortunate daughters.

Recently, I have witnessed or heard about profound loss, familial estrangement, financial issues, etc. The “imperfect” side of our perfect, privileged world.

A world, in which ten years ago, POB was edited out of our class alumni news.

SIDEBAR: Was it an issue of space in our alumni column? Nah. Other significant others, who were not alums, made it in print.

A world in which having a hard time raising kids is glossed over with pretty pictures of vacations in exotic places.

A world in which marriage is for keeps, no matter how those bond have disintegrated.

A world in which money woes don’t exist because everyone must be wildly successful.

A world in which one’s children must be the best and the brightest.

A world that doesn’t really exist, except in alumni bulletins.

Because life isn’t easy, except for the very few or the profoundly disconnected. I bet there are people struggling everyday under the weight of issues they never thought they would have — or should have — considering their pedigrees.

Life is hard. That is real. The prep school, college and/or graduate school alumni magazines are kicks for a peek into the world of the clueless.

I can’t keep up with our classmates’ glossies. My life is a mish-mash of love and estrangement, life and loss, money and not-so-much-money, health and illness, and a wonderful, yet imperfect kid (who has wonderful, yet wholly imperfect parents).

Sometimes, it is too damn hard to raise kids. And let’s be honest about that. Those who don’t know that haven’t gotten their hands dirty with the details of their children’s lives. We dip into our savings to give SOS all we can. We won’t go on vacation this year because it is more important that he go to camp. Ok, I am not rich in dollars this year. But, successful? Depends on how you measure it.

And, what have we — the perfect and imperfect, alike — done with our lives after 50 years? Have we inspired people to do good? Have we educated the next generation? Have we reached out a hand (and resources) to make a young person’s dream of higher education come true? Or will we have so many meaningless toys at the end of our lives and have squandered chances to make a real difference?

My mother, as she lie dying, blessed each of her children and said, “I had a good life. I wish it were longer. I love your father. And he is such a wonderful man. And I am proud of you [the kids], and I think I helped people and healed the world just a little. It was a good life.”

I want to be able to repeat my mother’s words about my life, when my time comes. I promise you I will not be rich in dollars and cents. I hope I am rich in what matters.

The Challenge, Parts 3-5

Posted on July 6, 2013 by 40andover

So, I still stink at the Rings (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5188 and
http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5182), but after three more weeks, I am getting better.

And I invested in gear that gymnasts use on the rings. The shipping was more expensive than the equipment.

This contraption of torture is supposed to shift the pain and prevent the outer skin layer of one’s hands from being ripped off by the rings.

I have one thing to say, “stick with the hurt you know.”

Still, the day had its small triumphs: I swung and grabbed a third ring and almost grabbed a fourth!! I need to control my torso better. I was so concerned about my arms that I forgot to crunch my abdomen and propel with legs.

Here is the distrastrous footage. This is a blooper and self-respecting people would not post this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9enHreQ01E&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Not graceful — yet — just me. As you see, as I am, I am.

Watch out for the end of July — I will be awesome. Now? Not so much.

The week that was

Posted on June 30, 2013 by 40andover

Whoa! What a week. From the minute to the momentous. From everyday slights to the evisceration of things we hold dear. From personal triumphs to the deathbed of a world hero.

What a difference a week makes.

The Supreme Court taketh away and the Supreme Court giveth (with caveats). But before all the epic decisions, the Supreme Court punteth the ball. Yep, punt on affirmative action, gut the Voting Rights Act, and hold that the Federal government cannot demean or injure what a state seeks to protect, in matters within a state’s purview.

So if you are a gay, non-white Democrat in a Red State, you can’t get married to your partner, you may not be able to vote and you certainly cannot have the totality of your identity and your life story considered in any application to higher education.

If, however, you are gay, white, Democrat in a Blue State, you probably get to claim an iPad as a winning contestant in the Supreme Court sweepstakes.

How’s that for “equal protection under the laws”?

I am thrilled that Edie Windsor, who in her own words, was “just an out lesbian suing the United States of America,” prevailed and DOMA is DEAD. It was a thrill and an honor to go to Sabbath Services on Gay Pride Weekend to hear Edie, who talked about her spouse, Thea (of blessed memory), just a little before Edie started to cry, and then have hundreds of people standing up to cheer her.

Get the documentary on them. It is beautiful and sad and just simply a true (non-Hollywood) love story.

People sometimes ask, “why gay PRIDE?” Because if you have felt marginalized, shamed, invisible, unwanted, a veritable punching bad for angry people and all of society’s ills, then you need to own your identity and say that you are proud and not ashamed. It is important for those still in the closet — of any kind — and our children.

I suspect that Mandela is hovering between life and death only through the curse of modern medicine, while politicians figure out the best time to announce his death. Call me cynical. The world will be different on the day that the man who presided over immense change in Africa and, indeed, the whole world, is declared dead. One person can make a difference, but there are only too few in any generation who are truly capable. We will have lost (or did we already lose) a hero.

SOS went off to sleep away camp for seven weeks. Both POB and I were happy, sad, scared and proud that he hopped on the bus with someone he met previously who was also going to the same camp. Hugs, but no tears. A watershed moment in our baby’s growth.

