Holiday Picture

Hi everyone. As a follow-up to my recent blog post, attached are pictures of my father at the UC San Diego holiday party. Sid was so excited to be there; the planning was successful! He volunteered at the Biomedical Engineering Department for 26 years until he was no longer able to make the trip. These are some of the men he worked with and who toasted him today with a rubber chicken (because he constantly complained about the rubber chicken meals he had to endure.)

I hope it makes you smile, it certainly made my day.

Sid as the guest of honor with Anthony, Noel, Rad, Dave and Rick. UC San Diego Biomedical Engineering Holiday Party, December 15, 2015.

Holiday Cheer

My father got a phone call a few days ago from “Anthony” who works at UC San Diego, inviting Sid to a holiday party on campus. The background . . . Sid volunteered for more than 20 years in the Clinical Engineering Services department where medical equipment was refurbished. He was a mentor to young electrical engineers, thoroughly enjoying tinkering, rescuing broken parts, and bringing back mystery items to his workshop at home. When my brother and I cleaned out my parents’ house, we discovered surgical knives, prosthetic legs, and infusion pumps (a big hit at our garage sale). After my mother’s health deteriorated 6 years ago and Dad could no longer drive, he couldn’t continue the commitment; it sapped his spirit. He fondly reminisces about this chapter in his life; he assumed he was long forgotten.

Sid wasn’t forgotten. Anthony and other staff at UCSD decided to do some detective work. His old phone number didn’t forward. However they searched online and used public data, including my mother’s death record, to locate him. Sid was so surprised by the call at his retirement village that he didn’t remember any specifics about the party, and he told Anthony he wouldn’t be able to attend. He then mentioned the call to me. Well I’m a pit bull and I set out to find Anthony; when there’s a will (and the internet) there’s a way. The name of the department is different (now it’s Biomedical Engineering), the location changed, but I connected with Anthony. He told me that Sid was one of their best volunteers; everyone misses his intelligence and sense of humor. They had not been able to track him down until now.

I’m not in town on the date of the event, and considered how to get Dad transported. He said “no one remembers me anymore, I’m 93, they think I’m dead.” Clearly they don’t. Anthony is arranging for one of the other retirees to pick up Sid and drive him to the party, where he will be the guest of honor. Sid doesn’t know it yet. I’ll probably have to play up the free lunch angle to convince him it’s worthwhile.

Amidst mass shootings and seasonal stress, this story shines with compassion. It certainly reinforced my outlook about the inherent goodness of people. And oh, by the way, I completed my patient advocacy certification program yesterday. That’s called “burying the lede.” Anthony’s call was my graduation present.

Trailer Trash

Now on my 3rd week in the mobile home park, I’m observing Maslow’s hierarchy of basic needs: chicken wings, cheap beer, and shelter. I gave up employment, morality and self-actualization in favor of a good tan. When I take a shower it sets off the fire alarm. I have a variety of outfits (and tutu) in the car just in case I come across a cultural event. When it rains I poke the ceiling tiles to make sure they are intact. I even had a make-out session on the futon (yes, with a human). My cousin is showing up soon with a blow up mattress to crash on the floor. Best of all, I now qualify for Medicaid – I’m a welfare queen, sucking away your tax dollars. It turns out that eligibility is completely based on current income; assets and savings don’t matter.

I encouraged Dad to play bingo today so that he could get free ice cream. Much to my surprise he won the game – twice. I’ve played karaoke bingo for years and never won. Dad was a bingo virgin. Therefore I took his prizes; it seemed fair considering my sacrifices to make his life comfortable. Bingo here is not quite the same experience as what I’m used to in Seattle - when “O-69” was called, the geriatric crowd didn’t moan. I asked the 12-year old volunteer who was serving Sid about how he liked community service in lieu of jail time, and what crime did he commit? The kid laughed – nervously.

Back to the beach.

Day of the Dead

November 1 is a special day, Dia de los Muertos, in Latin American Catholic culture. The departed are honored with singing, dancing and flowered altars. As a nice Jewish Atheist girl from NY, it’s my favorite holiday, hard to explain but it feels right. Two years ago I placed pictures of my mother and my favorite cat on an altar in Seattle to honor their impact. Today I placed a photo of Sam, who died 6 months ago, on the community altar in Encinitas. Those who knew and loved Sam will agree that he would enjoy a good party in a beach town (thank you Caron, for supplying the picture.)

