Operating Instructions

Posted on November 10, 2013 by 40andover

People gave us books when SOS was in utero and after he was born. For every cry, there were three interpretations and four potential psychiatric problems that could arise from handling that cry incorrectly. I thought I would go insane. Do I read more and get totally neurotic or do I do what feels rights and put money away for SOS’s therapy fund? I opted to do the latter.

When it comes to the cycle of life, when the elderly become children again, there are no books. I guess because babies are blank slates, but grown children and their aging parents have lifetimes of issues and patterns of behavior that make meaningless those grossly generalized “operating instructions”.

After much heartache, I finally realized that there is no right way to navigate this time in our lives. I cannot “cure” Dad of his loneliness and his confusion. SOB, the NYC family and I can see him three times a week, and at least two of his three children call him every day. And poor BOB flies in for less than two days every few months.

But there are hours — those damned, never-ending hours in a day — that no one other than Mom (who is gone almost 11 years) can animate. We cannot replace this with our calls, and the kibbitzing he enjoys with his home aides. He is lost even more now than in the years that followed Mom’s death.

And I cannot beat myself up about that.

And when he wants to take over his finances again, because as he says, “I am embarrassed that I haven’t been following up,” I have to be firm and relieve him of responsibility: “Daddy, you cannot manage this anymore. That is why I am here.” He always seems relieved and yet deflated. He knows that he cannot handle these things.

I am honest and, I hope, gentle. He was concerned about his taxes today. “Daddy, I have it covered. No worries.”

Still there is a part of him that doesn’t want to accept that he has given up control. I love that because that is my Dad trying to break through the confusion. The never-let-go and never-give-up fighter who is my Dad. So, I go over everything with him and explain all the expenses. He deserves this and I, quite frankly, am accountable. It is a sacred trust.

But, every week, I have to shred mail he sends back to scam outfits. That is also my sacred trust.

He won’t believe that they are scams and we have to substitute our judgment for his. We no longer tell him because it unnecesarily sets up a challenge of his pride against reality. No one needs that. And we, his kids, need to navigate that gray area between what is the right decision for him and the preservation of the specter of his independence and pride. The bubble of his life — safe, even though mostly lonely and a little confused — is too important.

I know how long precisely how long his savings will last at his current “burn rate” (24 hour care is expensive). And it is a good long while, but it won’t last until he is 120 — Moses’s age. The problem is I made him promise he would live at least until then. So, his kids will pick up the slack if we are lucky enough for him to be with us for another 27 years.

Because I can’t lose Dad, even if he hasn’t existed as such for a long time. I lost my “dad” when Mom died. I lost my “father” on September 19, 2012, when he tripped and had a brain bleed.

But the lovely old man who inhabits my daddy’s/father’s body is a lovely, cheerful, optimistic man who loves us and makes no sense when he tries to be in the conversation. But we know what he wants to say and we respond to that. And we love him.

And I owe it to my father to shroud him in the same abundance of love and safety in which Mom and he raised us. Until 120 or whenever.

The Family of Your Family Are Your Friends

Posted on October 27, 2013 by 40andover

Tonight was ULOB’s tribute at Dance Manhattan, where he was a teacher and a mentor and a dancer.

We had never met ULOB’s other family — members of the dance world. He had kept his life very compartmentalized. A survival instinct he learned from his refugee parents. My mother, his sister, shed some of that armor because of Dad, the happiness of her life and, I hope, her children. But back to the mystery that is ULOB.

His dance studio wanted to pay tribute to him. He was beloved. But little known. In fact, no one knew he had family or that he was a tap dancer, a ballet dancer, a Broadway dancer, a choreographer (even for the Playboy Club, Gloria Steinem forgive us) or a director, producer and writer of “Me and My Shadow” about the legendary Billy Rose.

One of the dancers said to me, “He was so giving and generous on the dance floor and so in tune with his partner, in a way that very few dancers are. But he was not someone who chit-chatted about life and family. That was separate.”

