Hello! Yes, it has been a while. Part 1

Posted on September 21, 2014 by 40andover

I hope everyone had a good summer.

Time for Fall. Time for the Jewish High Holy Days. Time to sit in sack cloth and ashes and mourn the long sunny days and the sultry nights of summer. And that my summer was not anything like the summers I remember when I was younger.

I have learned many things this summer, some profound and some not so. All important.

Dad continues a slow downward trajectory but never loses the essential elements (and annoyances) of the man he is. Dad called me one morning.

SIDEBAR: how DOES he call on my cell phone and office phone simultaneously???

He was quite fussed about the bank calling him about credit and debit cards, etc. He couldn’t understand what the caller was saying.

“Dad, I will call Chase and find out. Did you give the caller any information?”

“No. Nothing, but the caller seemed to know all my card numbers.“

“That’s a good sign, Dad. There is no odd activity on your accounts [I have them linked to mine and pulled them up while we were talking]. I will call and find out and call you back.”

“Thank you, darling. I feel so much better. You will call me right back?“

I have a colleague in my office and a deadline, but this is my dad. “As soon as I get some answers. Don’t worry I am ON it.”

I call. Chase is being cautious with recent security breaches, and is sending my father all new cards. I asked about any odd activity because what I see on the computer looks to be in real time but there may have been odd charges rejected.

“I am sorry, M’am. I will need your father on the line to answer these questions.“

“I have power of attorney. His accounts are linked to mine. Why do we have to involve my Dad?”

“This has to do with his profile.“

I have no idea what this means. The most important aspect was that for all of the planning, for all of the day-to-day handling of my father’s affairs, there are some places I cannot go without his express permission on tape.

I LEARNED THAT WE NEED TO MAKE BANKS ISSUE “FORMS OF POWER OVER EVERYTHING, INCLUDING, WITHOUT LIMITATION, WHATEVER” so that we can sign these and be finished with the chaos. Because there is the law and there is banking law.

I call Dad back on a three-way conference.

“Dad, I have you on the phone with Chase, so that I can talk to customer service about our inquiry.”

“Don’t you already have that authority?“

SIDEBAR: I love that Dad can still identify stupidity, even in dementia. Which really makes a person wonder about banking in general. (Sorry, Mighty.)

The woman talked, doing her level best to ascertain that my father was who he was, etc., but he was too stressed and needed a familiar voice to prompt him.

“Dad, Stacy needs your name. Dad, would you tell her your name?”

“Dad“.

SIDEBAR: I love that Dad thinks that being dad is who he is.

“Daddy, that is great. Can you give your full name now??”

So, he pretty much got the information right.

“Dad, that last question was do you give me, [Blogger], permission to talk to Stacy about your affairs.”

“Of course; I thought we did that already.”

“Ok, Dad, you can hang up now and I will call you back shortly.”

“Ok, darling. I love you.“

“I love you, Daddy. Thanks. I will call you back soon.”

All was ok. I resolved the matter and recapped with Dad.

“I am a lucky man, to have the kids I have.“

“We are lucky. These things are complicated and we can do this for you. And we want to do this for you.”

“With nothing to worry about, I might live past 120!!“

“Don’t worry, Dad, we have that covered, too, but your children will be on social security, so we will have to pool resources. . . . ”

Another day, another problem resolved.

WHAT I LEARNED (AGAIN):

Little kids, little problems.
Big kids, big problems.
Aging parent, a combination of both and . . .

And I can only hope that, from day-to-day, there are mostly little problems until the day that it is THE BIG PROBLEM.

The truths about roller coaster rides.

Posted on July 27, 2014 by 40andover

The first truth about roller coaster rides is that it can be scary, exhilarating, fun and vomit-inducing, but, at its end, it delivers you to its starting point and you wobble out onto terra firma.

The second truth is that you don’t need to go to an amusement park to ride one.

