Other People's Stories

After multiple trips to the retirement village, I’ve become the confidante of seniors wanting to tell their tales.

There’s Dick – he entered the community with his wife, then she quickly deteriorated to advanced nursing care, they now live apart in separate buildings. He visits her daily to have lunch, she doesn’t always recognize him. He has accepted his situation with grace.

There’s Tom, an 80-year retired chiropractor who had the same cataract operation as my father with a different outcome. He is now legally blind. His kids insisted that he leave his practice and his home for a better support system. Tom didn’t really resist, since he had admitted his own mother into the same place 20 years ago. She progressed through all the levels of care and died a while back, so they didn’t save her apartment. Note that he’s not the only second generation resident.

There’s Harry – married to his war bride imported from England 68 years ago. They are 92 years young and still in love. He lost his hearing a long time ago, and occasionally wears hearing aids. When he doesn’t, things get pretty loud in their apartment. Their next door neighbor raps on the wall, which embarrasses his wife. She told me “this guy complains all the time about the noise, it’s not just when we’re having sex!”

The women rule the roost. They filter the junk mail, power walk around the courtyard and gossip. They greet me by name and make sure I’m eating right. Sometimes I imagine my mother socializing with these ladies, and wonder how she would have fit in. She’s been gone 4 months now and I’m beginning to miss her. It’s probably for the best that Dad is solo – he is truly enjoying himself. He finally got his new eyeglasses and can see clearly for the first time in ages. He’s curious about what all the folks look like since they’ve been blurry since he moved in. He has a pile of books to catch up on, and he’s writing another chapter of his life story.

Most residents don’t celebrate Christmas, as the community is 99% Jewish. However, they are having lots of holiday parties, along with happy hour every Thursday. On New Year’s Eve, there’s a shuttle trip to the local Krispy Kreme factory to watch donuts being made. I’m missing that event but I’ll be back in January. It’s kind of my second home.

Happy holidays to everyone, treasure your family and friends, and your health.

Priceless Moments

Dad has been in his new home for 3 weeks now, and he’s enjoying himself. Highlights:

Sidney signed up for arthritis water class 3 times a week, which was overly ambitious. After the 1st pool session he was exhausted, telling his nurse case manager that “those little old ladies kicked my macho butt.”

My cousin and I flew down to San Diego to hold a massive estate sale at his old house. Spanish-speaking families swarmed the place, delighted over the bargains. Everyone received a light bulb for coming. The giant TV was offered for free to the first guy who could lift it. My parents’ ancient bed was carted off in a truck. The sale was a huge success. I delivered $300 cash to Sid, expecting he would chuckle and tell me to keep the money for my hard work. No, he stashed all the bills in his wallet and said “good job!”

We got his fancy retirement clock cleaned and repaired; it stopped working 20 years ago. The clock now chimes every 15 minutes, which would drive me nuts, however he’s thrilled. Of course it still doesn’t keep time accurately, usually 3 minutes off - we’re going to get that fixed. Maybe.

I shipped home the one piece of furniture I have always liked, a cherry-mahogany secretary desk with cubbyholes and a drop down shelf. It turns out that it belonged to my great grandmother and it’s been in the family since the early days of Brooklyn. I almost carted it off to Goodwill, who knew. The desk arrived with no damage, and fits into my house like it’s been here forever. I’m restoring it to its former grandeur and I’m happy every time I walk by.

Dad is a writer (it runs in the family). I asked him to update his life story, which to my knowledge he last completed 18 years ago. I brought him a tape recorder since his fingers are gnarled with arthritis; it’s hard for him to type or write. When I asked him what he would like to share, he handed me 3 “addenda”, the most recent one written a few days ago. He had already summarized his current situation, with no self-pity, on his new laptop using Windows 8. I was speechless. It’s the best gift he has ever given me. It softens the chaos and pain of the past year. I’m so proud of him.

Sid's Time to Shine

This is a chapter with a happy ending. It’s been an emotional and exhausting week. With a 60-day self-imposed timeline after my mother’s death, on day 59 my father moved into the retirement community that held an apartment for him despite a waiting list. My brother Dan and his good buddy Scott flew out from New York to help with the many errands and “trash and dash” runs. The moving truck showed up on time on Monday and nothing in the load broke. When Dad entered the lobby of his new residence on Tuesday, Ida, my mother’s friend for 30 years, was there to welcome him. I got to see the look of pleasure and amazement on his face when he realized that I re-created his home, albeit on a smaller scale, down to the pictures on his refrigerator and shelves above his desk (minus the garage full of tools).

