Latkes and Lights

Holidays are generally a challenging time for me – I’m not religious, I don’t observe rituals and I usually do the laundry on Christmas Eve. I was raised culturally Jewish and essentially Atheist, which means I appreciate sour dill pickles and Woody Allen movies. This season, however, has been wonderful. My father is doing well, and he was treated to a homemade potato latke party due to my special friends Laura (head-chef) and Cindy (sous-chef) coming to town. Sid’s expression watching the girls cook for him was priceless. I’ve been to more lighted house displays in the last week than I’ve seen in the last decade – all tacky and silly. I experienced a shopping marathon in an Oregon suburban mall for 10 hours with 4 ladies in identical red reindeer sweaters. If that isn’t festive spirit, what is?

I’ve been wondering if my mother was going to pull one of her infamous after-death stunts. For those who don’t know the family history, every time I lost something from age 5 through 55, Mom would dream about it and then tell me where it could be located – even when I was thousands of miles away. Usually when I’m visiting my father I lose odd items which magically reappear on the last day, which is her way of saying she’s watching over us. Two days ago I lost an expensive earring on a hike. Today I went back to the trail with little expectation to find it. I walked along the path looking for a glint of sliver after a muddy rainstorm and heard her voice: “look down.” The earring was there partially buried under a rock, in perfect condition. I don’t believe in God. But I do believe in the power of friendship to heal. Happy holidays to us all!

Inappropriate

Back visiting Dad again, realizing that folks in San Diego generally don’t fare well with non-conformity. I was asked to stop bringing fresh organic chicken eggs into the dining room; there’s been talk about my disregard for kosher tradition and how I play favorites with my gifts. It didn’t help that I showed up this time with electric blue hair (it was supposed to be temporary for Halloween but apparently is my new fashion look.) One would think blue hair would have an appeal for old ladies, however 101-year old Ida greeted me saying “you look stupid!” I explained the dye was hanging onto my follicles like lox clings to a bagel. She snorted.

Then I discovered that Shirley, a resourceful person, made my father a hand-sewn clown doll which is supposed to encourage him to smile more often. Yes, a large genuine creepy clown now shares his apartment. We named him Max. Dad isn’t depressed. He tells me every day that “life is good.” He just doesn’t want to spend money to fix a missing tooth, so he parses out his grins.

I narrowly escaped an enthusiastic chat in a doctor’s waiting room about how great it was that Trump would be President – I chose to leave and hide in the garden. I thought everyone at the retirement village would be upset about the election, most residents being intelligent and some having survived concentration camps. Not so much. They have more micro-level concerns about the nightly movie selection and the hotness of their soup. You tell me – is anything appropriate given the events of last week?

Locker Room Talk

It seems that some athletes are upset by politicians misrepresenting the true nature of locker room talk. I watched the most recent painful presidential debate while in Canada and 1) I’m embarrassed to be American and 2) my personal and professional world consists of much more interesting chit-chat. Here’s what I hear on a regular basis from hanging out in senior center bathrooms, fitness center changing rooms and hospital hallways.

• My (fill in the blank) is getting droopier/grayer/missing (choose your favorite).
• I can’t remember where I put my (name your frustration, it’s not age-related).
• Why is that doctor so YOUNG?

In my father’s dining room at the retirement village, there’s no concern about sexy ladies or ethnic refugees ruining our country. After all, residents now include Colored People, Orientals and even a Protestant and it has all worked out fine. Paying for long term care without destroying assets, approaching death with dignity, where to get a decent Reuben sandwich: these are issues Dad’s buddies want to talk about. Wouldn’t it be nice for all of us to have discussions about these important topics instead?

Milestones

I suspected that Mom, who left the world 3 years ago, would be causing trouble on her birthday, which was yesterday. I was hesitant to be on an airplane on that day. I even made sure to monitor my car and house keys and have a backup system, because making me lose keys is her usual routine. However, I didn’t think that she would trigger the disappearance of my credit card as soon as I arrived to visit Dad. One minute we used it for pizza, then I went to buy him some pickles, and whoosh, it was gone. Okay, I understand Mom was jealous that we were having a good time on her special day. She wanted her own slice of the action. Perhaps there is a shopping mall in the great beyond with a fantastic sale and she wanted to get herself a present. I fully expect her to return the card on Friday, just in time for Dad’s 94th birthday.