Thursday began like any other day. I was late getting to the office for a call with opposing counsel. I didn’t even try to blame the trains. I emailed him on my subway ride to push back the call 15 minutes.

When I get out of the subway, I receive a text from Dad’s home health aide (HHA).

“Have your sister call me immediately.”

My sister, SOB (sister of blogger] is a doctor. This is not good. I call SOB immediately.

“SOB, it’s [Blogger], call HHA immediately. She just texted that she needs to speak with you. Call me after you speak to her.”

I am shaking. Is this the day? I don’t exactly remember the walk to my office. But as I start to turn on my computer, my ringing cell phone snaps me back.

“It’s [SOB], HHA had to call 911 because Dad is basically non-responsive.”

Is this the day that Dad dies?

SOB and I know that we have to run to Dad’s house before anyone takes him to a hospital, so we can evaluate the situation. He is almost 94 years old and has told us, again and again, that he wants to die in his bed. And, unless there was acute pain or discomfort to relieve, being in a hospital is only torture for a person his age. Old age is old age. This is not a curable condition. It is a fact of life.

I run part of the way there. SOB is still in traffic. I look at Dad. He is now alert and comfortable on the gurney. He knows me and seems relieved I am there. He has no pain but looks so tired. He smiles as he does when family walks into the room. Our embrace is awkward because he is on a gurney.

“Dad, [SOB] is coming any minute and we will figure out whether you need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, darling. Let’s wait for [SOB].”

The EMTs tell me all his vitals are good. Apparently, Dad slumped over at breakfast and HHA couldn’t rouse him. She literally lifted him and had him lean on her while she got him to his bed in his bedroom. The EMTs said he was non-responsive when they got there but with a little rubbing on his sternum, he started to wake up.

Dad hovered between life and death and came back to life.

So, TODAY IS DEFINITELY NOT THE DAY. Still, the crisis isn’t over until the EMTs unstrap Dad from the gurney and they leave his house.

And Dad had mentioned heart disease, so the EMTs want to take him to the hospital.

“Dad is in mild heart failure. Who isn’t at almost 94? There is heart disease in his family, but he takes no medications, except an evening scotch.”

And then Dad says:

“They might not get paid if they came all this way and don’t come back with a patient.”

The EMTs smile. They understand that my father wants to do the honorable thing. They are also a little confused by his seeming clarity in one moment and his dementia in another. The EMTs wait for SOB to arrive (G-d bless professional courtesy).

Then Dad said:

“Before we go anywhere, I have to say goodbye to my wife.”

The EMTs look at me and look at HHA, who is 50 years his junior.

“NO, NO, NO,” I say. “Look at the wall. See the painting? That is Mom in 1967. He needs to say good-bye to HER.”

OMG OMG OMG. This still could be the day. Oh, SHIT.

The EMTs were fabulous. One was a little circumspect, probing about my knowledge of Dad’s medical and mental state. I appreciated his concern and we walked a little away from Dad.

“Look, my father has been exceptionally healthy his whole life. He is at the end of his life. If he is not in pain or gasping, why would I want newly minted doctors (it IS July, after all) poking and prodding him? But, let’s wait for the real doctor, my sister.”

Then that EMT starts to test my knowledge of Jewish culture and Yiddishkeit. The Blogger family name is stereotypically Jewish. And he was testing me to figure out if I understood the Commandment to honor my father and my mother.

SOB walks in and consults with the EMTs. Then she says to both of them:

“Last time he was in a hospital, it was for a brain bleed resulting from tripping on the sidewalk. Although he was in neuro ICU and was watched by a private nurse, he got out of bed twice and fell both times. Since then he wanders. A hospital is not a safe place for him. He has terrific 24 hour care at home. And my sister and I are each a cab ride away.”

Both EMTs understood. The circumspect EMT (who turned out to be an observant Jew) was more comfortable when we knew some Yiddish and when we told him that we had been through this drill before and we had tended to our mother in her dying days.

