Big Game

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.

Just what the doctor ordered

Today is a very snowy day in New York, as it is elsewhere across the country.

After helping my share of elderly up and down the subway stairs —

Sidebar:  REALLY?  Old or infirm navigating the subway stairs that are treacherous for me, an able-bodied (although middle-aged) person?  I thought that’s why we have buses — for the very young and the very old.  I will have to email Mayor DiBlasio.

— I was relieved that Dad was home and safe without any need to go out in this horrible weather.   And, if he needed something, like medicine, his aide would call SOB or me.

I figured today was a slow day for Dad, being cooped up and all, so I called him earlier than my usual 5pm-cocktail hour time slot.

“Hi, Dad, it is [Blogger]”

“[Blogger] sweetheart!! How are you?”

“I am great, Dad.  Some snow, huh?”

Sidebar:  Sometimes, after I have seen Dad for two out of three days’ running, I have to dig deep for conversation.  And, I say things that I never thought I would ever utter: “cold enough for you?” or other, similarly insipid statements-turned-questions.  But, since Dad is not a sportsman, I have never uttered, “how about those Mets?”  G-d bless you, Daddy, for saving my soul and my sanity.

“Oh, yes.  It is crazy out there.  We went out early today.  [Pause. A little background commotion follows.]  Wait, darling, [health aide] wants to talk to you.”

“Hi, [health aide].  Everything ok?”

“We went out before the snow accumulated.  It was safe.  Here is your father.”

Sidebar: Not even a hello?

“So, Dad, where did you go?”

“Well, we were checking our provisions, and it was determined that I was running low on scotch.  And we needed to get more.  So we went up to [a store that is 1.5 miles away] because I like the prices.”

Sidebar:  Since my father now buys wine in a drug store, I am a little afraid of the low-cost scotch that might be going into his system.  But what impressed me was that, clearly, a panel of experts exists in his house to make these medical determinations.  No wonder his health aide felt the need to make sure that I knew there was no ice or snow accumulation because they trekked out in treacherous weather for scotch.

“Dad, would you put [health aide] back on the phone?”

“Yes?” she answered with some trepidation.

“We trust you implicitly so we know Dad is safe.  And, you had to get his medicine.  Because medicine is medicine, no matter who prescribes it.  Would you put Dad back on?”

Dad comes back on.

“Okay, Daddy, enjoy the rest of the day.  I love you and, remember, drink the scotch only as prescribed.”

 

 

Daddy’s Angels (but our devils)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silver Alert (for Dad and Us)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The insightful comments must be my sister’s.

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

And brings joy to every generation at the table.

Operating Instructions

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.

93 and going

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.

photo(16)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

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

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.

Surviving Father’s Day — CHECK!

So, on Saturday morning, I had a talk with SOS, who is dad-less and mom-ful.  We talked about how he felt about this dumb Hallmark holiday (ok, I didn’t say that) and whether there were men in his life whom he wanted to celebrate.

“No, I think that I just want to help you both celebrate your dads.”

Whoa.  Pretty amazing for an almost 11-year old.

Then, on Sunday, at Father’s Day dinner, I was doing the customary toasts and I started with:

“First, a toast to my son, who is here celebrating fathers even though he doesn’t have one and, worse yet, he has two moms.  And, boy, is that a tall order!!”

[Everyone applauded SOS]

“And then, to all of us who have fathers wherever they may be, let’s toast them.  Let’s eat!”

SOS was very happy that I toasted him.  “Father’s Day is ok, Emom.  Really.”

No, my little baby, you are just fabulous.

Surviving Father’s Day

As is family tradition, we have the extended family over for Father’s Day.  We have made an extra special deal about it for Dad, FOPOB and ULOB because of their enfeebled states.  I think we are over-compensating for our anxiety about losing them, no matter how nuts they make us.

In the midst of a conversation with Dad and SOB about Father’s Day, I overheard SOS say to POB, “but I don’t have a father.”

[Yes that gag you heard breaching the silence was my heart leaping into my throat and cutting off my breathing.]

I forget that we are not like every other family.  But SOS doesn’t forget.  He has two moms, and not a mom and a dad.  I know he misses not having a dad because we have talked about it.

HOSOB, Cousin Gentle, CB, ULOB, Dad and FOPOB will be around the table next Sunday.  All have been role models (after a fashion) for SOS.  But no one is “dad”.

He knows that POB was never going to settle down with a man and have children.  He knows that I am not replacing anyone because either he would have two moms or he wouldn’t exist.

But he is a pre-adolescent boy and this isn’t about societal norms, social/sexual movements or equality.  He is starting to experience that his family is different in ways that sometimes matter.

SOS sees what is around him and he sees the differences. I understand how hard it is to be different but, when I was a pre-adolescent/adolescent, no one knew that I wasn’t straight (except me). My son can’t hide us, and he has to deal with it everyday. I know he loves us and our family. But still . . .

It was POB’s and my decision as adults to have him and it is now his reality to carry into adolescence.

But most devastating is that I forgot his feelings in my fixation on giving the elders, especially Dad, events to look forward to.  I am his mom and I didn’t have his back.

And, really, I should have been thinking about a boy — my boy — and his feelings on Father’s Day.

Because this is really about a boy — my boy.

I am sorry, buddy.  I can’t change things — I will never be your dad — but we will talk about it and I will try not to cry.