Transition

Here’s the post I’ve been dreading to write, but needing to write.

I recently lost a good friend who happened to be my father. For those who aren’t aware, my Dad died 3 weeks ago. It was dignified and peaceful, as much as possible in a stressful situation. After a series of hospital visits and strokes, Sid understood there were no repairs available – no more engineering workarounds. When he could no longer eat junk food (or anything other than pureed mush) we both knew that his time was up. He was briefly on palliative status, then hospice care; 4 days later he efficiently exited with me by his side. It was a privilege to witness his last breath. Dad always wanted to go to happy hour every Thursday, leaving his apartment at 3:30 so he could snag a good seat. He died at 3:30 on Thursday July 26, looking for a good seat wherever he was traveling next.

I’ve been reflecting on the legacy my father left me. What I treasure most are the stories – his way of framing history, his ability to find humor in situations that were traumatic, his keen intellect and grasp of detail.

Like many baby boomers, I didn’t really know my parents as people. I went to college far away, created my own path, monitored them from afar. When my mother died in 2013, it was a chaotic blur, handled badly by a fragmented healthcare system - an emotional roller coaster for my father that almost killed him. At that point I had a choice to make. I took Dad outside to look at the full moon and said “you’re not done. This will be a new adventure for both of us, we’ll figure it out.” I will never forget how he looked at me with pure trust. I changed my priorities, relationships, occupation and lifestyle, all for the better. My father frequently thanked me for my help, yet I was given the real gift and I thank him.

Sid was proud that he was able to start a new chapter. A few months ago I wrote down what I now realize might have been the last update in his diary. He told me “I thought when your mother died my life was over. But I was able to start over. Now I’m falling apart and I’m not sure how to manage this aging body. I know what your mother would have said. She would have told me to stop feeling sorry for myself, make the best of it, carry on. And so I did.”

Lots of people have told me what a good daughter I am, which is true. It was also hard work which caused much anxiety. I was constantly worried about his safety. I called my father every day at 4 pm for the past 5 years, no matter where I was located. Sometimes he left me funny phone messages, usually ending with “I had a good day.” I now listen to his voice mails at 4 pm when I’m lonely.

I’ve attached the obituary I wrote to honor Sidney Vogel, a complex yet simple man. I organized a celebration of his life at his retirement home, exactly one week after he died, leading into the best happy hour ever with everyone devouring giant deli pickles. Going forward, there will be a Sid Vogel Pickle Day every Sept 2, his birthday. He wanted to make it to age 96, however he was also concerned about what event I was going to plan – “no skydiving,” he admonished me.

Mixed emotions are at play. I miss watching my father devour his non-kosher shrimp and bacon. I’m humbled by the sacrifices he made and the challenges he overcame. I’m relieved that he was mentally sharp until the end of his life. I’m astonished that he lasted decades beyond his expected expiration date. I’m grateful that friends were with me to make sure I wasn’t alone. I accept that there will be lost items that reappear in strange places and spiritual mysteries. It’s wonderful that his geriatrician attempted to list “picklepenia” as a secondary cause on the death certificate (Latin for lack of pickles). After Sid’s death this doctor spent an hour talking with me (for no revenue) about seniors and caregiving, acknowledging my role and sharing his thoughts.

I’m taking time for self-care and I won’t be blogging for a while. However the stories are not over; we are all aging quirkier than ever. For now, I’ll end this post with Sid’s famous dinnertime blessing declared to his tablemates: “good night, good health and good fortune to you all.”

Hiding in Room 347

Dad has been struggling with respiratory fatigue, coughing so violently that his nose was constantly bleeding. Paramedics were called and sent away. His caretakers thought he was about to have a heart attack, either from gasping or from exertion related to constipation (he yells when he’s on the toilet). I visited last week to find him struggling with globs of mucus caught in his throat and panic attacks. We went to his doctor twice. Drugs didn’t work and he threw them up anyway. He didn’t have pneumonia or a fever, maybe he had another stroke, it was all guesswork. He couldn’t breathe without continuous oxygen but in order to get it prescribed he had to demonstrate he was about to die without it. Setting up tank delivery was a nightmare. He cried when I left town and it broke my heart. 

Three days later Dad was taken to the ER. Specialists took many x-rays, removed some goo and sent him back home. He kept insisting that if they used the right tool, he would be fine. Things got worse. After another doctor visit he went straight into the hospital. It happened to be my birthday and all I could think of was how my mother’s sister died on her birthday, which traumatized her for decades. So, like any rational person, I called my dead mother on the old rotary phone I keep in my living room as vintage decor. I asked her to not take him yet, and although there was no obvious response I think she heard me.