He said, “We have to call the supervisor. I fear Hashem [G-d], my wife, gobblins and my supervisor, and your dad said he wanted to go to the hospital before you both arrived.”

“I get that. Make yourselves to home. Can we give you something to drink or eat?”

The observant Jew demurred. The other EMT said, his wife packs food. So I asked, “you fear both your wife and Ha-Shem on this score.” He nodded.

The EMTs and Dad start to talk. They ask how he feels.

“It is the end.”

“End of what, sir?”

“The end of my life.”

Those words hang in the air, until interrupted by the arrival of the supervisor. The supervisor calls the doctor on duty. Everyone groans.

“What’s wrong with this doctor?” I ask, thinking the nightmare has just begun.

“He’s been sued a lot. He will want to enforce transport to the hospital.”

WAIT. WAIT. I have power of attorney. My sister has health proxy. We, and our 24/7 nursing care, take excellent care of Dad. We see him all of the time. We know his wishes, his medical history and, hell, what he eats in the diner and what he hates in a museum. We speak to him everyday and see him every weekend. Dad has told us what he wants and he trusts us. And we love him.

DIDN’T YOU SEE THAT HE WASN’T AFRAID ANYMORE WHEN HIS CHILDREN ARRIVED? THAT HE PERKED UP? HOW CAN THIS DOCTOR OVER THE PHONE ENFORCE THE TRANSPORT TO THE HOSPITAL?

Well, he did. SOB and I would not stand for it. Dad was sitting in a chair talking and feeling comfortable. He didn’t need to go to the hospital.

“Call the doctor back. NOW!”

At this point the EMTs are rooting for keeping Dad home. And I was ready to name Dr. [Blank] in a lawsuit. After the doctor spoke to Dad, he asked to speak to the daughter who is the lawyer. NOT THE DAUGHTER WHO IS THE DOCTOR. This is some paranoid dude.

“Yes, Dr. [Blank}.”

“Ms. [Blogger], BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH” – I made the universal hari kari sign so everyone in the room could feel my pain — “Your father could have any number of issues.”

“Dr. [Blank], he is almost 94 years old. Can any of those potential issues be prevented by a hospital visit today? We can agree that the answer is no. And you have our family’s thanks for not compelling transport to a hospital. I appreciate your advice on guardianship. Thank you, doctor.”

The EMTs cheer the outcome. We hugged one EMT and I said to the observant Jew, “I won’t hug you or shake your hand, but I would if you weren’t observant.”

“Thank you. In this case, I fear my wife first. Hashem, second.”

SMART MAN, THAT EMT.

All non-essential personnel left. I went out to get pizza for everyone. To celebrate success after the two hours that felt like ten. We ate. We all sacked out for an hour.

SOB went into Dad’s bedroom to check on him. He was glad that he stayed at home. He was glad to have his children around and he felt loved and supported by all of his children, even though our brother lives far away. He told SOB what a lucky man he is and what a good life he has had. The drift toward the inevitable is beginning.

We all got up a kibbitzed. Soon it was cocktail hour.

“Dad,” SOB started, “there needs to be a new rule in the usual [Blogger family] protocol in these circumstances: If ambulance comes, no scotch at cocktail hour.”

Dad wasn’t so ok with it. So I had to draw it from him. The new addition to our protocol:

IF AMBULANCE,

THEN

Dad fought it tooth and nail and enjoyed the tussle with his kids. He was present in a way he is not usually. His mind was more clear (but still out there). He was a little pale, but he survived.

The day turned out to be a great day, because:

We met wonderful people — the EMTs — who care about the people they help.

And, Death took a holiday of sorts for our family.

SOB and I stagger off the roller coaster. The ride was rough but everyone survived.

Jericho

Posted on July 17, 2014 by 40andover

In the Book of Joshua, the Israelites destroy the walls of Jericho by walking around it with the Ark of the Covenant for seven days, once per day for the first six and seven for last, blowing the Shofar (rams’ horn) and shouting to make the walls fall down (Joshua 6:14-15). [Courtesy of Wikipedia].