Sid is making friends, he’s learning how to use a laptop with high-speed internet, he signed up for a group outing to see community theatre. He has new doctors sensitized to geriatric issues and he is slowly recovering from the infections and surgeries over the last month. Blue haired ladies are flirting with him. He chatted with the maintenance crew to make sure they knew he was supervising their work. He stole food from the dining room by sneaking rolls into his sweatshirt. He’s finally safe.

For some perspective: When I was 4 years old in 1960, I was attacked by a neighbor kid wielding a baseball bat. Due to a skull concussion I was hospitalized. My father went to the local authorities to register a complaint. He was told that the parent of the kid was “an anti-Semite and a lodge brother,” and that the police had no power to protect his family. He was advised to relocate as quickly as possible – which he did. We moved to a new town, he took time off from his job, he sacrificed for a happy future for his children.

Quid pro quo. We simply returned the favor.

The 41st Day

I’ve been too busy to blog over the past month; however it’s important to capture some poignant moments before I forget them.

Some of you may be familiar with the phenomenon of interacting with a dead person after they’re gone. The spirit hangs around for 40 days and 40 nights, making odd appearances, and sure enough, my mother continued to hover. My father finally got his long delayed cataract surgery, and I could sense her watching over him in the recovery suite. She shared a few more heath scares to demonstrate she wasn’t quite ready for solo status, such as drug side effects and mild emphysema. When we went out to dinner, I think she changed the order so we would eat her preferred meal, not his.

We’ve been searching for Mom’s wedding and engagement rings for a while. They were not on her finger when she died, even though the organ donation company sent over a costume ring to the house by courier. No jewelry was in the safety deposit box at the bank, which was suspiciously empty. No rings in the 2 steel strongboxes with the important papers. Dad and I agreed to give up on the quest. But late on the 39th night after her death, I heard her voice – really, I did – telling me that there was a 3rd box hidden in Dad’s office closet. And of course, there was the prize – an amazing, gold, ornate box that belonged to my grandfather – locked. I woke up my father, I actually found the key. The rings were there, along with many other mystery items – buffalo head nickels, anyone? My father was thrilled. Indeed beautiful, the rings are now safely stored inside my local bank vault.

On the morning of October 1, the 41st day, all was quiet and Mom was silent. I drove my father to the retirement community where we all first visited 3 1/2 years ago and where he will now make his home. He aced his pseudo-interview, which was not easy. He had to walk all over the place, on his own power, with fuzzy vision, wobbly legs, and shortness of breath. He demonstrated his mental agility by informing the director that he would not tolerate smokers or Republicans. He offered to fix all the ladies’ broken jewelry. When he signed all the forms, he smiled. And then and finally then – I cried, mostly from relief. I suppose the stress had to leak out sooner or later. We went into the dining room for free lunch (Dad’s rating: “not so wonderful. The rye bread could be fresher”). I pulled myself together until Ida, the 97-year old powerhouse who still jogs, who has known my parents for decades, yelled across the table “where’s your mother?” When I responded that she died, the room went silent, and yes, I started crying again. Well, Ida would have none of that, she took me aside and told me to keep walking through life, one step at a time, and that was THAT. When I asked her to help my father get oriented, her response was “what, do I look like an official greeter? He’s fine. He’ll make friends. I’m busy.” I really started laughing at that point, and the whole room of nice elderly folks laughed with me.

My brother and I are now going back and forth on shifts -- cleaning, hiring movers, changing his accounts, buying a new recliner chair that doesn’t have broken springs and a laptop so Dad can leave his rusty dial-up modem behind. I’m tutoring my father to be patient with his healing. I keep reminding him that he’s a tough old bird; he’s gradually allowing himself to be happy again. I was granted a leave of absence from work – my job was one of life’s stovetop burners that will be put on simmer.

I hope to report a successful move coming up on October 22. I have my own building access card and I may just hide out there during Seattle’s rainy season. A sunny beach is 5 minutes away. And I’m not so picky about the rye bread.

The Week After

It’s a challenge to describe horrible events which ultimately turned out okay, and how it significantly changed my family dynamics. I’m hoping this post is cathartic, and if it makes others uncomfortable . . . this one is for me.

Exactly one week after my mother died, my father became suddenly ill and started bleeding with what appeared to be a urinary tract infection. His eye surgery went on hold and I rushed him to his primary care doctor. Despite pain killers and drugs, it got worse and we went back a second time that day. The doctor sent us home again – a sloppy mistake since Dad nearly died that night.

