Monthly Archives: January 2013

Hope came today

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I watched President Obama’s speech and I cried.  These words he said, “Stonewall” and “gay brothers and sisters,” rang in my ears, traveled to my heart and emerged through the tears streaming from my eyes.

From the podium of the most powerful came words that said my family exists and I exist.  Yes, it is just a bully pulpit and not the law of the land.  But that vision, that inclusion, can never be unsaid.

Later, SOS and I watched the speech togather.  Because I needed him to hear, as millions of others heard, that we are equal.

Because he needs to know that for most of the population over 30 years old, the president’s remarks were as significant as Dr. King’s words were to his generation.  And he needs to understand that for his mothers, this was, unexpectedly, a day of validation, hope and pride.  Because we have lived through so much and we have seen so much and had our hopes of equality dashed so many, many times.

And we need SOS to understand where we’ve been so he can guide us and forgive us our hardened exteriors and paranoia.  And maybe, just maybe, he will walk with us into a new era of equality and then, only then, will his mothers’ hell slowly go by….

Whatever happens next:  God bless you, Mr. President.  Even if only for a day, today, TODAY, you made our dreams seem within reach.  God bless America.

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On our way to Oslo

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I am almost 49.  My siblings are a little older.  And not a Nobel Prize among us.

My mother is in Heaven right now having to explain to the mothers of Nobel Laureates why her children have yet to earn one.  Mom is confident that we will come through for her.

Sidebar: Ok, “confident” is maybe too strong a word.  Maybe, it is more like, “she will love us no matter what accolades we fail to earn.”

SOB called to check in with my medical condition (I am fine; the flu is almost gone).  We had more important things to discuss — why haven’t we gotten a Nobel prize?  A mother’s pride is at stake here.  And we are not getting any younger.

And, not only that, I figured out that we really earned them.  (Ok, a joint prize.)

There is, of course, a little back story.

The same parents who created Mom also created her brother.  He is our recessive genes on display — a cautionary tale, to be sure.  And he is not an aberration.  My maternal grandfather’s entire family charted its own evolutionary course. (Mom’s brother has some wonderful qualities, I promise, but he lives like a caveman.)

SOB and I did not have biological children.  Ergo, we saved the world. 

Sidebar:  BOB has two wonderful children; WOBOB is the one to be celebrated for that happy turn of events.

SOB, I bought two tickets.  We are going First Class.

 

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My morning with Bessie and other things in a random day

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I am sick (with the flu) and have been home almost all week.  The problem with being home (besides cabin fever) is that you notice every imperfection in your house, every age spot on your legs and those barely perceptible (to the naked eye) and asymmetrical droops in your breasts.

I was feeling pretty ok this morning.  And I needed to get out of the house.  And I was despondent over missing a Soeur reunion in Cancun.  And my bras didn’t provide the necessary level of support.  So, off I schlepped to the local mecca for women’s undergarments.  This is the place where, for decades (until her death), the Dowager Countess of Ladies’ Undergarments would cup your breasts in her hands and yell out a size and style and point you to one of the dressing rooms.  And if she determined that your current bra was ill-fitting, she would pitch a loud fit.  You had to have self-esteem or you needed to be high to deal with her.  I never went while the Dowager was alive.

POB and I went to here to get our undergarments of steel for our wedding dresses.  Bessie, an older Southern woman, helped us.  She noted that day that I was wearing “some kinda ratty bra.”  http://40andoverblog.com/?p=4354

Today, I walked in and saw Bessie and strode straight for her and said, “you helped me with my wedding undergarments and I promised I would be back and here I am.”

“I remember you.  You was with a friend and you was both gettin’ married.”

“To each other,” I  responded, gently.

“You had a ratty bra that day, I’ll tell yoooooo.”

Sidebar:  OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK, really?  She remembered?  And I was here to rectify that.  I was thinking that I wasn’t feeling better; I was just delirious.  And why do you think I don’t go bra (other than sports bra) shopping often, huh?  A little humiliation every other decade or so lasts a looooooong time.

I spent 90 minutes topless in a dressing room that others had no problem entering at will.  I must have tried on 30 bras.

Bessie commented on each:  “Now that one make you almost look perky!” “You don’t fill that up anymaw.  Betcha you did once!”  “Now, that is a beautiful cup on you!!”

“But, Bessie, it is electric blue!!!”

“It don’t matter what color it is.  A good fittin’ bra is a good fittin’ bra.  You don’t turn your nose at a good fittin’ bra.  Not when we’s our age!!”

Pause.  We are NOT the same age.  I may be going on 50 but she is 70.  Wow, I really was delirious.

“I’ll jest put this in the buy pile.”  She walked away.  Ten bras (of varying colors; some electrically so, some not) later, she went to find matching bottoms.  I prevailed on nixing the dull blue and brown striped one that was almost like a bikini top.

“You a full-cut or a thong type?” She yelled for everyone to hear.  Of course, the entire conversation was for everyone to hear.

“How about we look at the matching bottoms and then I will decide.”

Bessie packed up all the things she decided I needed, less the bra that I would not, could not, buy.  “Now, send your friend on in here, hear?”

Wow, I needed a long snooze.

POB and SOS were doing G-d’s work, by having lunch with my Dad, so I could rest.  Or be delirious, whatever.