I stopped using logic long ago to understand my parents, both dead and alive. Dad fixed his broken footstool with a toothpick, and it works fine. He naps in mid-sentence but miraculously wakes up when there’s a meal nearby. He’s doing well despite his terrible nutritional habits. He says that he doesn’t want a party this year, although I don’t quite believe him. Instead I purchased tickets for a special boat cruise to see the Tall Ships Parade up close in San Diego Bay, and he’s delighted. When I asked if he wanted me to accompany him to Yoga class today, he said “hell no, I travel really fast with my walker and you can’t catch up.” Roll along, Dad.

I'm Kinda Busy, Part 2

Five years ago I created a farewell video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUHtj8AoZQE) when I was laid off. It was a montage of favorite hobbies to affectionately point out to colleagues that I wouldn't miss the corporate healthcare bubble, and to remind friends that play outranks work. Then after a few months of fun I wound up employed in yet another bureaucratic cluster. It didn't stick. After 3 years I walked away (more like ran) from that job to change direction toward issues that I cared about and people that mattered. All through this phase, actually since 2010, I've been blogging about aging quirky (my other blog, "My Career Colonoscopy,” was put on hold along with my career).

Well now it's 6 months into my new profession as an independent patient advocate and I like it. I've had 8 clients so far, and some of them even paid me. A few were pro bono on purpose, and the one that matters most was unintentional. Dad is still client number one, which he regularly reminds me.

In this new chapter, I don’t have to do much marketing and public exposure falls into my lap. The need is growing and the stories are intense. A local news crew came to my house to film me in action; it may or may not get on the air, I’m fine either way. The highlight of the experience was the camera guy complimenting me that I had clearly been trained on media interviews. Indeed I was – in 1997, courtesy of the insurance company I used to work for and am now poking a stick at to make sure they do their job. That’s perfect. As I wrote in my first blog post 6 years ago, I thank my parents for their genetic transmission of a fine sense of irony and appreciation of the absurd.

Shameless plug: look at www.kazadvocate.com and let me know any suggestions for improvement, because I realize that promotion has its place.

Yiddish is Alive

Back in Encinitas for 2 weeks, I’m farm-watching and pet-sitting in exchange for free rent. Since the sun didn’t come out today, I decided to get historical insight by attending the monthly Yiddish-speaking meeting at Dad’s retirement village. This is a social club where more than 50 people used to belong; now it’s down to 5 participants. Those who can converse in their childhood language are dwindling. Klezmer, the Yiddish-inspired loopy music that thrived in Eastern Europe for centuries and was almost decimated by the Holocaust, is being revived by survivors’ grandchildren. Yiddish talk, however, is not enjoying the same attention other than a few words mainstreamed by Jewish comedians (e.g., putz, schlemiel, kvetch).

I learned more than I expected. Applying the theme of Father’s Day, everyone described their parents in Yiddish and English. “My father was a tailor.” My father was a butcher.” “My father was a businessman and a rabbi’s son.” “My father was a watch maker.” “My father was an author.” Then each person added a postscript: “He died because the Nazis killed him.” “He died young in a Polish ghetto.” “He liked to sing but only lived to be 37.” “He was funny and philosophical.” They turned to me next. I said “My father is about to turn 94 and is enjoying his new life. He was the first person in his family to attend college. His father was a truck driver in Brooklyn.” They all nodded.

With their pin-curled hair and compression socks, these elders deserve my respect. I feel very fortunate to have been raised with freedom and privilege. Yiddish is a darkly comic language. “Abi gezunt dos leben ken men zikh ale mol nemen.“ Roughly translated this means “Stay healthy, because you can kill yourself later.” Oy gevalt.