I stopped a client in the hallway of our firm and greeted him. He was momentarily caught off-guard and then said, “[Blogger], you look great; I would never have recognized you!!!” And then he dug himself deeper to a point at which I had to say, “Don’t worry, a little hair color and make-up can really make ALL the difference . . . ” I expect that from Dad’s mother (“You look so gut, I vouldn’t recognize you, dahlink.”) but not anyone born after World War II.

Fom petty slights to soaring heights. From a widow’s indignation to liberation for so many. From tiny family triumphs (and the funny slights) to a loss for all humanity. From the mundane to the immortal. From the set-backs to the steps forward and then reluctance to decide. The juxtaposition of all of these make the important events stand apart, in stark relief — some to be celebrated, some to be worried over, one to be mourned.

What a week it was. Good thing I fastened my seat belt.

Mother’s Day Weekend

Posted on May 12, 2013 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

I miss you and, just between us, Mother’s Day is really all about you.

But CLSFOB (camp/law school FOB) helped me reach an epiphany. We were talking before the weekend (she, too, is a mom) and she wished me a happy Mother’s Day.

I, of course, responded:

“It is about my mom and she is gone.”

“Wow, so [SOS] doesn’t celebrate you or anything? It is just a sad day?”

“Well, I didn’t mean it that way…”

SIDEBAR: Ok, yes, yes, I did.

“But he should be able to celebrate!! Does he feel the heaviness?”

SIDEBAR: OK, CLSFOB, I get it. Sheeeesh. I should introduce you to SNOBFOB.

“Move on, Counselor, you’ve made your point.”

I was getting testy because CLSFOB hit a chord. But she was right.

So, this weekend, I have tried to be more open to taking my position as MOM on Mother’s Day. And it feels good. Ok, not so good, but better than I thought. But I am not going to say that CLSFOB is right again. Nope. Not gonna do that.

To tell you the truth, I feel a little like a mom with Dad. And I think SOB does, too.

I had the “Dad call” this weekend. SOB was in the ICU and saving lives (just not ours). So, I had lunch with Dad on Saturday and we all went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art today.

I chronicle the days so BOB and SOB feel like they were there. The emails are entitled “This Day in Dad”:

“Dear [SOB] and [BOB]:

I had lunch with Dad today. Dad tried to hide those scam solicitations [that target the elderly] from me when I picked him up. But I commenced a search and rescue mission with critical help from [home aide]. I rescued Dad from an entire shopping bag’s worth of scams and shams. In the midst of the junk, there were important papers. Aaargh.

We may need new night people. They do nothing apparently and Dad cleans up after them. They don’t help him with personal hygiene. That’s a big part of the job. But, I don’t know if I can deal with trying out new people. I am tired just thinking about that process.

Worked up an appetite by the time we got to the Coffee Shop of the Undead. I ordered a large Greek salad and a hamburger deluxe and the waiter asked if we expecting another person. I replied that I am quite hungry and quite capable of finishing both before my companions finished their meals. I didn’t disappoint.

Dad wondered why Sam wasn’t at the coffee shop. I had a moment: was Sam no longer UNdead? But, phew, it turns out that he is still alive, but failing unfortunately.

We had a perfectly lovely lunch. After I left, he handed [home aide] a sweepstakes envelope with a check in it to mail. He didn’t want me to see it. So he is not as clueless as everyone thinks. She called me and I told her not to mail it.

Then, because I am a glutton for punishment, I went to ULOB’s bank branch to get more information for AROB’s nephew so he can have a proper paper trail of what was transferred to ULOB when AROB died. I get why he is stressed out but I really want to introduce him to some “chill” meds. Now I feel bad thinking that because it turns out he was spending the day with AROB’s newly discovered UNdead sister in the psychiatric facility. He is a good and kind man. I am not as good and kind.

End of Report.

Love, [Blogger]”

Of course, these emails engender discussion: BOB wants me to take away his checks (I did that once before and he just went to the bank and got more) because he can’t discern good charities from bad ones and he likes to enter sweepstakes. BOB worries that Dad is well intentioned but vulnerable and impaired. SOB observes (correctly) that he likes to feel generous with charities but maybe he will accept some oversight (not so confident about this part of the assessment). I think that he really needs to conserve resources but I cannot take away his checks but I don’t want him to think he is running out of money. Too emasculating. With no more emails flying, the debated ends. Because I have the final say (for now), I render a reasoned decision (for now).

Decision for the day (mine): We continue to run a loose ship, with BOB dissenting. I have no extra time to be the enforcer. It will not be perfect. It just has to work. Most of the time. We will review the status quo weekly and re-calibrate as necessary. Signed, [Blogger], President of Dad, Inc.

*********************************************************************************************

Today, we had a great time at the Met. SOS walked a lot with Dad. They are quite bonded. I can imagine how happy you would be seeing them together.

After the Met, we went to a coffee shop that just doesn’t cater to the Undead. What a nice change in scenery, but the turn-over in big tables was not as fast. At this coffee shop, the patrons probably buy green bananas.

********************************************************************************************

So, after almost 11 years, this was my first Mother’s Day where I accept wearing that mantle. I will never forget you on Mother’s Day or on any other day, ever. It is just that being mom to SOS and in loco parentis to Dad may entitle me to an honorable mention today and a little celebration. Then, again, SOS didn’t make cards, so I tortured him and now I am not such a good mom.

I love you,

Blogger

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Category Archives: Aging