Role Reversal

Posted on January 17, 2013 by 40andover

For those of you who are also dealing with this:

When you have sick relatives and you are the one mainly in charge — whether because of love, obligation and/or by default — there are no simple tasks, are there? There is no streamlined order of command or ways to pay bills, right? Or get the important mail sent to you?

And that power of attorney or trustee status that was the answer to these problems? It only allows you to untangle SOME of the mess.

I know, I know. All of the planning, those hard conversations, and the tears when the car keys were taken away were all supposed to get us to a point where everything that we COULD control was IN OUR control. So, our parents and we didn’t have to worry about THESE things.

Parents are not good at giving up the control over finances, medical issues, etc. And why should they? They have been doing for themselves for more than 60, maybe 70, years and doing fine. Yes, but then time and age crept up slowly for some, and brutally fast for others, and all wasn’t fine anymore.

And because you needed us. We, your children, your nieces and nephews, your dear friend’s children. And we stood up. But you don’t quite understand that you need us. That is part of the disease or the injury. You can’t keep up. Things are going unpaid. The house is looking unclean. You are looking disheveled. We need to get help in the house and we need to make sure the bills get paid. Because we need you need to live in dignity, even if giving up decision-making is itself an indignity.

But parents are used to taking care of themselves, no matter what. And a power of attorney or trustee status cannot prevent an elder from acting on his own, even to his detriment. Dad called yesterday because people confused him on the phone about his credit card and his long term care. He called me to contact these people to make it right. I called him back after I made all the necessary transfers and reminded everyone again that I am the contact and my power of attorney is on file. Dad didn’t tell me (did he remember?) that his muscle memory took over and he transferred funds over the phone and took care of it. Maybe he didn’t understand what he did nor can he remember to tell me. So I duplicated his efforts and while that isn’t bad necessarily, money moved at cross-purposes and, today, there was a crisis.

Trying to sort out the mess was an hours-long process. Because every institution has its rules. And every subgroup within an institution has its own inane rules. So, while I am the designated person for financial decisions, not every bill or statement comes to me. While I am designated as a notice party, nobody calls or writes. And while part of the company accepts my status, the other part of the company has no record that I exist. But maybe I would be interested in a Mastercard? And, by the way, can I answer whether I was provided with excellent service. Are you kidding me?

Too big to fail? That isn’t the relevant question. Too big to help? Absolutely.

I requested fund transfer forms because I was going to yank all the money out of this behemoth. Because I don’t have time for this. Then the issues disappeared.

Give me a local bank, a local pharmacist, a local butcher, a local anything. Because I need people who know my family and who can help me navigate the difficulties of trying to help Dad maintain his specter of “independence” (however much that independence is, in truth, circumscribed by his loving children).

His pride and my sanity are on the line.

P.S.: Tomorrow we will discuss how we live with TOO MUCH information about our parents.

The Sun Will Come Out Next Week

Posted on January 5, 2013 by 40andover

I have decided that my sad, ponderous, navel-gazing blog entries will end next week. Come this time next Saturday, I will be outraged, outrageous, funny (sometimes), weird, providing too much information, and otherwise being my usual inappropriate self on my blog.

As soon as Aunt R is buried (finally) tomorrow, my dear friend’s 53 year-old brother is buried on Monday and we commemorate Mom’s TENTH Yahrzeit on Friday, I believe that the pall will lift. And, maybe, I will entitle my entry next Saturday, “The Day After a Fortnight of Three Funerals, a Brain Injury, and No Weddings”.

Nothing on that day will make Dad healthy or sane again, or reverse Uncle L’s precipitous decline since Aunt R’s death on Christmas Day, but there will be, G-d willing, a respite from seemingly endless death and destruction and chaos.

I am still learning this hard lesson of life: as I get older, I will lose people — sometimes a few at a time — and still I must balance these gut-wrenching events with laughter, silliness and irreverence. (And, in fact, there have been some very comical moments during these trying times that can only be told after the passage of time.)

But, learn, I must and I will. Because that is the only way I can survive and see the beauty and fun and happiness in my life (for which I am eternally grateful). Otherwise, the pain will consume me, and dim the lights in my eyes and estrange my friends and family.

And then, I will have only succeeded in adding another casualty to the list of those loved ones who are dead or dying: ME.

Pieces of Paper

Posted on December 29, 2012 by 40andover

I always thought that love makes a family; nothing more, nothing less. Now I know that love makes a family while everyone is healthy, but blood and paper give you the rights to show your love in the bad or hard times.

Whether you are gay or straight, formalities and legalities matter. Legal marriage and legal adoption matter. Wills and advance directives matter.