Trying a New Flavor

After my mother died in 2013, her 10-year old rickety blue walker was adopted by my father. His own balance deteriorated after a bad fall a year ago; he couldn’t rely on a cane any longer. It was hard for him to accept that he needed help, but he liked having a constant reminder of his wife. I’ve caught Dad talking to Mom a few times while wheeling down hallways, although she’s been gone a while. I asked him if she ever answered; he smiled and said “sometimes.” When the brakes stopped working and bolts starting falling out, he insisted we fix it, and the maintenance guys did their best. I periodically suggested a new walker to no avail – after all, why pay good money when this one was perfectly functional?

I went to San Diego last week for a round of doctor visits and shopping, it’s our ongoing routine. Imagine my surprise when Dad agreed that safety prevailed and allowed me to purchase a new walker – as a “backup.” Before he changed his mind I quickly bought one, ergonomically sound with two cup holders (one for coffee and one for beer?) It was even the same color blue. He insisted we leave his name tag on the old walker so Mom could still find him. He visited his favorite physical therapist, the one who worked with him for months after his accident, explaining that he had a new Porsche needing adjustment. Afterwards he went to the onsite fitness center to ride the exercise bike for 45 minutes. He continues to build back his leg strength, and he’s enjoying chair Yoga three times a week.

I successfully packed the new walker into the rental car (it folds flat! it’s lighter and stronger!) and off we went for frozen yogurt to celebrate. Dad has eaten chocolate/vanilla swirl yogurt forever. I rarely ask which flavor because I always get the same response. This time I looked at him carefully and said “the usual, Dad?” He paused for a beat, looking back at me with bemused pride. “No,” he said. “Get me toffee crunch. It’s time for something different.”

The Power of Hats

I’ve been doing escorts (sounds like I’m a hooker) for local residents at retirement homes. Just like my father, they don’t have family nearby or easy ways to get to medical appointments. The twist is that these folks tend to have a touch of dementia, which makes every encounter an adventure. The upside is that they often don’t remember discomfort, and enjoy meeting me (even when we’ve been together before). The downside is that they don’t always know their history, their doctors rely on inadequate records, and we are all at the mercy of a fragmented healthcare system. I’ve witnessed some amazing physicians, like the one who bear hugs patients, understanding that touch is just as healing as drugs. There are also doctors who push meds without listening or caring.

Then there are people like 90-year-old Ruby, who is combative, anxious and suspicious of others taking advantage of her. Ruby worked as an ob-gyn nurse for decades before retiring 30 years ago. Now she’s a patient at the same facility where the providers are mostly young. She has memory tracking issues, however she is, in her own words, “feisty.” I’ve been with Ruby for 3 visits - each time begins with her saying she doesn’t like me and how everyone is trying to kill her. She knows a lot about Seattle history and points out all the places she used to go as the shuttle winds around town. I mostly listen. Ruby is a proud woman, I realize it’s not personal; she simply wants some control.

I tried a new tactic with Ruby yesterday. I told her that she was the boss and that doctors were her staff, and that she could score them on their competence. With each provider, she explained why she was there and at the conclusion she graded them. Most got As. The doctors were amused at first by this eccentric little old lady but they respected her. And that, in turn, gave her confidence.

While we were waiting for the shuttle to take her home, I saw silly hats at the hospital gift shop and ducked in to get one for upcoming summer festivities. As soon as Ruby saw my hat, she said “I want one too!” She handed me $2; I selected a pink and purple masterpiece that matched her outfit. We talked about not caring what was appropriate.

The director at the assisted living unit emailed me last night that Ruby wore her hat all day, bragged about being special, and lifted everyone’s spirits. I’m honored – and also aware that at our next visit, she probably won’t remember me. That’s okay. She has a great hat.