I flew back to San Diego today to find Dad looking much better after his “tune up.” He was holding a long vacuum suction tube that a respiratory therapist dug up from the supply room. “It did the trick” he beamed, “can I go home now?” He was correct; he just needed the right tool. He was discharged in time for dinner with his buddies.

Official diagnosis: acute bronchitis and lung infection. He also happens to have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, cardiac failure, asthma, diabetes, dysphagia (inability to swallow properly), prostate impairment and a touch of anemia. He was given a choice – change his diet, get rehab therapy and live a while longer, or do whatever the heck he wants and take the nearest exit. He chose to live, at least for this round. Sid is a fighter and a survivor; I got another tutorial in patient advocacy.

Meanwhile, I showed up assuming Dad would be hospitalized for a while and that I’d be using his bed. There is no lodging in this town on a Saturday summer night. I figured I’d be camping in the hallway or laundry room with my emergency cot. However, I convinced the security guard to let me squat in an empty apartment downstairs. The resident just died and it’s being prepped for the next tenant. It’s clean and peaceful, there are no mystery stains. I walked to the nearest bar, had 2 cocktails, then quietly sneaked back in. Is this the circle of life? My father is happy I’m here. I’m exhausted. I’m leaving (again) on Monday, unless I start paying rent for my own early admission. It’s a nice room.

VIP Treatment

It was National Health Care Worker Week, and Dad decided to test the system. I flew in from Seattle, arriving to set up a spaghetti lunch in the hallway, per our usual routine. He got up from his recliner, lost his balance and went down on the floor head first. I heard the clunk. I was calm, he was mellow, we commented about how men should always swoon in my presence. The aides appeared, the paramedics arrived. I figured his time was up. This was going to be the final chapter – broken bones, stroke, coma, find the organ donor form. Real time advocacy. I followed the ambulance to the ER – again. I know the way.

I forgot that my father has 9 lives just like a cat; I’ve personally saved 3 of them. I think this was episode #5. Scripps Hospital gives him frequent user perks. The CT scan, x-rays, and lab panels were all done quickly by caring professionals. He was discharged in a few hours. Nothing was wrong except a urinary tract infection, common in the elderly (which might explain why he’s wobbly). Me to Dad: “have you noticed any pain when you pee?” Dad to me: “oh that? Sure. I don’t bother mentioning these things, I’m just happy to get a shower.”

I won’t pretend all is fine. My father scared the shit out of me. Along with his issues I’ve been juggling clients with mental health crises, dental bills and brain cancer. I’m regularly on hold with insurance companies and mostly bang my head in frustration. But - apparently I have a thick skull just like Dad. He bounces back from trauma, I create billable hours from it.

While chowing down his non-kosher grilled shrimp and bacon salad today (because lettuce is healthy), a nurse stopped by to compliment his VIP treatment. Dad beamed: “Yes. I’m a VIP when my daughter is here. I’m a Vogel in Paradise.”  How’s that for validation?

A Good April - Almost

Every New Year’s Eve my neighbors and I make a bonfire on my front lawn. We each burn a page from the calendar that was our worst month. April has been awful for a while – actually for the last 3 decades. Death of loved ones, family crises, medical emergencies, relationship disconnects, car wrecks, job stress. I debated writing this post over the last week lest I jinx a good run. I waited until the very last day of the month. But since we’re nearing the finish line, I’m happy to report that things are (mostly) okay.

I usually write my blog posts from a window seat on the Alaska Airlines sunset flight from San Diego. A few days ago I was reflecting that during this month I didn’t lose any keys, dent any rental cars or hurt any body parts. However, late breaking update – I had a car accident at 3 pm today in Seattle. I’m fine, the car is not, but at least I did some professional networking with the other driver. You never know who could become a client.

I handled a medical escort today that showcased everything wrong with healthcare. The elderly patient was confused by jargon. The nurse at the retirement facility misplaced his paperwork, which no one could read anyway. The medication list was wrong, impacting his upcoming aggressive surgery of questionable value. And then I got sideswiped, which was the cherry on the top of a flawed sundae (both cars were red).