I brought Dad to the celebration and explained the holiday; he was delighted by the mariachi bands and costumed children. He liked the idea of embracing death with humor and entertainment. I didn’t share what I did at the altar, or why I made a sugar skull with an orange beard. We were at the event for 3 hours and Dad didn’t fall asleep once. He’s still chuckling about how the hosts of the organic chicken farm/AirBnB hideaway showed up at happy hour last week (I invited them). My buddies thoroughly enjoyed the geriatric scene and free booze. While they absolutely stood out with their blond ponytails and surfer outfits, they were warmly received by the little old ladies. I played ukulele for the crowd, badly, however it didn’t matter.

Cada día es un regalo (every day is a gift).

Double-Wide

I’m located in a trailer in Encinitas for the next month, pretending to be a relative of a dude from Phoenix who owns but rarely uses this place. While my latest residence is located 1 block from the beach with a parking spot, it’s never going to be marketed by Airbnb as a chic retro property. I’ve broken a few things just trying to open or clean them. However, my standards are flexible. I can wiggle into the bedroom sideways as long as I limit desserts. While I don’t surf the world-famous waves nearby, there’s a wifi connection to surf the internet. I’m just happy to be here, having barely escaped a flash flood mudslide on I-5 on my drive down, which happened to be near the anniversary of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. To reminisce, I avoided the bridge collapse by walking miles through the rubble of San Francisco. Do I miss living in California? Not really.

It is nice to be able to hang out with Dad and take him around town for meals and doctor appointments. He was recently busted at his favorite deli for stealing pickles in a giant Tupperware container, dutifully reported by my brother. Sid is now on pickle probation; however I’m enabling him with organic sauerkraut. I told his doctor, who thought it was hysterical that he was finally caught and congratulated him on his criminal tendencies. I brought Sid to the mobile home park to get his perspective on my lodging - he informed me that it’s actually a single-wide on raised concrete blocks with a “stump” addition, complete with electrical fire hazards. But such a good deal.

Snippets from my trailer trash life: I have a feline roommate, a black cat, perfect for Halloween, who runs in when I open the door. Unfortunately I tripped over the cat and snapped the hinges on my laptop. I found a guy who will fix it for free. An awesome food truck is a short stroll away, owned by Dad’s doctor’s son-in-law. My cruiser bike has damaged brakes but I mostly ride on flat streets. My teeth are still intact. Stay tuned for further developments.

Party Time!

Despite Dad saying he didn’t want to celebrate his 93rd birthday, I know better. He loves attention (it must be genetic). So I took him to his favorite deli and he devoured cheesecake. I organized a spaghetti and meatball banquet for him and 6 lady friends, which our server referred to as his harem. This was followed by a surprise Brooklyn-themed egg cream* and babka dessert gathering (if you don’t know what these delicacies are, you are probably not Jewish.) Kudos to Leigh for sending Fox’s U-Bet chocolate syrup. It was quite the event. Some of the ladies got stuck in the car due to my insistence that they use seat belts. I tried to help Shirley up a curb and she informed me that she still does triathlons, thank you very much. When Sid fell asleep after the singing I made everyone go home. That night his friend Harry fell out of bed and broke his leg. Such is the yin and yang of life in the retirement village.

If you haven’t seen the pictures on Facebook, I’m attaching a few here. How will we top this next year? It’s hard to predict. However if I can’t get a job in my chosen field, I’m going to be a party planner.

* http://www.ibloomberg.net/comfort-me-with-egg-creams-off-duty/

Year 2 Milestone

When my mother died two years ago, I made a commitment to do everything possible to keep my father safe and healthy. We just hit the 2-year mark, and I'm so proud of Sid for making the best of things. We will celebrate his 93rd birthday next week with a giant platter of spaghetti and meatballs for his friends.

I've been busy networking, training and learning about patient advocacy. I became semi-employed (thank you Suzanne for the tip) as an on-call advocate for a local retirement community. I assist residents with medical appointments and ER visits when family members are not located nearby - the situation I faced for years; however this kind of help wasn't available. I have 4 months left of school; I'm enjoying it and submit homework from all over the world. I'm creating a website for kazadvocate.com (Kaz is my Aussie nickname, thank you Meg).