Vetting the System

I’m usually healthy, but I had a recent scare that sent me to the emergency room. I called first to the 24/7 nurse line, which sent me to an urgent care center, which told me to limp over to the hospital across the street. Everything was out of network despite my attempts to obey the rules. It all seemed rather silly, however I didn’t want to drop dead and it was good practice for my consulting business. I eventually wound up with a diagnosis of osteoarthritis/spinal disc compression, which is exactly what my father has, down to the same discs. He smiled when I later told him in person and said “welcome to the club!” What a lovely bonding experience. The charges for the care: $2570. What I will pay: $145 – hopefully. I’m gearing up for a fight with the insurance company. I’m on Medicaid right now, a plan in which many folks use the ER as a drop-in clinic, so I might be successful.

I’ll be adding physical therapy, yoga, Advil and more pinot grigio to my routine. I’m volunteering a lot of hours at the local senior center, and I’m feeling older and older. Perhaps aging is transmissible, like flu? Maybe I should work at a pre-school to even things out.

Since I’m a hippie at heart, I wore tie-died leggings to happy hour at Dad’s retirement village. Many of the ladies admired my colorful look, although some were concerned that I had gotten full body tattoos. The best comment was from 100-year old Ida, who said “oh, are those tights? I thought you were developing varicose veins.”

It’s a constant treat to have unfiltered feedback from centenarians.

Techno-Irony

As I continue to micromanage my father’s life, I have anxiety attacks and second guess my every action. It’s part of the glory of being a long distance caretaker. Attempting to make things easier, I’m relying more on technology.

This week my brother and nephew came for their bi-annual visit to shuttle Dad to doctors, breweries and bacon suppliers. All the boys took a field trip to obtain a new amplified phone (free for the hearing impaired) which I set up. I plotted to get the required State of CA paperwork and convinced Dad that it was smart to try new equipment. He used to work for a telecommunications empire, but is resistant to a landline that has a speaker, big buttons, and doesn’t rattle like a tin can. Anyway, I attempted to find a rep so that I could review options at the San Diego distribution center; there are no descriptions on the website. All I could find was a person in Sacramento who they told me that local centers don’t have phone numbers as it’s drop-in with no appointments. They supply phones, but they don’t actually use them.

Next I tried to locate a tax form on Dad’s online brokerage account, amusingly for AT&T stock. It was daunting. I’ve never experienced a website so confusing with so many layers of security. After locking myself out and chatting with agents, I found one who believed I had legal access. As long as I answered a few arcane questions, I could download the form. Example: what was Sid’s first car model (luckily my brother found “Dodge Sedan” scribbled in his paper rolodex.)

Dad’s state-of-the-art Lively watch expertly monitors his doors, pill box and refrigerator however no longer displays the correct date. The company was acquired by another vendor in a hostile takeover, and they don’t have access to the master programming code because the old staff quit. The watch is stuck in 2015 until the new guys figure it out, although they’re happy to sell me other, more expensive products. No deal.

Today, Dad needs transportation to Costco to buy a spare pair of eyeglasses. He has been fantasizing about improved vision for a while, therefore it is urgent. My brainstorm: if I can’t book his facility’s shuttle at the last minute, he is going to experience travel by Uber. I can schedule the pickup remotely, pre-arrange assistance with his walker, and hope that he isn’t left at the hot dog counter. This will be interesting.

Raising the Roof

I’ve been pondering a theme for this year’s first blog post. Should it be about going beer tasting last week with Dad at 11 am? Our very weird conversation about the sex lives of residents at his retirement community? The hearing aid cleaning tutorial video that I put on YouTube for my brother to study? All of these stories are charming.

No, I want to celebrate the end of my 20-year home repair project list. I got a new roof today, a painful expense and a reminder of mortality. And thanks to good friends and networking, I also got my very first client for my patient advocacy consulting business (bows to Laura). The Free Dictionary defines “raising the roof” as being extremely noisy and boisterous. Google adds that it’s especially meaningful through cheering. According to the Urban Dictionary, the phrase means that we work together to increase our mutual potential rather than oppressing competition, then it states “also see douchebag.” Hmm.

As I patch together all sorts of activities and opportunities, it’s a quest with many twists and turns. I’m glad to have a roof over my head. I just started a new repair list for the next 20 years; first on the list is making sure I have my priorities straight.