Well, I wasn’t so lucky. Or maybe that Jericho was an easy mark. Jericho, Long Island ain’t no biblical anything.

I was cleaning out a storage room of deceased family friends (don’t ask), in central Long Island.

SIDEBAR: There is a reason why their remaining worldly possessions are house in mid-Long Island. That is for another blog (maybe not; too boring even for this blog).

Almost all of the valuables have been sold; I must go through the rest to make sure that there are no undiscovered valuables wrapped together with the bed frame.

[NYCFOB: I could not even ask your help until I gain control of the contents.]

Yes, I am insane to take such a curatorial tact with this stuff. But they were a very special and wonderful couple, deserving of love and care even with the disposal of the detritus of their lives.

BUT THEN I HAD TO GO TO JERICHO, LONG ISLAND. A decidedly, non-biblical place.

WHYYYYYY?

The nearest Good Will drop-off was along the Jericho Turnpike.

The Jericho Turnpike.

The Jericho Turnpike?

The Jericho Turnpike was a thing a folklore, where 1970s radio advertisements told you to go to get the best deal on 8-Track tapes and Betamaxes and shag carpets [yes, yes, we are THAT old]. It WAS the place for all things advertised on the summer Top 40s radio shows. Casey Kasem was the king of Pop and the Jericho Turnpike.

Still, still, while I am not “Legally Blonde,” I am the quintessential “Parochial Manhattanite“.

As a proud and parochial Manhattanite, I go through life without owning a car, without thinking before hailing a cab and without wondering that I am lucky that everything I want is within three blocks (or it must be delivered).

So, the CITY GIRL INVADES THE MID-ISLAND.

There couldn’t be a better horror story.

There should have been a travel advisory.

And, my rented minivan (which takes TWO parking spaces on a Manhattan street) didn’t have GPS.

AND, NO, GOOD WILL DOES NOT PICK UP EVEN IF YOU ARE UNLOADING APPLIANCES, FURNITURE, CLOTHES, ETC. IN BULK.

SO I GO TO HEMPSTEAD, ON THE JERICHO TURNPIKE (so why is it called Hempstead and not Jericho?)

And I have to look for the Sleepy’s across from something else and turn off into the mall to get to the Good Will place. [The people there seemed to be out of the good will stuff. Just sayin’.]

Did the customer service guy ever hear of map coordinates like, say, 56th Street between First and Second Avenues??? NAAAAHHHHHH.

And, so, I have to turn off at Sleepy’s.

As if I know where the Sleepy’s IS.

As if I have GPS.

As if I could tell the difference between the Sleepy’s and the OTHER bed store across the way.

Ok, I unload all of the stuff, valuable to someone but unsaleable in the conventional sense. Then, back to the storage room to get the rest of the items that can garner some money for the estate.

Except, I am stuck in Jericho. Prisoner of a Biblical tale. Without the Ark. Without a Shofar. Just a lot of traffic and malls.

Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!! where are you? Didn’t the Israelites conquered Jericho?

Then I remembered that I believe that the Bible is a written collection of oral history and legend.

OOOPS. Bad time to be a Conservative-yet-Reconstructionist Jew

Ain’t Biblical justice a b*tch.

Life Is Beautiful

Posted on May 22, 2014 by 40andover

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined the immense joy in seeing my nephews happy and proud. Never did I think I would have a child, much less adore him, warts and all.

Never did I imagine that I had warts. (Ok, we ALL grow up.)

Never did I imagine that my brother-in-law would be my brother, too. Or that my sister-in-law, 7 years my junior, would evoke such respect, love and awe for her “male management” in the Shap Shack. [I wish we were closer in geography, time and heart.]

Or that my brother and I, sometimes so diametrically opposed yet so alike in manner, in humor and in comic timing, would sit companionably at a table where he and my son were feasting on pork in a Jewish home.

