Transition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiding in Room 347

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

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

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

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

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

VIP Treatment

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

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

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

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

A Good April - Almost

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

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

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

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

Blessings

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

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

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

Super Senior

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

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

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

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

Pseudonyms

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

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

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

Geriatric Dorm Room

Now that my father is settled into a long stay recovering at the rehab unit, his apartment across the courtyard is available for lodging. It’s a flashback to the many years I lived in student dorm rooms, except quieter. While I was initially creeped out by the idea of sleeping in his bed and watching TV from his plush recliner, I got over it really fast. His studio room is convenient, it’s free (he still pays rent while Medicare pays for his skilled nursing care), and there’s a fast wifi connection. I pushed aside his guy stuff and took over the place for the past week. Every so often a nursing aide will pop in (no knocks) and scream when they see me instead of him. I didn’t exactly ask for permission to move in. It’s all wink-wink on the down low, since residents are supposed to be 80+ and need help getting dressed.

I sneak in and out, doing a lot of local trips to supplement Dad’s bland institutional meals with pizza, burgers and fries, making him very happy while increasing his health risks. He does daily physical therapy while I access the fitness center downstairs. I’ve had customized arthritis pool instruction and someone even did my laundry. That never happened in college! I’m enjoying working from the beach and navigating Sid’s care (much appreciated by staff). I’m sure he’s not having as good a time, but he’s thrilled to have me visit regularly.

This gives me pause as I ponder my own future, perhaps without as many amenities. When all the childless baby boomers get silver hair and bad backs (crap, that already happened) where will we wind up? I’ve been researching co-housing communities and hoping that a model will emerge that makes sense. In the meantime, I’m talking to myself, using the disabled parking spot, and getting a lot of practice being a quirky elder.

Leftie Power

After breakfast 2 days ago, my father suddenly lost his ability to walk, was breathing rapidly, and looked odd to a sharp-eyed aide at his facility. One hour later my brother alerted me that Dad was on the way to the Scripps Hospital ER. Then things got weird.

Despite being within the 3 hour window to receive TPA, a clot buster that reverses damage, Dad refused treatment due to potential side effects such as brain bleed. A neurologist called to ask if I wanted to overrule his decision since I had healthcare proxy privileges. We agreed that despite his age and condition, he was mentally competent, so I respected his choice. That was hard - if it were me I would have taken it. He was stabilized and I felt comfortable taking a flight later in the day. (Side note: once again, Alaska Air waived all fees and upgraded my seat. That’s their policy for a family medical crisis.)

I talked to my father at 6 pm and noticed a slight vocal slur. Arriving at 11 pm, I was greeted by a full code alert with a medical team rushing in to treat what they thought was a second, potentially fatal stroke. His words were garbled nonsense and all systems were failing. I slept in his room and watched the team in action, while convincing Dad not to rip out his catheter. After more CT scans, MRIs and cognitive testing throughout the night, they determined it was temporary brain swelling and would resolve. It did. By 8 am Sid was ready for a meal, talking a blue streak, wondering why everyone looked so concerned. However, his right leg was paralyzed from the knee down. I started planning for wheelchairs.

Fast forward to this morning, 48 hours post stroke. I found Dad raising and lowering his leg, wiggling his toes, saying “look, everything works again!” Huh? Well his body doesn’t quite function like it should, but he made incredible progress. The man is a 95-year old diabetic with cardiac, orthopedic and pulmonary issues. What happened?

Sid is stubborn, he’s a survivor of many challenges, and was born a leftie. As a child he was whacked (not by nuns) and forced to write with his right hand. That was a common practice for his generation to “fix” a defect. He became ambidextrous; his brain practiced “neural plasticity” for decades to follow. I know that left-handed people, about 13% of the population, are over-represented among musicians, creative types, and chess players. I was stunned to learn that lefties recover from stroke damage faster and better. And lefties trained to be righties may have special brain powers that no one understands. I’m a leftie, by the way - feeling pretty lucky about that right now. While this factor may be irrelevant to my dad’s evolving recovery, I’m concluding it isn’t all due to excellent medical care, high dose aspirin and prayer.

I knew that Sid was back on track when I got a call from the speech therapist this afternoon. I was at Costco chasing down lost hearing aid parts. Dad made her reach me to request a hot dog delivery, extra sauerkraut. She had to whisper as it obviously didn’t meet nutritional criteria. He got extra insulin and a wink from the nursing staff.

One of the hardest parts of this surreal chapter was telling my father that Harry, one of his dining room buddies, died during surgery a few days ago. He teared up and we talked about the pain of watching loved ones die with no logic. That conversation was extremely difficult for me.

Dad will soon be discharged to spend time in the rehab unit at his community; he’s been there 2 times already for recovery from falls. His friends are across the courtyard, he will be welcomed back to a caring environment, and he may even get a private room (flowers over the years for staff has paid off). I ordered bacon for his breakfast, since he’ll be returning to a kosher cocoon. I’m very proud to be Sid’s daughter. 