This past week I went through 14 hours of training on dementia, delirium and depression - which turned out to be more enjoyable than you might imagine. I got lost trying to find the meeting room, which I considered my pre-test. Some fun facts:

• People with dementia often can't recognize the color white, it appears as vacant space. Therefore health workers wearing white uniforms appear to have floating heads. White toilets look missing, there’s nowhere to pee. No wonder they're agitated.
• When you ask someone what they had for breakfast, the depressed person will say “I don’t remember.” When you ask people with dementia, they may say “I never had breakfast” to compensate.
• Ghosts are common in facilities. Staff will see the deceased late at night sitting in their favorite chairs in the dining hall. Residents see prior occupants in the mirrors of their rooms.

I donated blood this morning to honor Mom's birthday, now my annual tradition. It's usually no big deal, but today I had a bad reaction. I sensed her hovering nearby; she still wants to be part of the action. Despite the discomfort, I liked having her take care of me.

An Earful

I’m in San Diego for a whirlwind of doctor appointments for Dad, and we’ve have had some strange moments. I arrived to find his hearing aid wailing in high pitch, then attempted to fix it. Cleaning, replacing the tubing, chatting with customer support and learning how to program the various modes made no difference. I asked him how long this noise had been going on, he had no idea but he did mention he was losing friends. Although it drove me nuts, we went on with our errands and binge meals, even had time to hang out at the beach to watch the bikini-clad girls play volleyball. We saw the retina specialist, the dentist, the primary care doctor. Sid is recovering nicely from his fall and is trying to gain back enough balance to use his cane instead of a walker. After trying to navigate the local pub at happy hour, he realized that wasn’t such a hot idea. All through these adventures the screeching continued; I was getting used to it.

I did ask a nurse today to clean his ears, since he tends to pile up wax and I thought maybe it would help. She stopped the procedure mid-stream, called in the geriatrician, who peered into his ear canal and said “hey we’re sending you to an Ear Nose and Throat guy.” Then he had me use the magnifying glass, which was flattering but I had no idea what to look for – maybe pickle remnants? We managed to get an appointment right away – the same day! – and sure enough, lodged inside Dad’s ear canal was an old plastic plug that had separated from his hearing aid, complete with an inch of waxy crud. All I could think about was that movie where the insects crawl into people’s ears and eat their brains. His device didn’t work correctly because with a new plug it was unable to make contact past a barrier of debris. The ENT doc referred to it as the “yuck factor” in his field and said it wasn’t uncommon. Apparently he’s extracted all sorts of things from ear canals, including grasshoppers.

Dad’s hearing is much improved now. I’ve encouraged him to inspect his hearing aid each night to make sure it doesn’t have more or less parts than the picture on the box. We ate dinner in blissful silence.

Strange Car Karma

After driving 20 hours, I reached Seattle, briefly collapsed, did the laundry, flew back to Oakland for a memorial service, returned home and wanted to crawl under a rock. Instead I took care of my car, which needed new tires, an alignment and a headlamp bulb. $800 later, I had a perfect vehicle – for 5 minutes. Something looked odd. I realized with horror that the front end was dented, the hood didn’t close and the bumper was askew. How and where did this happen, was my state of mind so fuzzy that I hit my car on the Interstate and didn’t remember it? I narrowed it down to the most recent repair, stormed into Les Schwab Tires and tried not to appear insane.

Much to my amazement, the store had security camera footage showing my pristine car, until it went into the parking lot while I was paying my bill. And there, captured in crystal clear video, was a white pickup truck backing into my car, then taking off with a macho squeal. The managers whooped in delight. It was like a CSI scene, we should have had popcorn. The asshole who did the hit and run was busted: I had his name, license plate, and service records (no HIPAA privacy concerns in the auto repair world). He was driving a company truck, rushed in for a flat tire fix, and then ruined my day. His employer contacted me immediately, took all responsibility and is paying the $3800 bill. Yes, that’s what it costs to mess up a Subaru.