I wound up coordinating an emergency complete with blood clots, vomiting and watching my father struggle in pain. I had never seen him cry and I was petrified. I called some friends who helped me cope. When I briefly left him alone for some privacy on the toilet, he fell grabbing the shower door for support, it smashed and I rushed in to catch him and clean him up. After that, I screamed at my dead mother that she couldn’t have him yet, I pleaded with her that it wasn’t his time. Mom used to get frequent UTIs and complained that he didn’t understand how awful it was. Well now he certainly understood. Paramedics ultimately rushed him into the ER the next morning right as my brother showed up on the doorstep.

Dad spent 5 days in the hospital attached to a catheter. He spent his 91st birthday there with strawberry cake, flirted with the nurses, told me he loved me very much and thanked me for saving his life. I have never had that kind of emotional connection with him in 57 years, or frankly with anyone. He apologized to my brother for being rough on him all his life, allowed him to help, and bragged about what a good son he had. It has never been easy for my father to express himself – and now he tells his children every day that he appreciates us. That is a tremendous gift, I feel very fortunate.

While Dad recovered, my brother and I cleaned out 28 years of household dirt, tattered clothing, and broken furniture. We are very different people, but we finally became friends and supported each other. Although I had to return to Seattle, Dan extended his stay; he’s still there taking care of trips and errands. After Dad’s discharge, his first request was to go to the barber – he wanted a short buzz cut for the past 40 years and my mother wouldn’t let him do it. He looks great. My father and brother are gleefully using coupons together to get deals at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

What’s ahead is a difficult conversation. An apartment is being held at the same independent living facility that was chosen 3 years ago by my mother (my experience as a guest there was the impetus for starting this blog). While Dad is coming to his own conclusion that relocation is logical, actually moving is a whole other matter. I’ll be going back soon to assist with the next round of medical care. I understand that he may die soon due to the impact of losing his spouse and his caretaker role; it is what usually happens in these situations. However if I can facilitate a final happy chapter for that man, I’m going to try my best. He deserves a vacation.

I’m a little worried about my sanity these days, and my anger at my mother. I know that I will go through stages of depression and grieving and ultimately, acceptance. I’m trying to take care of myself. David Sedaris comments in his new book that life is symbolically a four-burner stove: there is one burner each for family, friends, health and work, In order to be successful, you have to cut off one of your burners. In order to be really successful, you have to cut off two. I know the path I will take.

Keys to Understanding

Doris Reger Vogel died on Friday August 23, one week before she turned 91. She declined rapidly over the last month and fell asleep in her recliner, and was then rushed to a hospital with my Dad who ultimately gave approval to let her pass. This post is about something else that happened over the last 3 days.
I was called the night before Mom died by my parents with a strange message. Doris had psychic ability all her life. She predicted where I left my lost items because she dreamed about the location, she forecast odd events, she was perceptive about people’s fates. Last Thursday she wanted to know if I remembered that she could always find my lost car keys, she was also very worried about the future. I was exhausted and had to get up at for an early flight for work, I didn’t want to get into another extended and frustrating conversation. I said “it will all be fine” - on second thought I requested Dad to tell her to dream about cats, the lost ones especially.
I didn’t fall asleep. I almost immediately realized Mom was giving me notice. I didn’t want to disturb her early Friday morning. Right after my meetings were over, I got a call from their neighbor about the ambulance. My father called to tell me she died as I boarded the plane back to Seattle and the doors were closing. I was upset, then relieved since she could finally stop struggling. I was mostly worried about my father. After 66 years of marriage it was going to be awfully quiet.
For years I’ve been trying to pare down Mom’s closets crammed full of clothing, shoes and purses from the past 6 decades. As a child of the depression, she could never part with anything. For years it was a battle of wills. I sneaked piles into rental car trunks and she usually busted me – sometimes she dreamed about where I took the stash. I arrived in town yesterday and with my father’s encouragement, proceeded to finally deal with the mess. No yelling, no negotiation, it was all quite efficient. I was feeling bad that I only remembered my mother as a hostile, cranky woman who created unnecessary drama and refused help.
After load one at Goodwill, I came back and stuffed the car full with load two. I went for the car keys, which had been jammed in my pocket, and – no keys. I lost them. I realized to my horror that the keys had probably somehow gotten entwined with the many piles and boxes. I emptied out everything, shook it out, draped wardrobe all over the driveway. No keys. I put it all back. I searched the house, the toilet, the garage. No keys.
Four hours later, was after the donation center was long closed, I realized what was going on. I sat down on her chair, then her bed. I’m not spiritual or religious, I don’t believe in ghosts. I didn’t get enveloped in any energy force. However I finally understood. It was Mom messing with me, having a last stand about her belongings. She wanted to teach me a lesson about honor and humility. I went back to the car and there, draped on one of hundreds of yarn hangers, were the keys. Now of course I could have missed them the first time, or the second time. I think not.
The gift I received was that I laughed, and remembered she was playful, somewhat vindictive, and always got the last word. You win this round, Mom. I expect a few more surprises before you completely settle down, and I’ll spread your ashes somewhere beautiful. But tomorrow your stuff goes to charity.