However -- Dad just celebrated some milestones: 1 year anniversary of broken ribs and 6 months since his stroke. He’s gaining back strength. He’s become a charming character favored by his caregivers, who do an amazing job (at a stunning price tag). I coordinated a national media interview highlighting the work that I and other health advocates do, because it’s weird and meaningful. No one I care about disappeared, cars can get repaired. I have great friends, neighbors and pets. April flowers make me sneeze, April showers made mold in my garage. It’s not important in the bigger picture. May all our Mays ahead be marvelous.

Blessings

I’ve stayed in many kinds of lodging while visiting my father over the past 5 years – tiny houses, big mansions, chicken farms. I’m not picky – give me a wifi connection and a hot shower and it’s all good. I’m now experiencing my first all-Christian AirBnB accommodation. My usual place disappeared when my host accidentally gave away my bed (all is forgiven, Laurie) and I scrambled to find another spot.

I was delighted to find a place literally around the corner from Dad’s facility. It’s clean, it’s quiet, the price is right. There was a certain something about the décor I couldn’t identify at first. Then I realized – it’s biblical. The soap has crosses on the wrapper, there are psalms to read while on the toilet, inspiring quotes about God’s grace adorn the walls.  That’s okay. It’s soothing compared to the Days Inn down the street that smells like rancid oil. The hosts are lovely people who supply me with snacks and send me nightly notes (signed "In His Grip") to make sure I’m happy.

Here’s what makes me giggle – these folks have no idea that they live next door to a Jewish community. This would be the perfect place for visiting family members to stay – however most would be rather surprised. Still, I’m going to promote it in the name of diversity (and it’s such a deal). There must be some sort of proverb about that.

Super Senior

I’ve written before about the similarities between my elderly cat and my elderly father. On Thursday both went to the doctor. I took Randy to the vet in Seattle and my brother took Sidney to a urologist in San Diego. Randy is nearly 16 and weighs 10.8 pounds, which equates to 78 human years. There’s a formula used to guide care as pets age; Randy is now considered a super-senior. Sid is 95 and weighs 170 pounds, mostly from decades of fatty corn beef. They’re fairly similar. Randy has behavioral health/turf issues and pees in my bed when I forget to close the door. His incontinence isn’t due to illness or infection, he simply hates when I travel. He’s slowing down and sleeps a lot. Sid has after-effects from his stroke, common to old men – in highly technical terms, it’s called a lazy bladder. He’s also slowing down and sleeps a lot.

I wrote a detailed medical summary for Dad’s urologist to help guide treatment. I couldn’t find a way to easily communicate with their office so I faxed it in, with no acknowledgment. The doctor’s recommendation was to prescribe a drug that might impact memory, get weekly bladder scans which are logistically impossible to arrange, and come back for another (revenue-enhancing) visit. Otherwise, just wait.

My vet had all of Randy’s history on her computer and greeted me warmly. We discussed the pros and cons of intervention for an elderly cat just starting to show kidney issues and tooth decay. Together we did a palliative consultation about quality of life for a cat who enjoys food and naps. Why do expensive blood tests and dental surgery? Let’s just wait and see.

Both Dad and Randy lost their soulmates 5 years ago; both have adapted. In retrospect I’ve coped fairly well with that chapter, although life continues to test my sense of the absurd. I wonder, like all of us, about the parallels that guide our connections and priorities. I’m going to pet my cat now.

Pseudonyms

Dad is back from rehab in his studio apartment, amidst 3 wheelchairs, 2 walkers, and many cushions to relieve butt discomfort. No partridge in a pear tree. Other than spilling hot soup on his lap, I am a model caretaker. Since chicken noodle broth creates a mess, maintenance arrived to do a thorough cleaning of his recliner. An unintended miracle for Hanukkah: his chair is now spotless! He is doing well, motivated to do physical therapy, gaining back independence as much as possible.

I decided I might as well capitalize on my visit by being creative. I’m writing an article for a regional magazine about how seniors make decisions to move to retirement villages, particularly how their adult children are involved. What better way to get the scoop than interview Sid’s dining room buddies? I even got official permission from management, since I explained I will use aliases. To my surprise, few residents felt that their children had been beneficial but everyone really enjoyed making up their own fake identities. My little spontaneous project was more popular than the planned evening concert entertainment. Here are some names the ladies desired in print: Hikey (requested by 102-year old Ida, of course), Suzie Q, Katya, Goldie and Priscilla.

If you come across my article in the future and want to try to crosswalk any names, I don’t think the participants will mind. After all, they are my friends and like me, they appreciate recognition.