Tony’s Auto Body shop down the street is now doing “teardown,” a terrible yet descriptive term. They’re also fixing a big dent that has nothing to do with this episode - as long as the car is being ripped up, why not (I’m paying for the extra labor). I’m driving a rental SUV; Enterprise made sure my kayak and bike would fit inside. I spent yesterday and today sitting through an AARP-sponsored defensive driving course to lower my insurance premium. It was very ironic. I perked up during the part about deteriorating reflexes as we age and parking technique.

I’m going to take the SUV to a remote beach for my birthday this weekend, sleep in a tent, and enjoy my solitude.

Day of the Duck

It’s been a fun week as Julie, who I’ve known since kindergarten, came to visit me and Sid. She stayed on the certified wildlife farm, sleeping in a pink bunk bed normally used by a 9 year old girl. We had lots of sleepovers when we were that age, so it seemed perfectly natural. As soon as she arrived, we got locked out of the house and she had to crawl through the kitchen window after I used a crowbar to remove the screen. She pointed out that my mother was probably saying hello from the great beyond, messing with my keys again. I mentioned this possibility to my father - he smiled with recognition and agreed it was indeed Mom having some fun with us, just like the old days. Julie was quite helpful; we worked as a team to wrestle the stressed out duck into submission. (Chickens are stupid. I can bribe them with bagels to return to their coop. That duck is a whole other creature – way smarter than me, very humbling.)

Based on things that can’t be rationally explained, Julie suggested that we both get psychic readings at the local County Fair. I went along with the idea mostly to discount it. Ladies in flowing robes with credit card machines on their laps read the energy from our palms. Julie enjoyed her analysis. Here’s the Cliff Notes version of mine: I’m on a journey (duh, I’m always in transit – literally). Helping others is important to me (good guess). I will have 2 income streams in the future to support myself (sounds good, will one be this blog when published?) Someone hurt my heart (isn’t that why there are so many country ballads?) and a man I loved recently deserted me (true, he died). I’ve mostly recovered from bad romance, but I’m protecting myself from disappointment by avoiding dating (based on my match.com and ok cupid experiences, I should run screaming). However, in 5 years I will have a companion, not one I would have expected, and I may have to relocate to find him (now I’m getting interested, is he in Australia waiting for me?) I am on the right track to happiness; I’m by myself but not alone.

Meanwhile, the only men flirting with me are over the age of 80, that’s okay. Dad is my favorite boyfriend right now. He’s not happy that I’m leaving town after a month of spoiling him. In the last 5 weeks he’s gone through a bad fall, a hospital stay, skilled nursing, rehab, a cancer scare and an upset tummy due to eating too many pickles. He’s one resilient guy. Imagine what the psychic reader would say about his future!

The Menagerie

In my quest for affordable lodging near Dad’s retirement village, I have an arrangement with a lovely couple who run a pesticide-free farm (they also teach surfing). They went to Mexico to chase the perfect wave and I’m now on rent-free duty for 8 days, watching the house and pet-sitting the following: 7 chickens, 2 chihuahuas, 2 rabbits, 2 guinea pigs, 1 cockatiel, 1 chinchilla and a duck. Kind of like an organic Noah’s Ark. My tutorial had extensive instructions:

• Let the chickens out daily to wander the yard, eat bugs, and then corral them into their coop by sunset. If they resist, yell at them in German – “achtung!” (attention!), “runta!” (come down from the tree!) Do not disturb the mother hens who are sitting on their newborns, give them extra protein snacks. Toss all fruit and uneaten food into the coop along with organic chicken pellets.
• Guide the duck with a broom and refresh all the water he ruins when tracking in mud (very messy duck).
• Wash the dogs in the bathroom sink with Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap to kill fleas. They enjoy it.
• Make sure the boy rabbit and girl rabbit don’t mix (for obvious reasons). Give them fresh bale straw if they look bored.
• Feed grass to the guinea pigs for extra Vitamin C, and filtered water to the bird.
• I can eat and drink whatever I like, but if I leave it out on the table, it will disappear within seconds.

Taking care of my father suddenly seems really easy.

Big Daughter is Watching You

My father is back in his apartment and making progress, there’s a few humbling changes to his routine. No more late night showers when no one can hear him scream. He brags about how he’s gone high tech with a computer glued to his wrist. Dad will comply with just about every suggestion as long as pizza is supplied. He’s enjoying the attention of pretty girls who are helping him regain his independence. He became disillusioned when I explained that Medicare doesn’t cover aides to scrub his back or put lotion on his feet. “You told me that insurance pays for everything,” he lamented. Well, almost.