95 Years Strong

If anyone had told me a decade ago that I would be taking my father on a scenic helicopter flight for his 95^th birthday, then hosting a celebration, I would have been quite skeptical. That’s exactly what we did, and it was wonderful. Sid’s spirit, humor and appetite are in fine shape. His ability to keep hearing aids inside his ears, not so much.

I flew into San Diego to coordinate with cousin Marian, arriving from San Francisco, for 4 days of micro-planned festivities. First stop with Sid: Costco hot dogs. We progressed into happy hour at Seacrest, where seniors wobble after enjoying liberally poured cocktails. We were greeted by soon-to-be 102 year old Ida, who asked if Marian was a “souse” based on her love of Bud Light. What a wonderful vintage word! (Souse = to plunge into a liquid; to steep in a mixture, as in pickling; to be intoxicated.) After looking up the definition, we had to agree. Especially considering Sid’s love of all things pickled.

My original plan was to use a friend’s backyard and have a barbeque. A sizzling heat wave intervened; we adapted and had a pre-cooked meal in the living room instead. I provided shuttle services with my rental car while all the seniors’ walkers were transported via antique truck. We had one too many people for the car – so Shirley happily climbed into the front seat of the truck, yelling “yippee!” Marian was our balance consultant, using her physical therapy expertise to ensure everyone’s safety. More than a dozen people came to the party, including Dad’s former neighbors from Santee and his financial advisor from Chase Bank. The food was great, prepared by amazing AirBnB hosts who went beyond the call of duty. Marian baked 2 cherry pies. The collective glucose level from all the non-approved non-kosher delicacies was dangerously high.

Dad said that he doesn’t like lots of attention, and he was exhausted, but he enjoyed every minute. And I got lots of hugs from little old ladies who are part of my extended family. Now if we can just find that damn hearing aid, which disappeared the morning of Dad’s birthday. I suspect it was hidden by my mother, now gone 4 years. Mom wasn’t able to attend the party, and she was sulking. In the life and death continuum, some things simply defy logic. 

The New Normal

Today marks the 3^rd anniversary of when I jumped the corporate employment ship, shifted personal and professional priorities, and altered my lifestyle. I’m in San Diego, which seems fitting, to visit my father. For the first period in 3 years, I’ve got time on my hands. Sid is doing well in assisted living – he enjoys the special attention, the environment is safe, his drugs are taken on schedule. He figured out how to use Alexa to listen to classical music. We even solved the hearing aid issue – he now has custom ear molds (thank you Costco, a caring technician and $80 fixed a very annoying problem). Since walking has declined, we use a travel wheelchair to go out for non-approved meals (lots of salt) and occasionally share a glass of light beer.

And me? I’m working on my tan at the beach. I have a few patient advocacy clients here and there, enough to keep my brain firing. Travel is now for fun, not work. My lodging hosts make me nightly cocktails. I’m happy that my father has a wonderful last chapter. Yesterday I walked into his apartment to find him writing it. He hadn’t touched his keyboard in 2 years other than to try to figure out his taxes. His arthritic fingers type slowly with lots of errors. His language is very practical in his assessment of his current physical condition. Yet Dad’s spirit is intact, and he’s a kinder and gentler person. So am I.

Father's Day

For 10 years in mid-June I’ve been a painted bicyclist at Seattle’s Solstice Parade. It’s how I celebrate my birthday and get spiritually re-calibrated with the support of 1,000 naked people. This year I went to San Diego instead for a Father’s Day lunch with Sid at his favorite deli. We invited 4 of his former neighbors he’s known for decades, none of whom are Jewish. Dad was very concerned about the possible use of mayonnaise. Everything worked out. It was quite a caravan of wheelchairs; one of the ladies is recovering from a shattered leg (gardening accident) and Sid is still healing his ribs. We named them the Broken Bone Association. We all shared matzoh ball soup, I convinced a Christian missionary to try cheese blintzes, and Dad stole a reasonable amount of pickles.

Dad is adapting well to the assisted living area at his community. He misses some of the folks from the independent building – but not 101-year old Ida (“she’s too mean.”) Note: Ida is currently writing a pamphlet for newcomers who don’t understand kosher traditions, as she is horrified by their ignorance. I suggested the title “There’s No Bacon Here.” Meanwhile, Sid thoroughly enjoys assistance in the shower when done by attractive girls. I no longer worry about his safety and nutrition. It’s also family therapy: his residential upgrade has relieved me of constant micromanagement and it’s worth every penny. No more mystery pills exploding on the kitchen table. There are still challenges (e.g., why do his hearing aids fall out when he chews?) however it’s wonderful to once again have a phase of relative calm. This is all bonus time, and I’m grateful. Yes, I made the right choice how to greet summer.

“Alexa! What is the Next Chapter?”