The Power of Persuasion

It’s been an exciting day for my 90-year old father. He finally agreed to get the cataract surgery recommended when he was 70, and he sailed through it, analyzing the doctor’s technique and insisting on pictures afterwards. Heck, what’s 20 years, it’s not like he was driving, right? (See prior posts on that sorry chapter). With this latest episode, my brother flew across the country to do the errands, driving and cajoling. For a change, I was off the hook. But it gets better. Somehow my brother accomplished something I’ve been trying to do for years. He convinced my folks to get a new washer and dryer. Wow!

The washer/dryer was 28 years old – it took 3 rounds to wash anything because there was no spin cycle, and it took 5 rounds of dryer time (around 3 hours) to dry a few towels. Dad has literally spent whole days and evenings in the garage, hunched over, mumbling about how engineering has gone downhill. He saw no point in getting new appliances when he was going to die soon anyway. I tried to convince him that he was wasting electricity along with valuable hours that could be spent reading old Scientific American issues. So how did my brother Dan do it?

 

a)     He’s a guy. Pathetic but true that with a certain generation the son’s voice carries more weight than the daughter’s, no matter how smart the daughter may be.
b)    Lowe’s actually gave my father a military discount – note that Dad served in WWII as an office clerk in Kentucky.
c)     My father gave up his senior discount – he tried to double dip, then acquiesced because the store offered free delivery/setup (standard, but don’t tell Dad).
d)    I think Dad had some powerful anesthesia in his eyeball and was in a blissful state where the idea of a good sale was just too much to resist.

I’m so happy for our whole family. I’m really impressed with my brother, and I have never said that in 5 decades – I thanked him profusely. Maybe one day I’ll even let him read this blog. In the meantime, Dad is getting his other eye fixed at the end of August, and I’m on duty to visit and deal with it. I’m going to try to replace their sagging broken bed.

“That Must Be Challenging”

Some people have noticed my absence of blog posts for a while and worried that there was a crisis with my folks.  There has been personal heartbreak and anxiety over loss of a family member, and it continues, but it’s not directly related to my parents. Thank you for caring. What I am learning about loss of control is a different perspective that came in handy over the past weekend.

In the midst of a really shitty time, my father emailed me to guilt me out about not visiting – his computer skills functioning nicely at age 90. After agonizing about how to deal with yet another trip, I realized I didn’t have to do it alone. My cousin came to the rescue. She’s calm, she’s a physical therapist who is used to cranky seniors who fall down, and she’s fun. I had someone to witness the chaos, help me shuttle them around, and make me laugh. My mother screamed less and tried to have conversations about things other than bad health care. A trip I dreaded became a comedy sitcom through another set of eyes. Thank you Marian. Although your choice of beer is abysmal, slurping Coors Light at the Santee drive-in theatre was indeed a special evening.

I’ve had a few therapy sessions, a self-imposed intervention that was probably overdue to help me navigate lots of stress. I asked for practical tips to help me deflect the torrent of complaints and tirades from my parents that usually make me try to fix their lives. Here’s what I said whenever I was tempted to engage:

• “Gosh, that sounds hard.”
• “I’m sorry to hear that you are frustrated.”
• “That must be very challenging.”

No questions from me about what to do next. No offers to help. No reminders that they need to move. Just simple reflections back so they know I heard them. I honestly didn’t think it would work – they’re too smart, they resist psychobabble, and they don’t like sympathy.  It worked superbly. It calmed me down, and I didn’t feel the need to take one single item to the Goodwill bin.

There really isn’t any change to report on their status. They are shaping their own destiny. I’m gaining back my sense of humor. Sometimes you just need to get kicked and not kick back.