This morning we drove through a rainstorm (rare in this beach town) for various appointments. Due to lack of sunshine, I decided to hang out in the facility’s courtyard to catch up on local gossip. To my surprise, ladies came over to say "oh good you're here, if you're not I get worried." It was like having a dozen Jewish mothers in absentia. Meanwhile 99-year old Ida volleys with "you? You're still here? Don't you have a home?"

Tonight’s meal in the main dining room was delayed due to the Board of Trustees meeting in the lobby next door. Food delivery was ignored while the Board members feasted on wine, stuffed mushrooms and chopped liver. Things got ugly. Seniors started yelling and clanking their empty plates just like prison inmates. I joined the Board meeting, chatted with the CEO, and brought back appetizers to Dad’s table, plus 2 glasses of wine for me. This violated many rules, including kosher safeguards, and gained me a round of applause from everyone. The bartender gave me a nice bottle of Chardonnay to sneak into Dad’s walker basket.

I'm not a saint, I have periods of resentment. However being here is time well spent and an amazing learning experience. Interactions with my father eerily parallel my patient advocacy schoolwork and provide lots of material; it's easy to get As on essays.

The best incident of the day: Dad happily commenting to his buddies “I have so much to write about in the next chapter of my autobiography!” I had the same idea.

Life in Rehab

"Tried to make me go to rehab but I said, 'No, no, no . . .” My father has been recovering in the skilled nursing unit at his retirement village for 2 weeks, with 1 more week to go before being released back to his apartment. He is dealing with everything gracefully, and I’m spoiling him to soften the blow. I spend many hours distracting him. I smuggle in food every day to bribe the nursing staff and to keep Dad’s spirits up: donuts, bagels, a meatball sub. I’m holding back on the sugary treats because his doctor lectured us to focus on protein. Dad uses my laptop to watch Mel Brooks and Monty Python movies. I took it back to write this post and noticed the keyboard was full of greasy crumbs.

I’m getting lots of feedback, mostly that I’m an amazing daughter when so many other kids never show up, which makes me sad. Sometimes the comments catch me off guard. Norm, my father’s neighbor, who is dying from COPD and dementia, told me “you look sexy, can I grab a feel?” I declined his kind offer. I saw him later that day and he said: “You look tired.” I explained that I excelled at being both sexy and tired. He said he could relate. I held his hand.

Yesterday was Staff Safari Day – the dress theme was jungle shirts and helmets. One hard-of-hearing lady misunderstood and thought it was Sephardic Day. That actually makes a lot more sense for a Jewish facility.

I’m consulting with the management team to upgrade the safety pendant system. I showed some of the residents Dad’s new watch to prevent falls, and asked them “would you wear it?” They argued about its merits. The director of the independent unit told me afterwards: “When I fall, I won’t press any button. I don’t want to be old and broken. I would just let myself go.” I understand.

Sid is progressing; he gets constant physical and occupational therapy. Using a walker, he travels to his apartment each day to visit his comfortable recliner. We’ve rearranged the bathroom to be safer, incorporating his suggestions. Adjusting the height of the shower bench was no easy task; Mom used it for a decade and the legs were rusted into place. I realized that Dad’s toolbox, brought over from his old house and stashed away in the ancient file cabinet, would finally come in handy. I found the WD-40 oil and a ball peen hammer, and whacked away at the bench. Dad was impressed that I was so handy. The supervising therapist was slightly scared, asking me “what exactly do you do?” I smiled and responded “whatever is necessary.”

A Horrible Week

This post is one of my intense ones. You can skip ahead for the cute anecdotes if you like.

Dad slipped in the bathroom 5 days ago and lay bleeding and injured on the floor for 14 hours. He couldn’t reach the call button and he had removed his safety pendant to take a shower. He wasn’t able to answer his phone or door; eventually the housekeeper heard him yelling and he was rescued. He is physically damaged but mentally alert, and will hopefully respond to intense therapy. The rehab unit is located next door to his regular building - there was one bed available which was held for him.

