Tag Archives: Aging

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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Helpless in New York City

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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.

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Up to bat

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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.

 

 

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Lunchtime in the Coffee Shop of the Living Dead

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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.

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Homeward Bound

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POB spent some time with Dad yesterday.  He kept telling her that he doesn’t feel as if he is home, even when he is sitting in his living room.  His living room for 50 years.

Often, he says, he gets confused and wonders: “How am I going to get home from here?”  And then either he remembers or his aide (or one of us) reminds him, “you are home.”  Then he relaxes.  But this repeats throughout the days.

Last night, when POB told me about the conversation, I had an unusual panic.  Does “home” mean something different for Dad?

Even though this has been Dad’s home for more than half of his life, Mom isn’t there, and his memories are hard to tease out of the recesses of his mind.  His kids visit, but we don’t live there anymore.  There are lovely aides helping him, but they are strangers.

Daddy, please stay just a little longer with us.  If “home” is some place else, don’t go “home” just yet.  Ok?  Stay here with us.  Because here is still where you live.

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Filling the adult shoes

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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.   

 

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Out of the darkness into a warming light

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Some times, people think I am too open about my emotions and observations.  And talking about sad things can really depress people.  And if you only talk about the stuff in your life, not only do you lose friends, but you risk losing those essential human traits of empathy and compassion for others and what inevitably are their challenges, fears and bags of trouble.

Here is one of the great surprises.  Many of the friends and family who have held me close (physically and figuratively) have also shared their past and present sadnesses and allowed me to try to comfort them or share in their memories.  And I am grateful.

I guess we all walk the paths of crises, loss, joy, exhilaration and near-misses, but not at the same times.  Friends and family allowed Dad’s crisis to open me up, rather than close me down.  And it is hard not to be joyful about his long and happy life.  And it is hard not to feel the heartbreak of others whose family members aren’t as lucky as Dad has been.

Life is a journey.  Success is having made that journey surrounded by loved ones and friends.

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Stuck in the middle

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Wherever you are, you need to be somewhere else.  And whatever you are doing wherever you are, it is a little inadequate, a little late and a little unfocused.

This is the life of the sandwich generation.

I called Dad this morning and went over the plan for the day and who was visiting and what he needed to accomplish. 

“Are you coming?”  

“No, Dad, not today.  I am spending the day with SOS and we are going to the Met.” 

“You are choosing a museum over me?  Tell my grandson I am so sad that I might cry!” Dad said jokingly. 

Jokingly (but not fully joking) and quite manipulatively.  We have played this game before.  Dad doesn’t want me to feel bad after I hold firm to my decision.  He doesn’t mean to make me crazy or sad.  

But now it is different.  Dad is still full of life and he is being hemmed in by things beyond his control.  He is a prisoner of a few block radius around his apartment and the vagueness and forgetfulness of his mind in areas where he had his brain injury.   So, I want to cry and throw up.  Before this, the man could play a concerto on my emotional buttons.  Now, he is maestro.

But SOS is my priority.  We went to Arms and Armor because boys love their implements of destruction.  And, certain things about men don’t change from the middle ages to the present, as noted by the expanded “pocket” on this particular armor.  Front angle and side angle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too funny.

SOB and a family friend had lunch with Dad.  SOB did strong work this weekend, covering the “Dad call” so that I could chill a little and catch up on family and work.   I have the “Dad call” part of this week and next weekend. (We use medical terms because, as Jews, we act as if we are all doctors, actual licenses being irrelevant.)

And I will go over tomorrow for cocktail hour.  And no doubt he will want to dance a few turns with me before his make-believe scotch.  That man still dances better than I ever will.  And he remembers the songs and tunes of the Big Band Era better than most people.  He is quite a remarkable man.

So we will see whether he can go for a longer and further outing this week.  Maybe even to the Upper West Side for brunch next weekend. 

Speaking of sandwiches, today I had a pastrami and corned beef on rye.  Because if you are stuck in the middle, taking care of the older and the younger generations, a little soul food goes a long way.

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This Week in Dad

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Over the course of the week, Dad’s physical and mental state has improved at a miraculous rate.  He is the comeback kid. But he will never be the same or independent.  He tires quickly and when he is tired, he is confused.  

I learned many things this week about my father and me. 

Lesson 1:  I am in mourning for the end of his independence. 

He still thinks he can be independent again, which is uplifting and heartbreaking in the same moment.   

Lesson 2: Temporary is as temporary does. 

