Life with Father

Posted on January 5, 2014 by 40andover

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

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

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

“Hello!!” I answered gruffly and angrily.

“[Blogger], it’s Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is good news to me.“

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

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

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

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

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

“You are so right, Dad. Good night.”

“Good night, darling.“

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas

Posted on December 24, 2013 by 40andover

Tonight is a night of tradition. In years past, we assembled, young and old, religious and not, to observe the Jewish rituals of Christmas.

First, we ordered in Chinese food. And it wasn’t kosher in the least.

Sidebar: Many years ago, there was only over-cooked Cantonese available. Then, we were blessed with Hunan and Szechuan. And now, “Chinese food” is a term that includes the foods of all of the Asian continent.

Second, over dinner, we discussed which movie (at the local theater) we should see on Christmas day.

Sidebar: Until recently, there were no lines at the movie theaters, unless you lived in a particularly Jewish area, in which case you had to go to the movie theater in another neighborhood. Also, no computers, internet or streaming movies.

Third, we searched the TV for something other than midnight mass from Vatican City or the Yule log.

Sidebar: Remember, this was pre-cable/internet/Apple TV. Channel 9 always had a marathon of the Joe Franklin talk show — it was low-budget and he wore polyester suits and had a comb-over.

Fourth, we felt bloated and restless because, even though we didn’t need to go to a store, just the knowledge that the store might be closed caused claustrophobic reactions among those assembled.

Sidebar: It is like the anxiety-induced hunger pangs a day before the Yom Kippur fast.

Fifth, we discussed each Anti-Semite we ever knew and practiced our usual Easter refrain, “It was the Romans!”.

Sidebar: It is amazing what happens when Jews feel bloated and unable to shop. And it is never too early to sway public opinion and why wait until Lent?

There was a spring in my step as I came home — for ’twas the night before Christmas and we had tradition to uphold. Imagine my reaction to the smell of cooking — COOKING — emanating from the kitchen. Oy. Tradition unravels.

First: we ate quinoa, tofu and chicken soup. (These were options; not one concoction.)

Second: we discussed what we would watch on Netflix.

Third: we couldn’t agree on anything, so we channel-surfed THOUSANDS of channels and found nothing to watch except something about antelopes, pronghorns, and bears.

Fourth: Amazon.com. Enough said.

Fifth: Mere anti-semitism is so, well, quaint. There are crazy people with nukes out there who hate lots and lots of people, all for the same stupid reasons.

But we still practice, “It was the Romans!”

Merry Christmas to all.

Sometimes, there are no words

Posted on December 23, 2013 by 40andover

Usually, life is a flat road or a steady uphill climb. Rarely is life gratuitously kind.

And then there are times when life is patently unfair. And you want to shake your fist at the Heavens or G-d or whoever or whatever you may think is your guiding force.

Life took an outrageously unfair turn in the Blogger family. Illness has again touched the family, but not in the natural order — it is not the eldest who is sick. But the rest of the story is for another time. When the time is right.

For the last two months, many in my family have been shaking their fists. And there was been no laughter.

Nothing seemed very funny or bloggable.

The world’s palette turned black-white-gray.

Bright days are less so. Dreary days are more so.

But this weekend, I learned the power of healing from the very person with the bad diagnosis. And I felt the eternity that exists in smile, a hug, and belly laugh.

Like a rainbow umbrella in the pouring rain.

The Garden Gnome

Posted on December 23, 2013 by 40andover

I work in Rockefeller Center. You know, the place in Midtown with the humongous Christmas tree. That august, old, and beautiful tree that was alive before someone decided to kill it to decorate Rockefeller Center. Soon it will be mulch. But I digress (of course).

Being a New Yorker with some compassion for tourists, I try to walk around (as opposed to through) a snapshot taken by one tourist of others. Sometimes, I even offer to take a picture of the whole brood. And I don’t cut off the one with the biggest hair, just for spite. (Who says I have been naughty this year?)