ULOB (Mom’s brother) and AROB were together for 65 years. AROB and ULOB were always a part of our lives. Neither was a trailblazer or a patriarch/matriarch. They didn’t seek out the American dream like so many children of immigrants. Escaping from their families was probably success enough.

On Christmas, ULOB found AROB dead in her apartment and called the police. They were never married and kept separate apartments (relationships are complicated). The police took all the keys and sealed the apartment (procedure when someone dies) because, as a matter of law, ULOB had no right to be in AROB’s apartment. Even though he probably spent most of the last 65 years of his life in that apartment, he had the same rights to be there after she died as a next door neighbor: NONE.

All my life, AROB was my aunt and I was her niece. Now, I am nothing under law.

Who has decision-making authority? Nephews she hadn’t seen more than once in over three decades.

Through the generosity of the local police, ULOB, SOB and I were able to look through her apartment (with a police escort) to find information about her blood nephews or burial plans. We came up with nothing.

So, her body lies refrigerated at the coroner’s office.

Luckily, ULOB remembered enough information so I could find these nephews.

One nephew lives nearby. He is willing to help so we can bury her, so that we can perform that last act of respect and love for a dead relative. RELATIVE, not friend. My AUNT, not my neighbor or colleague. My FAMILY.

I want her to rest in peace. I think that starts with being buried by her loved ones.

And then there was one. . . .

Posted on December 21, 2012 by 40andover

Dad is the last of his generation in our family. Weakened and confused, but nonetheless, here. He is our only link with the past.

In his papers are where my great-grandparents’ graves are located. And a family tree. And what happened to Grandma Dora’s ship-shvesters (ship sisters) whom she met making the arduous voyage to America. I haven’t thought about that in years. And was my great-grandfather’s wife named Tillie? There is some confusion.

But we must sort it all out. Because this is our history. We are the grandchildren of the surviving remnant of formerly European Jews. Most of the family got out before the Holocaust, but after the pogroms — the massacres — that scarred them for life.

We must now take ownership. For we are the elder generation. And if you don’t know whence you’ve come, you cannot chart the course ahead.

We can no longer rely on others to remember, recount and record our history. It is ours to do now. Cousin Gentle, with great foresight, has already started that project.

We must search our minds for stories because it cannot be that the lives of our great-grandparents, our grandparents and, alas, our parents will fade from memory. There must be someone always to light candles of remembrance in their names. To bring their memories out of the darkness and into the light.

Helpless in New York City

Posted on December 20, 2012 by 40andover

Aunt Glue is fading. The end is soon, according to her son. Aunt Glue and her son and daughter-in-law have a plan to keep her pain-free and peaceful in these hours. I need to respect that. SOB needs to respect that. BOB needs to respect that. But SOB was trying to get coverage at the hospital and BOB was looking into flights to come here. And I was trying to rent a mini-bus to schlep everyone to see Aunt Glue.

Because you can never say, “I love you,” too many times or squeeze someone’s hand too often.

Because death is permanent and, right now, she is alive. And she has a right to die the way she wants. That is the last decision a person can (with any luck) make. And that decision is sacrosanct and unimpeachable.

And, here I am, helpless and hopeless in New York City, waiting for the word that the woman

who introduced my parents,

who (with my uncle) shared my mother’s last days and minutes on this earth,

who was such a large figure in my youth,

who hosted the happiest family celebrations of my childhood (never mind, the overcooked chicken),

who was my solace after Mom died,

who embraced POB and SOS,

who, defying all odds, came to my wedding and danced, and

who was the only one to whom SOS would ever write a letter, much less maintain a correspondence,

has died.

She had a long and good life, but not an easy one.

Dad is sometimes clueless as a result of age and brain injury. But he is so very aware of Aunt Glue’s condition and has a very heavy heart. Some relationships are so deep that even dementia and brain injury can’t erase them.

One of our greatest generation is losing her fight with time and disease. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But soon. Yet, on her terms (as much as is possible under the circumstances).

And that is the way it should be for our greatest generation. Even if it breaks our hearts not to see her just one more time.

Up to bat

Posted on December 16, 2012 by 40andover

In these days in December, the world is often too much with me. So much more so this year.

This is the tenth anniversary of Mom’s death, HOSOB lost both his parents in this year, Dad and Aunt Glue are both failing. So, frankly, are the remnants of Mom’s family. Their deaths will seal a generation. They were the first ones born on American soil and they laid the foundations for our generation to grow and thrive. We stand on their shoulders.