Moments that will stick with me for a long time:

• The treating physician at Scripps Hospital ER calling to ask if he could text me photos of Dad’s battered face to consult to make sure the swelling was related to skin cancer treatment and not the fall – versus Dad’s regular specialist laughing when I tried to send him a picture, saying “I don’t do tele-dermatology, honey.”

• Dad’s friend Shirley taking me into a hallway to press ziplock baggies and rubber bands into my hands, her caring effort to keep my father safe in the shower.

• Rushing into Dad’s room with a box full of Costco hot dogs and sauerkraut to find 3 nutritionists discussing his dietary preferences and their recommendations for a healthier lifestyle – oops.

• Dad somehow broke the audio on 2 TVs – one in his hospital room, one in rehab. I believe it was Mom showing up to get a word in.

• The occupational therapist asking Dad to take off his shirt and he responded “what for? I barely know you!”

• Dad introducing himself at the dining room table to 4 semi-functional ladies with “Hi I’m Sidney and I’ve been a damn fool” (they ignored him).

• 99-year old Ida’s withering look when I asked if she was able to hike over to the rehab unit with me to visit Sid (she walks faster than me).

• Ida telling me how she was mad at Sid for being a sloppy eater, he embarrasses her at special events because he doesn’t tuck in his shirt. I informed her that since one of my best friends just died from an exploding heart, and my brilliant, kind and somewhat messy father almost died a week later, I really didn’t give a crap about etiquette. She then shut up and apologized.

• The physical therapist on his medical team who recognized me and said “hey aren’t you the one who taught us how to dance Thriller?” (karma paying forward).

• The nurse who stopped me in the parking lot to tell me that the list of medications I provided was incredibly helpful because it not only listed Dad’s drugs, but WHEN he took them throughout the day. It allows the staff to better calibrate his meds. Dad prepared the list on his computer 2 years ago; I found and updated it. We both get bonus points for good planning.

Please prepare the following, if not for yourself, then for the people who will be taking care of you:

• Living Will and Advance Directive. Google the free templates and just do it, look at http://www.agingwithdignity.org/
• Healthcare Proxy. Who will make medical decisions if you can’t talk?
• Have your current insurance card on file. Bills going to the wrong place are a nightmare to fix.

Emergency responders had to access all of these documents within 5 minutes for my father’s treatment. Some of the documents kept by his facility were out of date. I had everything ready in a binder that I carefully prepared – and the binder was in Seattle, with me. Luckily I showed up on the scene pretty fast. Fortunately the EMTs and doctors made smart assumptions and everything went smoothly.

Dad is getting excellent health care, I am impressed and grateful. I’m now in Seattle and will be driving back to San Diego in a few days; I’ll be there for a month. This trip was already planned; however it now takes on enhanced importance. Sid has a new state-of-the-art waterproof watch that will function as an emergency alert system linked to activity sensors, tell the time, track medication and even track his steps (no, it’s not a groovy Apple watch, it’s a Lively Smartwatch: http://www.mylively.com/). And he has promised to actually wear it.

Finance Lesson

We all know that pets are family members. However when their health histories are identical to our own, it gives pause – or paws – for thought. Randy, my geriatric orange tabby, has the following issues: allergies, heart murmur, gulping of food, decaying teeth, urinary blockages, weak ankles, arthritis, and resistance to change. These happen to be the same maladies that my father have, with the addition of diabetes and the subtraction of vomiting grass and peeing on the bed when anxious (I hope, I don’t really know). Now let’s do the comparative math for their medical care* over the last month:

* Randy: routine exam, lab work, drugs = $255 total, paid with my AmEx card.
* Dad: routine exam ($250), lab work ($720), drugs ($350) = $1320, mostly paid by Medicare.

Who do you think gets better overall quality of care? Do you think my father would mind if I took him to the local vet at our next visit?

In the meantime, I’m starting to show my own signs of mid-life deterioration and I mostly ignore it. My health insurance has a whopping deductible, and I prefer to be in active denial. Just like a cat.

