Calling the Cops

After trying to reach my parents by phone for 3 days, getting a busy signal at all hours of the day and night, I considered that not even my father could be working on the computer that long (he has a dial-up connection, the last one in America). I considered that the phone could be off the hook, I considered that they could be having a wild party, I considered that they could be in big trouble. I tried calling one of their neighbors to no avail. So, doing what every paranoid crime-buster would do, I called the police to investigate. Not 911, that would be drastic. I called the non-emergency dispatch unit of the local sheriff’s department. Figured they were bored anyway. To credit the Santee police, they were responsive, polite and sent an officer out to my folks’ house within 20 minutes. Hopefully not with a siren.

The very nice deputy guided Dad to a special police phone to call me and say hello. Mom apparently slept through the whole event. I heard my father telling the officer “well, that’s my daughter. She’s very thoughtful but such a worry wart.”

It turns out that the town lost all phone and some electrical service for the past 72 hours due to tornado watches, floods and winds. While I know that California is experiencing “weather” I thought that meant a few showers.

Sometimes you just have to go with your gut. I don’t regret sending the coppers out – at least now they have a case record for the next incident, and I can bring them donuts on my next trip.

To bring everything up to date, my parents successfully checked out of their trial stay at the retirement facility and are actually considering moving there. They talked to a real estate agent about putting their house on the market. And here’s the best part. Mom is recognizing that they have to downsize. She cleaned off the kitchen counter – while that may not seem significant, it is a BIG deal. We haven’t seen the counter since 1988 due to the piles of expired coupons, pill bottles, old magazines and crusty ketchup packets.

I believe the hardest part – acceptance that their current housing situation is not good - is over. Practical logistics come next. Onward!

Oh – and yes, I really did color my hair back to brunette (with red streaks courtesy of neighbor Laura) as soon as I arrived back in Seattle last week. Surprisingly, most people tell me I look better in silver!

Parting Comment

Hanging out in the garden with a nice lady who moved here 2 years ago from Minnesota. She tells me "I want some bacon! I'm sick of eating nothing but kosher!"

In two hours I will be drinking a large margarita at the Old Town Mexican Cafe. Bye for now . . .

Fitting In

Today I lost a phone (found it), broke a phone (fixed it), lost my room key (still looking) and drove erratically all over town (no news there). I wanted to go to sleep at 8 pm. I think I'm morphing, eek, send me home!

Some of the residents try to accommodate all of their former furniture into a one bedroom unit, with varying results. Edna the Chair Lady (who, by the way, is 100 years old), showed me her place with great pride. She has crammed in 12 chairs, 2 overstuffed recliners, 2 sofas, and a loveseat. Not a good role model.

My parents are settling in to the point where I am now worried that they won't leave at the end of their trial stay. They may need to be hauled off to the nearest Goodwill store, along with a few of those chairs.

I'm checking out tomorrow, but of course the story is not over. Mom and Dad are facing a complex and frustrating journey as they have to make many decisions over the next months/year. I sure hope I can maintain a sense of humor; frankly it's the only way I can cope with the stress and help them at the same time. Stay tuned for further chapters . . . and thanks for your support!

Stuff You Can't Make Up

Why is there a small rubber chicken in the drawer of the front lobby desk? Some questions are best left unanswered.

We missed Paddy the Mini-Horse due to a late breakfast, but we did catch a live jazz trio on the patio. Quote of the day from Harry, a self-proclaimed "former class clown": "If you run out of money here they won't throw you out - they go after the kids. And when the kids are broke, there's a fund to pay for your care." Gee, now I feel better!

This place may keep the oldsters alive but it completely drained my phone (bad cell coverage). I escaped to Verizon and discovered the many surfer beaches 1 mile away. Upon returning, I found it was Dad's turn to be flaky. He brought lots of emergency snacks but no underwear. Off I go in search of a shopping mall. On my way out of the building I stumbled into a rousing karaoke class with a dozen people howling Frank Sinatra classics (unlike Seattle's senior karaoke, there were no bingo games in-between songs). I was invited to join but declined (for now).

Most residents are fairly active and seem content; they look after one another. The group consists of retired teachers, doctors, musicians, college professors, housewives -- people who were committed to community service one way or another. It is not a depressed atmosphere at all -- until the brownies run out, and then it's kind of scary.

My neighbor Marion has suggested a great way to customize Mom's walker: drape it with all those defunct extension cords Dad has hanging in his garage. Currently serving as a window covering (see picture), the cords can be recycled yet one more time!

Things Seniors Write in the Middle of the Night

Files on the hard drive of the public access computer I'm using at the Retirement Community:

You Have Been Awarded the National Lottery to the sum of £4,908,817

I love coral reefs.com

The park bench was empty as I sat down to read ( a poem)

Once Upon A Time A Monkey Was Climbing In The Trees and Cut His Ankle (creative writing)

The Development of Purim Spiels- a historical summary

Beware, all Walkers Look Alike

First of all, as soon as I return to Seattle, I’m coloring my hair again. I do not enjoy the residents saying “oh hi honey, are you new here?”