None knew that he was in an early production of Carousel:

No one knew about AROB or POULOB. Or us. We were as shocked at the outpouring of love in that dance studio as they were that there was family to celebrate his life and host the tribute. Pictures of the room before it filled up:

His age, his background, his training were all mysteries to the present day dancers. They didn’t know his stellar credentials, his serious training, his unrecognized talent. They knew him simply as Larry, an aging, endearing, dancer who must be have been something in his prime.

SOB and I arranged for the refreshments (wine and food) but one thing that was done solely by the studio was:

SOB and I were teary-eyed.

Who knew that others missed ULOB? During the two-hour reception, so many told us how much he touched their lives.

The studio kept him on as an instructor until he was beyond his capabilities to teach. But for most of his life he taught, and he learned from, his students.

He was a private man and no one will write a column in the New York Times Magazine about the life he lived.

But they should. And they should remember him like this:

With wild applause as he exits stage left.

Tales of Aging in the City

Posted on October 27, 2013 by 40andover

It was, more or less, a typical Saturday.

SOB and I disposed of a week’s worth of scam mail that Dad receives. Official-looking scams targeting the elderly. Here is t hree days’ worth on its way to the shredder: Dad was affable enough about our rummaging through the house in search of mail and chucking it. I guess he was hungry and wanted to see his pals at COTUD (Coffee Shop of the UnDead).

Yes, the Coffee Shop of the UnDead

(cue suspenseful music)

En route, we bumped into a man who was once our upstairs neighbor and our playmate 40 years ago. His mother, who always seemed a lovely woman, still lives in Dad’s building and she is sick. And he is taking care of her. I wanted to think kind thoughts but he is a convicted pedophile. He wanted to hug and kiss us all hello and I wanted to vomit. I kept my distance. I was so close to screaming and beating him about the head and face.

(Cue clip of Mariska Hargitay of Law and Order: SVU ‘cuffing him.)

He served some (not enough) time and was released. As a citizen, I believe in a criminal justice system that gives convicts a second chance. As a mother, I believe in the death penalty for pedophiles and other predators.

Sidebar: Ain’t the old neighborhood great? There are scary, bad secrets scattered all along the sun-soaked streets of the East Side.

I decided I didn’t need to remind my father of this former neighbor’s felonies. I didn’t think Dad could process it. There are some things Dad doesn’t need to remember. I, of course, was thinking about castration.

We were late to COTUD. I wondered if any of the regulars wondered whether Dad might be more than undead, as it were.

(cue suspenseful music)

No table for us. It was bustling at COTUD. But, because we are regulars and we don’t stay all afternoon, the management likes us. So do the main waiters, Nick and Vassily.

Vassily asked an old woman with a walker to get up and move, so they could put tables together and accommodate us. I was mortified. I went over to the woman and apologized and thanked her.

(cue sadess about the indignities of being old in a fast-paced, youth obsessed world)

We saw Sam and his long-time companion, Norma, who were eating with Norma’s daughter and sons. We had never met Norma’s family.

(cue immediate suspicion)

It was good to see Norma out and about. She is frail. As people grow older, their face lifts and other work seem so distorted against the natural aging (and sagging) of the rest of their bodies. (Just a note to those who are considering “face work”. Even her daughter’s face work could use a little — how do you say? — refreshment.)

Last time SOB saw Norma at the COTUD, they had a pleasant conversation, after which SOB overheard Norma say about Mom:

“Elsie was a special person. It was the first time at a funeral that people used superlatives and they were true!”

(cue sigh and teary eyes)

Ok, so we love Norma. And Sam.

Vassily didn’t even give us menus. The only thing that needed to be said was “french fries, too”.

The fries came. I offered them around. Something was stuck to the underside of the plate.

It was gum.

Peppermint gum.

First, what cretin sticks gum on the underside of a plate and, second, what dishwasher doesn’t clean that?

And this place has an “A” health rating.

(cue visions of the horror flicks like, ‘Wilbur,” about a killer rat.)

Ugh. I scrubbed my hands raw in the less than Grade A bathroom.

Then Harvey came in. He had to take a cab the 1.5 blocks from his apartment building to the diner because it was uphill and he has two canes. (I saw him through the window.)