Community Spirit

I’ve been busy modernizing my basement so that I can have a tenant to fund my trips to San Diego. Peeling back layers and frayed electrical wiring was quite an experience, but even more entertaining was interviewing the applicants. I chatted with a botanist, pastry chef, woman fleeing from abusive husband, pool cleaner, shuttle driver, web designer, nurse, punk karaoke singer, LGBT support group organizer, ladies who insisted their elderly dogs would bond with my cats, and really tall men who hit their heads on the short bathroom ceiling. Friends expected that I would go with the pastry chef (her specialty is lemon bars), however I selected the hospitality supervisor at the Westin Hotel. She’s delightful, quiet, and most important, under 5’ 6”. Decades ago I shared a place in Washington DC where the middle-aged owner had post-it signs everywhere saying “Abdul is coming.” I never knew if it was religious conviction or she was reminding herself to pick up a guy at the airport. Let’s hope I’m not quite as bizarre, now that the roles are reversed.

Helping with the early stage memory loss support group is fascinating and occasionally tough. I observed how the social worker handled a group discussion about terminal illness; I learned about grace and coping strategies. Afterwards the facilitator told me that some of the volunteers wanted to work with young children to get lifecycle balance, was I interested? Hell, no, hyperactive kids would send me over the edge. Instead, I’m interviewing seniors who have joined the local aging-in-place community organization to assess their needs. Currently there are lots of wonderful services, including transportation, home repair, and gardening (all of which I need, but I don’t qualify - yet). Interestingly, survey respondents are mentioning healthcare advocacy, particularly assistance with insurance decisions and medical care, as something they want. Little did I realize that this mini-focus group would validate my future career path; finding a job may be right under my nose.

Yesterday my neighbor and I checked out an estate sale around the corner, where an elderly lady had recently died. It was an old house with whirligig animals that were hand carved and painted by her deceased husband. Flying high on decaying fence posts, they reminded me of the carpentry my father did a while back. Woodworking was one of his better skills, along with making animal balloons. I love folk art, and I took home two pieces for repair and rescue (Road Runner and Wylie Coyote). Feeling nostalgic, I mentioned it to Dad today, thinking he might relate. He was so excited and thanked me for giving these pieces new life. Then he had to rush off to watch the competitive basketball tournament put on by his facility (independent living and assisted living staff duke it out in the parking lot).

Lots of seemingly random events are coming together to make me confident that I’m choosing my own right path. I’m enjoying the transition.

Taxes, Death and Other Certainties

With a nod to Ben Franklin’s famous quote, tax season is the universal equalizing experience. In my father’s case, this was the first time he didn’t prepare his own paperwork. After my badgering him for oh, about 5 years, he finally agreed to have a trained expert do the returns. Since AARP sponsors a free consulting service for seniors at the local library, we went there for what I thought would be a quick chat. I gathered every possible piece of paper in his apartment that said 1099 or DIV or “important for your taxes.” To his credit, he had attempted to calculate everything on an Excel spreadsheet. However, as we found out today, it’s essential to enter commas, not periods – for instance, the amount of $34,000 is different from $34.00.

We got a lucky break with the tax specialist. She is a nice Jewish girl originally from New York, and her own mother lived at Dad’s retirement village for 21 years. She calmly organized the multiple copies of the same statements, the mutilated records, and the documents with food stains. She asked Sid what his former profession was, he said “electrical engineer”, she smiled and said “oh I could tell.” Apparently all retired engineers make many copies – just in case, you know. She plugged all the data into the amazing government software, muttering a bit, and told us there was a glitch. The computer kept trying to add my mother, even though she’s out of the picture. I explained that Mom periodically shows up to mess with us; she probably wanted a piece of the action. Did the tax lady think this was nuts? Not at all. She shared that her dead mother turns the lights on and off in her home (note to Cindy – sound familiar?)

Two and a half hours later, we had final results that were quite shocking to me, but Dad took it all in stride. He still has money in the bank to pay his bills for at least a year. Also, if the residents go broke, rent is reduced to whatever income is available – some of the centenarians live there for free. After a recovery nap, off we went to a Purim celebration to have kosher cocktails and rattle noisemakers.

I already did my own taxes with TurboTax; now I can spend more time with my father. That’s a life refund, better than anything from the IRS.