We were briefly inspected – forms shoved in a drawer without comment (I had spent hours making sure their medical forms/TB tests/etc. were done). Despite bringing enough clothing for a month, somehow my mother forgot her toothbrush – so off I went to the local drugstore. Afterwards we all met with our official personal greeter, who has been assigned to follow Mom and Dad for a week to make sure they don’t steal the silverware.

Dinnertime! At 5 pm, of course. Here is the senior networking part. Would you believe my mother hooked up with a friend from Brooklyn College, where she graduated from in 1942? Yes, the girls looked a little different but they still talk the same. And of course there’s Not-Dead-Yet Ida, the 90-year old fitness queen. Ida walks to the Y every day to work out and wears chic Yoga outfits. (My mother and Ida used to live near each other about 20 years ago. At a recent lunchtime visit here, when my mother realized Ida now lived here, she yelled across the room “Ida! I thought you were dead!” Nice.

My Dad was counting all the guys in the dining room. There were 9. Old men don’t last as long as old women. One lady told me “we used to have a table of 14 people who liked to eat together – all the male spouses passed on, so now there are just 7.” Another new friend was whispering in my mother’s ear “It’s not so good here. Come to Room 253 after dinner and I’ll tell you the dirt.” The folks here have their cliques.

We all rushed off (mostly rolled off in a sea of blue walkers) for the evening entertainment, a piano/choral concert in the lobby. The music was actually quite nice despite the occasional snoring from the attendees. My father loaded up on the free brownies and piled them up on my mother’s walker seat – he took not one, not two, but SIX brownies back to their room. He managed to lose one brownie, step on it, mash it into the hallway carpet, and keep moving. I asked if he intended to eat the brownies – no, he wanted to put them in the mini-frig just in case he gets hungry in the middle of the night. Upon inspecting their room after 3 hours of use, the bed was piled with clothing, the bathroom was full of junk – in other words, the hoarding impulse was immediate and the place looked just like their house.

I have inspected the Activity Sheet for the week. Unfortunately I will miss Zack the Portugese Water Dog and his handler, as I must leave on Monday. However, tomorrow is Classic Movie Night and that could be wonderful. I have my own private room, on a different floor from my parents, and I have the secret gate passcode to come back and forth in case I need to, oh maybe, go to the brewery late at night.

The Prep

I arrived at my parent's house at noon to find them still in their jammies, not packed, fully in the throes of denial. It took only an hour to get them somewhat ready. I had to promise that I would rent a van to drive all of my Dad’s tools to Seattle when/if he moved out. We are still negotiating about the thousands of vacation slides he has taken over the past 60 years (does anyone want them?)

My folks were really excited about getting their hair cut – since the loss of Dad’s driver's license (which he only brought up every 10 minutes) they have both become hairy hermits, emerging only to go to doctors appointments. So – blinking in the California sun, we troop off to get shorn. Somehow my father has found a re-creation of a dingy barber shop from the lower east side of NY, in a Santee shopping center. He sat in the chair like a king, ordering the young cutter “take more off!” take more off!” The poor guy, I had to sneak in afterwards to give him a big tip. Meanwhile, my mother sat in the ladies version down the street, getting her eyebrows trimmed and demanding that they honor 2-month old coupons (which they did).

Driving here was uneventful; I had upgraded the car rental to get one with 4 doors so everyone could get in without chiropractic adjustment. Fortunately I brought an emergency supply of bagels for snacking. We arrived at the facility on time – amazing! – and I noticed with relief that there is a beer brewery conveniently located down the street.

Entering Q-Tip World

For those of you with white-haired elderly parents, or who have met mine, welcome. This blog will give you a personal glimpse into the strange dynamics of aging in America. My folks are both 87, in deteriorating health, stubborn, and smart - a tricky combination for anyone to deal with, but especially for them. I'm the responsible adult-child, ill-equipped to handle geriatric case management, but well-versed in dysfunction (I have New York roots).

As my parents have become more isolated and need more resources (don't ask about the driver's license debacle), moving into a "facility" has become a more attractive option - sort of. They are at least willing to experience a trial stay - senior summer camp, if you will. The catch? Per their request, I have to go with them. Okay, there are good reasons:

1) to make sure they don't escape;

2) to ease their transition;

3) for the story.

I will be staying this weekend at a Retirement Community in my own guest suite, observing the action. I'm journaling due to a self-serving therapeutic need to manage my own anxiety, plus it might be really funny.

Giving credit where credit is due, I thank my parents for their genetic transmission of a fine sense of irony and appreciation of the absurd. Coming soon:

• Bargaining, pleading and coercion - dealing with old people
• Irrational moments - stuff you can't make up
• Social networking senior-style
• Out of the mouths of geezers (with a nod to Art Linkletter)
• "He's not Jewish, he's Swedish" - unsolicited feedback from the dining room

I hope you enjoy my postings.
- Karen

Mom and Dad, 60 years apart

My stay at Seniorville

Check back starting January 9 for postings about my underground experience at a senior independent living facility. Ah, the things we do to please our aging parents . . .