He took a table right next to us. We greeted him warmly and asked about his wife and (now middle-aged) son.

Barbara, his wife, was at home. “She has dementia and cysts on her legs. But me, I turned 90 and I still work and drive!”

OMG. This is the second public menace we have met today.

I was worried about the driving thing but he can’t get in and out of a car without assistance, so I am pretty sure he doesn’t really drive.

He said to SOB, “you look great — just the same — and still working hard, I am sure.” He looked at me. “You look different.”

Harvey, whom I never liked, was telling me I looked old. I liked his wife, even with her screechy voice. She was always making a jello mold. She always had a bouffant “do”. She perpetually lived in 1969. Even in the 1990s, she brought jello molds to my parents’ Yom Kippur break fast. By then, it was totally cool and retro.

By the end of lunch, SOB and I staggered out. Overwhelmed by the faint smell of peppermint. Horrified at seeing the pedophile free among us. Wistful about time gone by for Sam, Norma, Harvey, Barbara and Dad.

Dad, however, thought it was a fine time in the neighborhood. And that is how it should be for Dad at 93.

93 and going

Posted on October 7, 2013 by 40andover

Dad turned 93 on Saturday. We had a celebratory luncheon at a restaurant.

SOS and I were late getting ready and hopped a cab.

“E-Mom, I am nervous.”

“Why, buddy?”

“Because I feel you are nervous. And I get nervous when you are nervous and my stomach starts to feel queasy.”

My child, the speaker of truths. “I am sorry, buddy, to put my nervousness on you. You are right. I am nervous because I think about the party we had when Grandpa was 90 and he was so strong. And I am scared that he won’t be so present today, because some days are good and others not so good. And it is my dad, and it is hard.”

“It’s ok, E-Mom, I get that. But now that Papa [FOPOB] is just like Grandpa, Grandpa will have good company no matter how he feels.”

Out of the mouths of babes. . . .

“You are so right, buddy. You know, you are wise—”

“E-Mom,” SOS interrupts, “we are almost there and I need quiet to get ready.”

Thank Goodness for SOS’s peculiarities keeping it real; otherwise, I would go to Tibet and claim that he was the future Dalai Lama.

We had a lovely lunch with family. People came from far and wide — BOB from Texas, Cousin Gentle from the Upper West Side, and in the strongest showing, FOPOB came from the upper East Side.

The restaurant is in the Museum of Art and Design, with spectacular views of Broadway and Central Park. We could even see the early signs of leaves changing color for the Fall. The changing of the seasons. The passage of time. The changing of the guard. It was all so bittersweet.

Still, Dad looks so strong as he is making a point about something. Somewhere, deep inside that forgetful, enfeebled, needy, nice old man is our Dad. And sometimes, he is as strong as ever, as supportive as ever, and as opinionated as ever. And in those moments, I could live a lifetime.

Happy birthday, Dad,

When the Laughter is Gone

Posted on September 4, 2013 by 40andover

Laughter comes from understanding irony, timing, and the unbelievable, but true, life situations.

All my life, Dad loved to laugh. He loved to bask in Mom’s aura and take in her stories. He tried to tell a good story (not always so successfully). He loved to play with kids and he laughed and smiled and shared in a child’s delight in playing the hokey pokey. Ask any of my cousins. (But he wasn’t always light and fun, I promise you.)

Dad also appreciated a good story or that welcomed relief from the pressures of the mundane, when you look at the world with your head tilted to the right or left and laugh at the sheer madness and irony of life. Those “no-one-will-believe-it-but-it-is-true” episodes that life hurls at us.

And then, one day in this past year, and I don’t know the precise day, Dad stopped laughing.

It wasn’t the immediate result of his fall and brain bleed. But the trauma probably accelerated, over time, the deterioration of his mental faculties and his logical reasoning.

Laughter is also the last stand against despair and the mundane. And now, Dad, when he needs that relief the most, it eludes him.

But, I will always remember his laughter, even if he can’t any more.

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.

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.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

Tag Archives: Aging