SOB and I know that we, along with our many first cousins, will soon assume the mantel of our family’s eldest generation. The ones who are supposed to know everything, have the wisdom of the ages, the memories and secrets of the past generations, and the answers to the questions (whatever they may be) and, yes, the next wave of those to leave this earth (G-d willing). We are up to bat in a baseball game, as it were.

It is only now that these giants of my parents’ generation seem so young and human. Now I understood that Mom and Dad and the uncles and the aunts were as clueless then as are we now. The mantra, just keep moving because it is better than running in place or, worse, standing still, is still the mantra of our generation.

As long as Dad and Aunt Glue are still alive, there is always the illusion (although, not the reality) that there are elders who know more, who can bless us and what we do, and who can lead us out of the darkness and into the light.

But the truth is that wisdom comes from reflecting on the past. Humility comes from failure. Regret comes from somehow knowing if you were sure enough of your convictions and felt strong enough to press your point of view, the outcome would have been better.

The lessons of the generations that must be learned again by each succeeding generation. Over and over, until the end of time.

This is life and its journey. These are some of the immutable facts that govern the species.

One day, maybe this will change. Until then, I will try to act with kindness, with humility and with the memory of those who came before me — what they did right and what went terribly wrong.

Lunchtime in the Coffee Shop of the Living Dead

Posted on December 8, 2012 by 40andover

I went down for a quick lunch with Dad. We went to a nearby place that isn’t good, has bad service and smells like a bad diner. But it is popular for the over-senile/decrepit set because it is a close walk from many once-bustling-high-rises-now-de-facto-old-age-homes (welcome to the Sutton Place area). At the diner, there is a special area for canes and walkers, once the elder has been seated. There are less chairs available than one would think necessary because — well — the proprietors need to accommodate wheelchairs.

Dad looks better than most there.

As we are looking at the menu, he says, “I don’t remember when I last had a hamburger.”

Sidebar: I think BUT DO NOT SAY, “Of course, you don’t remember, Dad. It was last Saturday when we had this same conversation at the other diner, you know the one that is far enough away so there are fewer undead people there? You had a hamburger.”

Still, Dad sometimes surprises me by retaining information from one day to the next. “How was POB’s job interview?” he asked. Whoa, POB told him about it on Thursday. Awesome job, Dad.

I know many of the peope in the Diner of the Living Dead from the neighborhood. I grew up here. One, who is Dad’s friend, came over and wanted to talk to me only, almost ignoring Dad and Dad’s health aide (are people invisible?).

Odd because he is usually a warm and friendly, if homophobic, guy.

He was clearly in despair. He needed home heath care information for his companion of decades. Her kids were handling matters without talking to him and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even bother to brag about his daughter’s life as a married, wealtlhy, successful, procreative heterosexual. Now, that was a red flag for how the situation has deteriorated.

I listened and gave him what information I could. He seemed unable to cope with the little I was able to offer. I will follow up with him but I think he needs care, too.

Sidebar: I might have to call his daughter. I will start the conversation with, “as a married, well-to-do (before the crash), successful (before the crash), procreative (after a fashion) homosexual to you, the person I was supposed to be: get your ass back to New York and take care of your dad.”

After the conversation, Dad said in a sad but resigned way, “he doesn’t look or sound so good.” I nodded.

And then I screamed so Dad could hear (relying on the deafness of those around me):

“Dad, you are doing so much better and you had a brain bleed that shorted out some electricity!!”

We are nothing if not blunt.

The day the questions started

Posted on November 18, 2012 by 40andover

SOS has this elective class in school in which the kids, guided by teachers, debate various subjects, ranging from what are effective recycling methods to whether adoption records should be sealed.

Adoption. Yes, Our lives. It had to come up. I didn’t think it was going to be age 10.5. And for a debating class, no less.

SOS has always known that a sperm donor helped us have him. There was never a time he didn’t know that. He has also always known that POB is his biological mother, but somehow he always thought (however irrationally) that he was connected to me in some way that was in addition to nurture. Until today.

So we brought out the old records. Together, we read through the information we had on the donor — his medical history, his academic achievements, his personal statement about funny things that happened to him and his hopes and dreams for his own children. POB described his voice.

We showed SOS the petition for adoption and report by the social worker which was submitted to the Court, as required by law. I didn’t tell SOS this, but the social worker interviewed me for 4.5 hours and made me cry. She asked about my recently dead mother and other pressure points in my life. At the end, she asked how would I deal with having a straight son. I was so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I responded honestly, “It happens in the best of families. And I understand attraction to women, so I would be totally good with it.” The social worker was stunned and I thought, “oh, no, I have blown it now.”