Or that my brother’s son would come north and share sleep away camp with my son, his cousin.

These are the gifts of family. Gifts of age. And, with age, the gift of perspective.

But most important, these are, yes, the gifts that make life beautiful and bountiful and safe.

The gifts that wait for us to grow, change, reject what was, and then, coming full circle, accept what was and, as a consequence, what is.

And the gifts for which, even in the moments of sorting out the affairs of the living and the dead (and those hovering in between), I am grateful. Because it means that SOB, BOB and I will have each other. And, that, in bad times, in desperate times, in unfair times, we can rely on each other.

Because no matter how far off any of us travels, or how bad things get, there is, at long last, the ties that bind. The door that is wide open. Even more important, the loving arms that beckon us into a secure embrace.

And that makes life, indeed, beautiful and full.

[P.S.: I rented a Texas-size car for visiting day at camp. Just in case SOB and HOSOB want to join the road trip.]

The Years Spin By and Now the Girl is 50

Posted on April 30, 2014 by 40andover

Dear Mom:

So I have moved 50 times ’round the seasons.

And my dreams have lost some grandeur coming true.

There were new dreams along the way. Some of them still matter; some were fantasies of youthful exuberance and abject cluelessness.

I am not scared of growing older. (Ok, I am not happy with droopy eyelids you gave me.)

And now I drag my feet to slow down time (or the circles, to keep the Joni Mitchell motif). Really, to hold onto to the stories and memories of you, Dad and the older generation. I look at the old pictures to remind me of the people who made me (for better or worse) the person I am today. Those fallible, lovable and wildly eccentric (ok, our family once was poor, so I think we only qualify as “crazy”) people.

I am starting to forget some of the stories. Dad has forgotten almost everything. I can’t lose you any more than I already have. And I need room to experience and remember the joys of your grandchildren, all three wonderful boys, and especially my little guy, SOS.

Years ago, when I imagined turning 50, I thought I would have security, maturity and direction in life. And I fully expected that you would be telling me the story about my birth, as you always did. Life doesn’t conform to expectations; they are really hopes and desires locked into a time and place.

Even though life at 50 is nothing as I expected, I feel lucky looking in my rear-view mirror and I am (cautiously) hopeful about the road ahead.

Ok, maybe I am scared a little about the road ahead. I have to remember that I am strong and the road these past years hasn’t been a cake walk and I am still standing. And I have to draw on the memories of those who made me strong without wallowing in the past.

But it is hard when you, my biggest cheerleader, are gone. And sometimes, late at night, when the world is too much with me, I need a guiding hand, a loving voice, and my Mom who had lived through so much, quieting my fears. I try to imagine you. It doesn’t always work.

Tonight, we had a pre-birthday dinner. SOB and I fought over the check. (Could you tell her to let me win just a few times?) SOB and I told the stories you would have told about SOB’s birth, BOB’s birth and my birth on our birthdays. The same stories, over and over again. And they get better with each telling.

One of the best stories concerns SOB’s birth. Aunt Gertie, who had three sons, waited until you opened your eyes to storm into your hospital room and screeched at Uncle Leon [Dad’s brother], “See, Natie could give Elsie a girl!!” Mom, you always said that was the most painful part of childbirth.

Have I mentioned recently how much you would have loved and adored HOSOB? Such a pity you never met. And I know you would be so happy that Cousin Gentle rounds out the crew. I know, I know, why can’t Dallas be closer to New York? You tell me, Mom. You are as close as they get to the Big Guy. Ask Him to work on plate tectonics or something. See what you can do.

Mom, you are the missing person at every gathering, every simcha and every sad time. And I miss your warm hand always reaching out to hold SOB’s or BOB’s or mine. Even at the end, you always reached for us.

And we still reach back, hoping you feel us across the great divide.

I love you forever, Mom.