Dad kibbitzes with his home attendants.  He seems rather fond of them and they seem to dote on Dad.  But there is only one person with whom Dad will share a home and Mom is gone.  So, while these home attendant are a diversion for now, he views the situation as a temporary, necessary intrusion into his life.  But, I know temporary lasts until, looking back, you realize it was permanent.   So temporary is fine, as long as it is, in fact, permanent.

Lesson 3:  Unconditional love is tested both ways when a parent is declining.

I imagine we will have numerous conversations about whether and how much assistance he needs and some will not go well.  At some point in his miraculous recovery, my fiercely independent and proud father will be displeased  — righteously indignant, actually — at being told that the 24/7 care will not end.  And he will not understand our insistence on it.  And deep down he will know that we are in control.  Will he know that we are doing what we think is best and that we do what we do because we love him?  I never want Dad to feel let down by his kids.

Lesson 4:  I need to be the Grinch who stole Christmas.

It is my job to look for the chinks in his armor, to make sure that we have the systems in place to control for his deficits.  While I can be thrilled at his recovery, I cannot get lulled into a relaxed mindset.  His safety depends on my being the doomsday sayer.

Lessons 1 – 4 all together:  Being a parent to my father is among the scariest, saddest and most important roles of my life.

 

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Uh, oh, another “Dear Mom” blog

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Dear Mom:

I know you are watching the events as they unfold down here on Earth.  Dad is remarkable in the ability of his body to heal so quickly — and just days shy of his 92nd birthday.  Ok, the mind is another thing.  That is a bit of a mixed bag.

Dad’s week has been packed with life and all of its emotions, from heart-breaking to uplifting, from triumph to quiet desperation, from funny to painful indignity.  And we, the kids, whether in person or on the telephone, have been on the ride along with him.

We went from feelings of sheer terror in taking Dad for a walk around the block (would he fall?) to POB’s dancing with Dad in the house to the sublime — a soft shoe routine in the supermarket, he with his cane (and his home aide ready to catch him) and I with a new mop that we desperately needed.  But later he couldn’t get up from the table without help and was dizzy, so he needed a long recuperative nap.  So, we will do soft shoe when we can, but we aren’t ready to go on the road. We do what he can do and no more.

We spent days going through pictures, reminding him of the family.  He is getting really good at this.  He remembers you, without any sort of coaxing.  One of his home aides told me that Dad talks about you and how he is still married to you and still in love with you, no matter that you died 10 years ago.  He told her the secret — that you appear somewhere in all his paintings.  He knows your spirit lives in the house.  And, of course, your portrait remains as evidence that this is your home.

In a weird way, I think that the home aides are a blessing.  Dad can talk to them all day.  Now I realize what life has been like for Dad these last few years.  If Dad can’t go to the studio to sculpt (he hasn’t been able to for a few months) and he isn’t with us on the weekends, the days between are deafening silent and slow.  I wanted to cry for his loneliness.  But now he sings for his home aides, offers them a cocktail (which they refuse) and the house has noise.

But there are hard moments.  Moments filled with the indignity of aging and a child having to care for a parent as if he were a baby.  And, when he is discombobulated, the air seems to fill with a toxin that hurts my lungs.  There are also less profound crises, like the day there were no bananas for breakfast and Dad was not strong enough to go to the store or be left alone.  Imagine, a reasonably successful New York lawyer unable to answer client emails because she has to bring bananas for breakfast.  Still, he asked, “how much a pound did you pay?”  “Before or after I add in the cost of the cab to hand deliver these to you, Dad?”

At least today, there was levity amidst the crazy talk.  Aunt Glue and Cousins J and K came to visit.  Aunt Glue and Dad were both a little off, but they enjoyed their conversation.  The rest of us didn’t quite understand the conversation, but I tried to let go of reality and roll with it.  Cousin J tried to correct Aunt Glue’s somewhat vague statement, and I asked her, “at this table, what does it matter?”

Aunt Glue and Dad, the remnants of our greatest generation, stronger in body than in mind, gained fortitude and joy from each other’s presence.  Aunt Glue is the only one alive who knows to call Dad by his original, Yiddish, name, Nachum.  “So, Nachy”, she said, “tell me all.”  I wanted to live in that moment because she has said that in the same way for as long as I have been alive (and longer), when they were strong and infallible and blazing the frontier.  When Dad was Dad and you were alive.

At least Dad has you, always.  As do we, your children.  But, in these moments, I wonder why I had to grow up.  I love you, Mom.  And I love Dad, come what may.

Love, Blogger

 

 

 

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