But being in Rockefeller Center in December is like living your life on a rush-hour subway car.

As quickly as I dodge one photo op of tourists, I am captured in another. My face appears in so many photos of treasured memories of strangers. I am part of their New York experience. So close to them; just sooooo not a part of their family or experience.

I was just trying to steamroll them so I could get to the subway faster.

But now I am a part of their photo albums. Short and with a beard (ok, the beard is fake.)

That’s Aunt Garden Gnome to you, thank you very much.

Whoa, I need a shave and a wardrobe consult.

Daddy’s Angels (but our devils)

Posted on December 3, 2013 by 40andover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blessings of Underachievement

Posted on December 1, 2013 by 40andover

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

Recently, I heard many people say variations of:

“I can’t do that anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words to age by.

Silver Alert (for Dad and Us)

Posted on November 24, 2013 by 40andover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The insightful comments must be my sister’s.

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

And brings joy to every generation at the table.

In the devolution of the species, hope

Posted on November 14, 2013 by 40andover

I was at a meeting outside of city today. I took a commuter train. It was exciting for me, the ultimate city dweller. No, I can’t imagine an everyday commuter thinking this way. And I was “reverse commuting” so the uncrowded train made it like I was going to spend a day in the country. (Except that I was in a dress and heels.)

Yes, it is ok to roll your eyes at the seen-it-all-yet-wide-eyed New York City girl.

I went to the 125th Street stop because who needs to schlep to Grand Central Station if you live on the Upper West Side? First thing: look at the landscape and determine that the on-coming train was going in the right direction. To get my bearings, I noted the Triborough Bridge (ok, the RFK Bridge to those born yesterday). The sky and views on a Fall morning were in fact spectacular (if you are a city kid, like me).

Then, I had to ask the conductor or engineer (whoEVER) if it was getting on the correct train. Never, ever, ever, in decades of riding New York subways, have I ever had to ask such a question of train personnel.

But the truth is that for all my New York smarts, I have no confidence that I could navigate the commuting life successfully. Checking train schedules, timing it just right, missing a train because of subway delays, would send my blood pressure into the stroke zone.

It was a great meeting and a valuable trip. Business potential, brain engaging projects, blah blah. A promising day on the road to a working person’s Utopia. (Where did those days of idealism go? Oh, mortgage and tuition. Right.)

And then.

After our day long meeting, an assistant at the company drove me the three steps to the train station. (I am exaggerating; it is a FIVE minute walk.) She was so gracious and insistent and I was wearing heels, that I couldn’t refuse the offer and the hospitality.

We were having a lovely conversation on the way down to the parking lot and through the quaint suburban streets. A crazy driver with his (I assume) family nearly sideswiped us (at the time, I couldn’t help but think the road aggression was personal), as he tried to barrel ahead through non-existent traffic. Then he started to weave on town streets (but not drunkenly so), only to come up beside us and yell:

“Snapperhead!”

Whaaat? I never heard that word before.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” my gracious host replied.

“What does that even mean? I have never heard that before.”

“It is a derogatory word for Korean.”

Whoa. Did I imagine the earlier aggression? Was he gunning for her?

“Can I get out and beat him with my heels?”

I was so mad and so outraged at this man with a child in the back seat saying such a thing, TEACHING such a thing, that I was ready to fight hate with violence. And that is the wrong way to change hearts and minds but it would have felt really good, especially since he was getting ready to drive away and I only had a few seconds to deliver a message. And I thought a “FUCK YOU” message was the least I could do.

“I have heard worse and the really sad thing is that there is a child in the car who will learn from him.”

“I know. I get that. And I am sorry that about my outburst about beating him with my heels. That is not the answer.”

“I get called names a lot. It hurts but I don’t let it get me down.”

That stunned me. A lot? What is happening to this country?