Vintage is Subjective

When I talk every day with Dad, we don’t dwell too much on memories. Recently, however, he was missing his favorite tools, specifically the heavy duty ratcheting jar opener. He was struggling to open the jar of jumbo garlic pickles (technically it’s my emergency supply I keep in his refrigerator, but never mind.) I got the “why didn’t you consult with me about what to bring to the apartment and what to throw out” speech. I pointed out that we were all a bit busy at that time dealing with renal failure and saving his life, however I did transport other great kitchen utensils. I suggested using hot water, whacking the jar to loosen the vacuum seal, rubber grabbers, getting a NEW opener (god forbid), even asking the maintenance crew to assist. Then I remembered this particular device from my childhood and it was kind of cool, so I searched the Internet for a replacement. I found one – made in 1935, available from a lady who specializes in estate sale goodies. (This is a revenue path my brother and I had not considered when we offloaded pounds of junk to Goodwill – a lost opportunity). I had the “vintage” jar opener mailed to Dad. His opener was from the 1950s; really, how different could it be?

Although my father appreciated the effort, the antique opener didn’t meet his expectations. Then my brother told me that Dad actually gave him the utensil, decades ago. It’s buried deep in a drawer somewhere in his Long Island home. Now Dan has to find it and bring it to San Diego on his next trip, along with a dozen fresh bagels. He also reminded me about the time we had Dad itemize which top 10 things he would rescue if the house was on fire. Tools were number 1. My mother was number 8. I asked Dad today if he remembered those priorities - he laughed and said yes, and he wouldn’t change the list. What were numbers 2 through 7? He’s not telling.

Seniors in Seattle

I’m getting all sorts of stories by volunteering at the senior center. Today a couple in their mid-80s came in to check out the place and they were pleased with all the free offerings. The husband told me that they had been married for 56 years – “2 decent ones and 54 years of abuse.” The wife said that he was fine company except for his obsession with football, and that she planned to murder him this Sunday during the Seahawks playoff game. Not missing a beat, I offered the phone number of a social worker for counseling and suggested she look into our legal advocacy services. We all had a good laugh. It felt so familiar, and I realized I had gone back in time and was chatting with replicas of my parents, when they were both still healthy and funny. It was delightful to have a glimpse of that love again.

The center is pursuing a liquor license to expand its appeal (and revenue). Apparently there’s a new law allowing distinct licensure for senior centers, with few restrictions other than keeping minor children away from the booze. Washington State isn’t just about giving bartenders more work. There are now guidelines for “bud-tending.” Along with medical marijuana dispensaries, wedding and private party planners are hiring folks who “must have a ridiculous sense of humor, squeaky-clean criminal record and an appreciation for platinum-level customer service” - I found this description on simplyhired.com. Not to minimize the benefit to patients who want high quality pot for legitimate reasons, but can you imagine what kinds of recreational programs could be available at retirement facilities as the boomers age?

Meanwhile, Dad is doing well and enjoying himself. He doubled his cocktail intake at happy hour yesterday, adjusted his insulin accordingly, and then excelled at the “You Play the Judge” trivia competition today. I never cease to be amazed at his resilience.

Middle-Aged Learnings

I’m halfway through my UCLA online program in patient advocacy, there’s quite the eclectic mix of students. The participants include a firefighter, nun, hospice worker, emergency room nurse, financial advisor, human resources manager, entertainment professional, high risk youth counselor, and lawyer. And then there’s me, whatever I am. During this quarter I’m also renewing my insurance licensure with exams about identity fraud and income maximization – what a schizophrenic stew!

I now volunteer as a receptionist at the local senior center, which is never dull and sponsors monthly karaoke bingo. Seattle is fortunate to have lots of community resources; folks of all ages enthusiastically attend classes in self-improvement and like to hike in the rain. Last week a reasonably attractive guy showed up and said “hey I turned 65, how the hell did that happen and what perks do I get?” Yikes, that may soon be my opening line. I’m going to help with an early memory loss chorus (singing is great therapy as music is stored in a part of the brain that is last affected by dementia).

On the Dad front, Sid had a fun New Year’s date, drank too much and learned to gamble. He’s taking Advanced Yoga, works out at the fitness center, and does laundry as a form of physical therapy. I’m visiting him every month and will be taking Laura, my friend and neighbor, on an upcoming trip to share the adventure. Plus we get to hang out at the beach. It’s all good.