Luckily, the social worker’s report was strongly in favor of the adoption. The judge who originally contorted New York law to allow same-sex couple adoption was the judge who heard SOS’s petition and, as her last act before retiring, she so-ordered our joint adoption of SOS. We told him that this was a big deal to have this judge approve his adoption. He asked to feel the official seal on the certified copy of the order.

SOS told me earlier in the day, in anticipation of this afternoon’s discussion, that I am just as much his mom as POB. I think he was scared and, yet, he was trying to protect me. But new information can change things.

At the end of the discussion, SOS was concerned because he finally realized that it is “only” nurture that connects him and me and that 50% of him is the donor’s genes. So we talked about the power of nurture, love and commitment. I told him that before I adopted him, I could have walked away, without legal liability for his well-being. But I took on that responsibility and I can never undo that. I chose to be responsible for him. That had some resonance, but I could hear the wheels of his brain turning about the donor’s genes.

“Dude, this is not the only conversation we are going to have about this. You may need to seek out the donor. It is ok. I am ok. You are my baby. Ok?”

“Ok, [Blogger], I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy. More than you will ever know.”

And so ended the first episode of “The Questions”.

an H-E-N-D

Posted on October 31, 2012 by 40andover

H-E-N-D? Human-engineered, natural disaster. Hurricane Sandy. I would have called it a man-made natural disaster, but that sounded too oxymoronic (however, true).

And it would confuse the morons who don’t believe that humans are at least, in part, responsible for climate change. Ok, I don’t have to be insulting, but let’s just leave it like this: it has to better for the planet if we don’t dump toxins in the oceans or let toxins loose into the atmosphere. If we were as gentle with the world as we expect our loved ones to be with us, then maybe we wouldn’t need a political-scientific war of words.

Since I am not good at the big theories, let me tell you about a small, unintended, consequence of H-E-N-D Sandy: Dad’s care.

With power outages predicted, one of Dad’s children or children-in-law needed to be with him, even though he had a home health aide. Why? What if he fell, or became confused and agitated, and the phones were down, how would the health aide — who cannot leave his side — get help? What if, as happened, no one comes to relieve the home health aide because everyone is stranded? One home health aide couldn’t leave for 60 hours; no one could get to Dad’s house to relieve her and she had no way of getting home. We needed to be there to let her sleep and help with cooking and minding Dad. And Dad needs minding. Especially at night.

We are lucky. Dad didn’t lose power. We live nearby. We married good, kind and loving people who were willing to treat Dad like their own dad and take shifts in Dad’s care. I slept there twice; HOSOB once. POB and SOS were there during the day. SOB had to be in her hospital because other hospitals were evacuating very sick people to her ICU.

But so many of the elderly or infirm in this country are not so lucky. Their children don’t live nearby. They can’t come to the rescue in a disaster.

I bet a lot of people went without medications, good food, and proper hygiene during these past three or so days. And I bet they were frightened.

So, don’t think about this on a global scale. Think about your neighbors, whether they are elderly or the children who couldn’t fly to their parents’ rescue. Then, think about your gas guzzler car, your over-processed food, your bottled water. Then, consider how you (and I) contributed to the crazy weather patterns that made H-E-N-D Sandy an epic disaster.

Filling the adult shoes

Posted on October 18, 2012 by 40andover

When we were young, my Dad always wore wing-tipped shoes — brown or black.

He had one pair of Keds sneakers and several pairs of tuxedo shoes. Maybe he had another pair of shoes for the weekends, but this was the 1960s after all. And a man of my father’s generation didn’t wear jeans until the late 1970s and sneakers — gasp — only when old-style shoes were too tough on his aging feet. Dad and his wing-tips. That’s what men of a certain age wore.

I remember the weekly walk from synagogue after Sunday school and Dad’s racing me the last block home. He wore his wing-tips and I wore my Mary-Janes (which I hated). Dad and his wing-tips. That’s what men of a certain age wore. Even when playing with their kids.

Dad and his wing-tips. I used to try to walk in them after he had taken them off and put on slippers (another thing that people haven’t done since the 1970s). They were so heavy and unforgiving. I used to clomp around and fall and get up and keep trying.

In the early 1990s, Italian designers started selling women’s wing-tipped shoes. More refined than the clunky saddle shoes of the prior decades. I have several pairs in black and brown, although I went for a simpler look:

For years, I didn’t wear them because I thought I looked too dyke-y in them. Since Dad’s fall, I wear them again.

If I am going to be as good and kind to him as he was to us, I need to walk in his shoes. The shoes he wore when he had all the answers.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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