~ Blogger

Life with Father, episode 16

Posted on April 15, 2014 by 40andover

At the Passover Seder, brisket is served, because:

the majority of the attendees are, well, carnivor-tarians;
we have delicious things for the vegetarians, vegans and those gluten-free; and
G-d did not deliver us from Egypt to eat turkey.

Dad likes a thinly sliced and lean brisket. I like thick slices of the marbled cut, so it is moist but not fatty.

SIDEBAR: Also? I cannot cut brisket in thin slices. I suck at it.

Dad is quite forgetful nowadays; yet, he is capable of moments of startling clarity. Especially concerning the cut and the slicing of the brisket.

In the run up to the Seder, Dad instructed me any number of times about how my slicing is too thick (dare he say, in-elegant? (yes, yes, he dared)) and that the meat was not lean enough.

SIDEBAR: Tell it to the poor grass fed cow who guest-starred at dinner.

When it came to the stressful moment when I had to cut the brisket, my hands were shaking. And, as the meat crumbled under my slicing, I was almost in tears that Dad would notice the disastrous cutting of the brisket more than anything else about Seder.

Seder seemed to go well. Dad ate his fill and was in a good, if disconnected, mood.

I spoke to him this afternoon. As he complimented me on my leading of the discussion about the Exodus from Egypt, he also mentioned the “crazy style of food” at Seder.

My heart sank. I couldn’t hold it in.

“Daddy, I am so sorry about the crumbly brisket and the thick slices. I just can’t cut it the way you do!”

“Well, darling, why didn’t you ask me to cut the brisket? I would have been happy to.”

UH OH. It is a delicate balance: elegant brisket AND a deranged old man with a knife or safety and not so pretty brisket. I know, it is a toss up.

“Dad, let’s discuss this next year, ok?”

“Ok, darling, but it will look and taste a lot better . . . .”

And so we add another prayer to our Seder:

Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’alom, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitsivanu al slicing of the brisket.

Blessed is G-d, Sovereign of the Universe, Who hallows our lives through commandments and Who has commanded us regarding the slicing of the brisket.

Happy holidays.

The Future is Bright

Posted on March 29, 2014 by 40andover

I am executrix/administrator/trustee/attorney-in-fact for quite a few in the elder generation, whether alive and dead or, frankly, somewhere in between.

When ULOB died, he had no will. So his only heirs at law were those immediate blood relations who survived him — SOB, BOB and me. The word, “heir,” has a connotation that one sits back and someone unknown official throws money and jewels at such lucky heir.

Now, back to reality. There was an apartment to clean out, assets to be gathered, debts to be paid and tax returns to be filed. And that means that at least one person has to step up and seek appointment by the surrogate’s court as administrator. Translation: At least one of SOB, BOB and me.

I drew the short straw. I don’t actually think we had a contest. I think SOB and BOB met when I was in the bathroom and decided that I was in charge. At least they apologized.

And so, I became the court-appointed administrator for ULOB. The gathering of assets and paying of debts were not difficult. Figuring out the fate of the annuities that named the two women of his life — AROB and POULOB — as joint beneficiaries, was harder.

SIDEBAR: All I can say that if AROB and POULOB had both survived ULOB and I had to divide these annuities between the two — well, I would not think so kindly of ULOB. AROB (z”l) made life less uncomfortable by predeceasing ULOB.

And then, there are three tax returns — one for the year in which ULOB died, one of ULOB’s estate and one that I have to file as the fiduciary of his estate. Every one of these measures different periods and sometimes counts the same money. “Whatever,” the three of us say, it isn’t going to bring ULOB back to life so we pay unto Caesar that which the Tax Code says.

Except we didn’t know much about ULOB’s finances. I chose to continue using ULOB’s long time accountant to make sure we covered everything. Continuity is important in these matters, And, because ULOB’s accountant was probably older than ULOB, I also have a lawyer overseeing things.

