Tag Archives: family

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.

 

Pieces of Paper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was one. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Helpless in New York City

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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.

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.

 

 

Whence comes the light out of this darkness?

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Last night, at our family Chanukah gathering, my cousin and I got into a conversation about the shooting in Newtown.  His premise was that we were being egocentric about this being a tragedy in comparison to what happens the world over — and especially in comparison to the children who die each day from our drone warfare.

I accept all he says as true.  If the United States is killing children, then those who order those attacks are war criminals.  But, just because it happens the world over, doesn’t mean that we should just sit back, throw our hands up and look away.

I cannot change Afghanistan or Congo or Somalia or . . . fill in the blank.  But I can stop my neighbor or my fellow American from spewing NRA-sponsored platitudes.

It must start somewhere.

I asked my cousin, “what am I, as a parent, to do?  Just put this in a larger geo-political context and just accept that human life is cheap?”  “My job,” I told him, “is to protect my child.  And I am not sure that I can do that when mentally ill people have access to guns.”  “Well,” he said, “you can tell your children that you will try to keep them safe but you can’t promise.”

OK OK OK OK OK OK.

My child deserves my unconditional promise that I will keep him safe.  Every child, the world over, deserves his or her parent’s unconditional promise.

Now, the work begins:

What do I need to do to make that unconditional promise to my child?

Stand up to the conventional wisdom.  People with guns kill more people than people without guns.  And, as a society, allowing a mentally ill person to buy (or have access to) a gun is the same as everyone of us driving the shooter to the school and giving him extra ammunition.  We all need to point the finger in the mirror.

Yeah, we need to solve the fiscal cliff and avoid upsetting the Republicans.  Yes, we need to tiptoe around the NRA with its $250,000,000 lobbyist fund.  Yes, we need to wait for someone to do something.

BULL SHIT.

I have a promise to keep.  And, I better get busy.

Marching, donating, talking to people and pressuring our political leaders.

And be ready to throw myself in the way of a bullet spray should it come to that.

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.

an H-E-N-D

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.