We arrived home at the same time and had a little rest hour.  And then POB and SOS set about making a cheesecake for SOS’s friend who is recovering from serious back surgery.  Our hearts were on standby to be broken if anything went wrong.  An 11 year-old’s undergoing serious back surgery is a parent’s every nightmare.  He came through like the champion he is.   And he wanted cheesecake.  “Then, give the boy a cheesecake,” said (and did) POB and SOS.

So we all hovered in the kitchen while POB did most of the heavy-lifting, SOS helped a little and I helped not at all.

SIDERBAR:  Hey, there needs to be a slacker in every family.  I proudly claim that mantel.  In fact, I “gold-medal” in it, without the need for performance enhancement drugs.  (It is a non-performing sport.)

Then SOS remembered that Cousin Gentle and he are going to visit a Sikh enclave in Queens tomorrow and he needed to learn, “hello”, “good bye” and “thank you” in Punjabi by tomorrow.  Cousin Gentle sent a link to a primer on Punjabi.

So, now, I sit in a warm kitchen with wonderful smells wafting through the air, blogging about my day and over-hearing my son practice words in Punjabi.

Yes, yes, I must be delirious.

 

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More on role reversal

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My daily mantra:  “It is what it is”.  Nope, not the serenity prayer.  Serenity doesn’t accomplish the gritty tasks of daily life.  And the serenity prayer implies I am good with the some of the things that children or nieces and nephews should never have to know about their elders.

First, family secrets are meant to be kept secret.  That is why they were secrets in the first place.  Because no one would understand and the younger generation would be saddened.  Not horrified (because this is 2013) but saddened about these lives as they had to be lived.  (No, I am not talking about Dad.  OTHER relatives in our care.)

The list of things I don’t need to know about my relatives (not my Dad):

  • that the bed linen was changed some time in the early part of the last century;
  • that elders can continue live in filth, even if they are part of “good families” and fight change;
  • that testosterone levels are low (ok, this is a good thing); and
  • every little detail about urinary tract and colon activity, with visuals.

Now comes the mantra:  “It is what it is.”

And SOB and I are the new sheriffs in town and so we need to invoke base level sanitary standards, base level responsiveness to our calls (other than just in times of crisis), and full capitulation to our will and our loving vision of how they will live out the remainder of their lives.  Because, although they didn’t ask for it (exactly), they understand that they need us.

Here is my bottom line:

If I need to know family secrets that disgust me and deal with facts on the ground that gross me out, there is a quid pro quo: Disobey SOB’s and my benevolently despotic decrees at your peril.

Because “it is what it is” is more than a phrase to live by; it is a threat AND a promise.

 

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Role Reversal

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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.

 

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The COB Removes a Blob

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Sidebar:  I promised that my blog entry today would be more upbeat than these last few weeks (ok, months).

Everyone should have colleagues and friends as supportive as mine.  I have many (some, even, who do not yet have acronyms).  But this entry is about The COB. (He really likes having “The” as a part of his moniker.)

The COB, being a kind and gentle sort, was really disturbed by my decidedly gloomy (read: depressing as hell) blog entries, and took to heart my pledge to write less about death and aging and navel-gazing.

So invested is he in my mental state (and my blog) that, not only did he undergo a procedure so I could blog about it (ok, not really), but he took a picture for me and gave me title options for this blog entry.  “The COB Removes a Blob” won.  Here is why the other entries didn’t win:

  • “Don’t Sob, Dear Cob” — a potential winner, except my sister is SOB and that could be confusing.
  • “The Cob Gets His Head Bobbed” — my brother is BOB and he is a peaceful man.
  • “Corn off the Cob” — when you see what was removed, this doesn’t do it justice.
  • Using “Blob” was ok because I determined that that acronym would not go over well for anyone and so there would be no risk of confusion.

So, here is how the story that led to this blog unfolded:

The COB walked into my office one day, closed the door and sat down in a guest chair, all with an air of something important to say.

“You know that thing on my head?” he started.

“What thing?” as if I didn’t know.

“The thing-on-the-side-of-my-head thing!”

“Oh, the thing that I stare at when I lose interest in what you are saying?  That thing?”

“Hey, you can only tell when I get a haircut!!”

“Really, are you sticking to that fantasy?  Stop, stop, stop.  Tell me!!”

“I am getting it removed.  It is time.”

“But what will I stare out when you are droning on?”

“My ears.  I stare at yours when I can’t possibly pay attention to you anymore.”

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.  What’s wrong with my ears?  Still, it is about him and his thing and, showing uncharacteristic restraint and selflessness, I let that slide.  For now.

The COB had the procedure this week, and as I was waiting impatiently (ok, somewhat frantically) to find out if he was all right and if it was a benign growth, I get an email entitled, “It is what you think it is!!” with the following attachment:

FROM COBSo, based on the tone of the email, I knew all was ok.  Based on the picture, I realized that it wasn’t really a thing; it was a gross thing.

I emailed him: “We have broken the grossness barrier in our friendship.  It looks to be about 15% of your brain.  How is the other 85% doing?”  Based on the grossness factor of his email, I am thinking that his intelligence was heavily weighted in that 15%.

“That could be another good title for the blog!!” he emailed back.

Dear COB, I adore you so.

 

 

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The Sun Will Come Out Next Week

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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.

 

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