“I sort of get that, in a small way.” But really the only reason I, an otherwise white, privileged woman, get it is because I am gay. So, I continued, “I am gay and the hateful things people have shouted at me when I least expect it is so much harder for me because my guard is down. Here we are having a very funny conversation, and someone spews hate out his window. What a misguided coward.”

“Now,” my new friend said, “I don’t get that discrimination. . . .”

I was shocked. How do you think of others in this situation? My new friend has a kind and gentle soul Our conversation continued as to how to undo and prevent these types of prejudices. I was almost late for my train.

In the midst of suburban quaintness, immense wealth and potential deal-making, there converged narrow-minded ugliness and the resilience of the derided person’s sense of humanity and justice.

And a moment shared between two women of different backgrounds, cultures, economic classes, and races, who have both been bruised by prejudice, albeit to different degrees.

That was moment that turned a good day into a great day. And filled an otherwise cynical New Yorker with hope.

Vestiges of a past cast off

Posted on November 12, 2013 by 40andover

ULOB was not a religious man. During his adult life, he went into synagogues only for family rites of passage. And only if my mother told him he had to be there.

When he was a boy, his mother wanted him to have a Bar Mitzvah. His father — my grandfather — renounced religion and didn’t care. But it was so important to Grandma. She wanted ULOB to be a man — a Jewish man –before G-d. Even though she was persecuted for being a Jew.

ULOB often talked of sitting with the foul-smelling rabbi learning to read Hebrew and practicing his Torah portion while the rebbetzin (the rabbi’s wife) washed the floor and did any number of back-breaking jobs.

I think his Bar Mitzvah was on a Thursday. I got the sense that it was mid-morning. My grandmother was possibly upstairs but definitely behind a curtain (michitza) and at least 10 old men were in the main room of the shtebl.

Grandma brought whiskey and some cake for the celebration afterward. She had to save to put out that meager spread. ULOB said the rabbi and the other men scarfed down the food and drink so fast that there were barely crumbs left. No one said a word to Grandma. She was invisible. But Grandma was proud.

ULOB never wanted to go back after that. Even more, almost every touch of Yiddishkeit and every tradition that a Jew learns by osmosis in a Jewish home seemed to drain out of his body over the years. The transition was so complete that he worked on Yom Kippur, ate ham and cheese on rye during Passover, and AROB and he celebrated Christmas.

Imagine my surprise when, as SOB and I were cleaning out ULOB’s apartment after his death, I found his tallis (prayer shawl) in a bag. He had kept that tallis for 73 years.

The one vestige. I bet he couldn’t let go of it because of what that day meant to his mother.

The Wholeness of Life

Posted on November 11, 2013 by 40andover

Alfred Nobel made his fortune in creating, manufacturing and selling agents of destruction (dynamite, etc.) He was called the “merchant of death”.

SIDEBAR: I got this information from Wikipedia and I am happy to cite this source. Are you listening Rand Paul? Also, Randy (may I call you Randy), citing Wikipedia is ok for a blog, but not in a speech if one is looking to fill the Oval Office.

Posthumously, Nobel set up the Peace Prize(s). Seems a little like Andrew Carnegie, a psychopath in life who wanted to be remembered as a generous and civic-minded man.

While I tease SOB about getting the Nobel, I love that she was awarded the Wholeness of Life Award, on Thursday night.

The award is given to a person who is an exceptional teacher, mentor and professional, embodies compassion in the treatment of patients and their families, and exemplifies the gold standard of commitment to patient care.

SOB is grateful every day that she gets to go to work and help people. She doesn’t think she deserves the award. (She is wrong.)

I had to tell SOB not to ruin the ceremony by being too self-deprecating. Anyway, the evening was all about Mom, whom I was channeling, who would have been over the moon at the award and a little miffed that it took so long to recognize her first born.

Nobel, Shmobel. He was not a good guy and we don’t need his stupid, stinking award.

In fact, I am canceling our trip to Oslo.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Tag Archives: Life