I sent the stuff off to ULOB’s accountant and hadn’t heard in weeks. I emailed the lawyer, wondering if perhaps the elder CPA had . . . . Luckily, he emailed me that day. “I am missing social security and pension information. Can’t do returns without them. Also need 1099s through date of death.”

SIDEBAR: ULOB never had very steady work, so who knew he had a [as it turned out, miniscule] pension? And because I am also consumed with Dad’s taxes, I forgot about the 1099 for social security. That was my oversight.

Aaargh. The latter request was easy. But what pension? And the Social Security Administration? The mail had stopped coming long ago. Oy Oy Oy Oy.

KILL ME NOW. I WILL MAKE IT EASY AND LIE IN THE MIDDLE OF SIXTH AVENUE.

I looked in ULOB’s decrepit files and figured out the pension source. But I had to email my siblings.

From: [Blogger]
To: [SOB]; [BOB]
Date: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 16:23:25 -0400
Subject: [ULOB]

So, I learned that [ULOB] got a pension from the Equity League. Trying to get a 1099. Also, on the phone with Social Security Administration for a 1099. I am never being anyone’s executor again ever. [emphasis added]

I thought that was a clear statement of my intentions and future wishes. In retrospect, I should have had a court “so-order” it.

Actually getting the 1099s were time consuming but not difficult (but absolutely bloggable –especially at the SSA office — at another time). [P.S.: if anyone needs a guide through the morass, just call or email me.]

In four hours, I got both replacement 1099s. In triumph, I sent an email to my siblings:

*Got’em*
[Blogger]

Sent:	Thursday, March 27, 2014 12:51 PM
To:	[SOB]; [BOB]

Went to the Equity League pension office AND the social security administration and got both missing 1099s!!!!! I am basking the glory of a productive day. (although not so productive from a career perspective.)

But still I do not want any more responsibilities, especially since managing the world of Dad (may he live to 120) is a constant project. And then SOB, ever the protective older sister, sends me a reply email, gently quieting my fears about the future, all the while adding an additional burden:

[Blogger], Thank you for managing all Dad’s finances and [ULOB]’s will and finances.

I’m sorry but I listed you as my executor, but don’t worry as we will both be demented and incompetent so you will be excused from the task. [emphasis added]

Love,

[SOB]

After a moment of shaking my fist at the screen, I laughed out loud. SOB always brings me back to the proper perspective. We will both be in our 90s (G-d willing) and then . . . who cares? I will be executor. No problem, SOB. Bring it on.

The future is, indeed, bright and carefree, after all.

Big Game

Posted on February 3, 2014 by 40andover

Yesterday was game day. The big one. The game that unites more Americans in a single activity at the same time than any other event at any other time:

THE SUPER BOWL.

SOS was very excited. I found this odd because SOS is not so much a player as he is a (more-than-slightly reserved) spectator. Let’s be honest, his favorite sport is rigorous reading of incredibly sophisticated tomes.

On Saturday, I asked SOS why he was so interested in the Super Bowl.

“I am interested in all cultural phenomena, [Blogger]!”

Well, all right, then. While I loved to play sports, I am a pop-culture moron. He will be far better equipped for the real world.

As late as Saturday, we were non-committal as to which team to support. The Sea Hawks are from Seattle and we have family in the Northwest Territories. But, Peyton Manning is Eli’s brother and Eli is our home town-ish QB.

Two things tipped the balance in favor of the Sea Hawks: our Washington and Oregon family were in town and we saw the first play of the game which was a disaster.

By 6:35pm on Sunday, we were firmly in the Sea Hawks’ camp.

SOS brought out a football to hold during the game. And, I thought, there are things that all boys do. It is on the Y chromosome, along with smelly feet and spank magazines.

We started to throw the ball around the living room and we “ran the ball in” and tackled each other during some commercials and some play time. All the time, I was scared that his brains will spill out of his head in a bad fall. Nothing more than a few scratches and bruises — on me.

(That boy can tackle. OUCH.)

I had to throw a red penalty schmatah [Yiddish for rag] on our field. And I stood up and declared:

“TOTALLY offensive and painful jab to a mother’s breast. 10 yard penalty. 3rd down. Time-out, [Blogger].”

Then we giggled.

“[Blogger], you are the dad I will never had. But you are also my mom which is a bonus.”

I got misty-eyed and proud. And that is probably politically incorrect, but I don’t really give a damn.

In a split-second, as if to remind me that we are not the family in a Lifetime made-for-TV movie, he announced:

“The Sea Hawks are winning by so much that it is boring. I am going to catch some Downton Abbey until bed. Tell me if anything exciting happens.”

He scurried off into another room to watch a drawing room soap opera already in progress.

But he left the football with me. Thanks, bud.

Temple of Treyf

Posted on January 26, 2014 by 40andover

BOB came for a visit this weekend. Dad and SOS were beyond excited. SOB and I were consumed by logistics (but happy).

I was running late on Friday so I asked BOB (who, contrary to apocryphal legend, was, in fact, born and raised in NYC) to take care of ordering dinner.

I walked into Dad’s house, even later than I estimated. All gathered were waiting for me to make decisions about the dinner menu. Clearly, I have made life too easy on those assembled.

“[BOB] and [SOS], go and figure out what we are eating from this menu!”

SIDEBAR: I rummaged through the menus and handed one to BOB. Seriously, I could have phoned this in.

SIDEBAR: Cuisine? You need to ask? Chinese, of course. After all, it is the Sabbath and we are Jews.

After two or three calls to the take-out place, I learned that BOB was a little rusty about ordering etiquette in NYC. Nevertheless, as soon as he hung up from the last correction, the deliveryman showed up at Dad’s door.

SIDEBAR: More proof for my hypothesis that someone stirs the wok on the back of the delivery bicycle and, no matter what we order, we get whatever the mobile kitchen whips up.

Let’s just say that this was not our usual selection. It had a Texas flair. We were about to eat HOG HEAVEN. Because pigs died for our meal.

Earlier, BOB was bemoaning WOBOB’s fixation on having a pet pig. I almost thought BOB’s aversion to a pet pig had something to do with his cultural heritage. The dinner menu was proof otherwise.

Then, I had sympathy not for BOB, but for the potential pet pig. Poor pig, thinking that if the family will eat his/her relatives, that the pet pig might be next.

As I have aged (and as life has steamrolled over me) I have become less doctrinaire about most things. Still, not eating pork or other treyf wasn’t born of religious conviction.

SIDEBAR: treyf means unclean. It is often used to refer to non-kosher food.

I don’t digest dairy well; I am allergic to most seafood; and Mom and Dad didn’t serve pork in the house. The last time I remember eating spareribs was before BOB’s Bar Mitzvah, in 1974.

Nevertheless, I was shocked initially at BOB’s order: pork dumplings, spareribs, pork fried rice. Every vegetable dish had meat in it. “Part vegetarian” is now a new dish classification in our family.

And, remembering how Grandma ate from kosher plates with her own kosher food even in her beloved daughter’s home made me a little queasy.

Secretly, I have had a yen for spareribs for about 10 years. I was inwardly delighted at being so close to the forbidden fruit and knowing we were so far away from Gan Eden (the Garden of Eden) that, well, what the hell?

And, bonding with BOB over a sparerib and breaking any number of taboos in my parents’ house were gifts. And, when Dad is the way he is, and Mom is dead, and loved ones in our generation are facing down mortality, eating pork seemed so unimportant, especially in exchange for a shared moment with my big brother.

And we haven’t even discussed what was on the pizzas for Saturday night dinner. I couldn’t even try it.

Let’s just say, BOB likes him some pork products.

BOB is a loving guy and, I have determined after this weekend, that while he wants to make his family happy, he is just concerned that a pet pig wouldn’t be safe with him.

After eating with him this weekend, I respect that.

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?

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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