As soon as I arrived in San Diego a week ago, I hit the ground running. Movers showed up; a few hours later my father’s home was re-created in the assisted living building, complete with most of his treasures. The ancient plaid sofa is gone. Other than the cable company taking 3 days to flip a switch, it was a seamless relocation. Dad was discharged the next morning from skilled nursing to navigate the layout, try the brand new bed, and make sure the pickles were intact. I believe my mother’s spirit left with the sofa, and that she’s finally happy.

Assisted living is like a college dorm, with minimal furniture, lots of shelves, and authority figures popping up to make sure there are no drugs on site. I invited Dad’s former dinner buddies from the independent living area for a welcome party. All their walkers were crammed in; everyone ate sugar-free candy and reminisced about the good times when they could actually hear each other. They shared their Hebrew biblical names from childhood, and even invented one for Shirley, the lone Lutheran. It was such a privilege to see elders enjoying this kind of camaraderie. My Hebrew name is Haya, which I’ve known all my life but never researched the origin. It means “vivid, impulsive, instinctive, needs freedom and space with an unconventional personality.” Clearly your name determines your path.

I purchased an Amazon Echo to give Dad some company and voice-activated resources. A recent spoof on Saturday Night Live about the Amazon Silver Echo (“geared specifically for the elderly”) reinforced the idea. Dad was horrified at first, accusing me of dragging him into a future for which he wasn’t ready. Then he realized he helped pioneer the technology decades ago when working as a telecommunications engineer. Two days later he’s questioning Alexa about many topics, only he usually calls her “Electra.” To see how art imitates life, watch the video below.

Things are improving. Sid’s broken ribs are slowly healing while he’s adjusting to a safer environment. He’s mostly appreciative of the additional support and changes to his routine. However the most amazing accomplishment happened today, when Dad agreed to get a manicure. For decades he’s been using a Dremel rotary grinder to trim his nails, which is like flossing teeth with a machete. Afterwards, I hid his prehistoric tool on a really high ledge. I know I should throw it out; maybe I should have buried it in the sofa cushions. It’s just so horrifying that it deserves posterity.

Amazon Silver Echo

Déjà Vu

Almost 2 years to the date of his last fall, Dad slipped in the bathroom again: same kind of fall, same hospital. This was his 3rd strike; a new chapter has begun. After a few weeks in skilled nursing, he will be located in an assisted living studio with onsite caregiver support.

I was prepared. I was at his home for the first bad fall in 2013 when he crashed through a glass shower door. I missed the 2nd fall in 2015, a backflip where he laid on the floor for 14 hours before being discovered. This time I was nearby. The evening before, he tried an electric mobility scooter for a sunset drive around the courtyard. I wanted to ensure he could navigate it to the dining room for breakfast. I woke up early, sensing something was wrong. I got to his room 20 minutes after he fell and alerted the EMTs. Tip: don’t try to lift an injured senior unless you are trained, call 911. Even though we’ve had many talks about pushing the panic button, and he could easily reach 2 alert devices, he didn’t use either system. He struggled to move his body because he wanted to prove he was independent. He didn’t realize until later that he fractured 3 ribs.

Vibes were already wobbly due to the recent removal of my mother’s ancient walker from his closet for disposal. When I wrestled it free, I was thrown backwards. Doris clearly did not want to be disturbed. Did Mom cause Dad to slip to keep her company? Did he just trip? I don’t know. His fall was broken by her old shower chair, maybe she saved him. Last month I purchased a newer, safer shower chair that he refused to use. Would it have made a difference? Maybe. It doesn’t matter.

My father is a tough guy who has survived a lot of trauma throughout 94 years. I expect him to rally. His attitude is upbeat despite intense pain. Nurses, doctors, physical therapists and cleaning staff have been wonderful. Sometimes they ask if I’m his wife, then I have to explain that he’s my daddy, not my sugar daddy. I’m using pickles as motivation to get him to exercise his lungs to prevent pneumonia. After decades of self-management, he agreed to a palliative consultation to recalibrate drugs and services to honor his priorities and goals. Do I wish I had done more to prevent yet another crisis? Of course. To respect a person’s dignity while keeping them safe is quite a challenge. (101-year old Ida chimed in with her opinion that Sid is “an overgrown baby” and just needs to get his act together.)

I’m now packing up Dad’s stuff since he’s going to downsize again. Boxes I grabbed from Costco are labelled “fully cooked bacon” which makes me laugh (this is a kosher facility). It’s much easier than the last round. Garbage bins are down the hall instead of making “trash and dash” runs all over town. Emptying a 1 bedroom apartment is faster than dealing with a giant house. I am excited to finally get rid of the crusty plaid sleeper sofa circa 1972. After calling a bunch of donation centers to find that nobody wants a vintage eyesore, I found someone who said he can make it disappear as part of the move to Dad’s new unit. I’m not asking questions. I was on the verge of dumping it into the nearest ravine. The problem is that my mother may get pissed off again, but I’m willing to risk her wrath.

I’m fine. Advocacy training comes in handy, although it’s hard to personally experience what you preach and teach. Friends are helping me cope, this community is supportive, the timing of each change is aligned. I’m even getting a suntan from a daily beach walk. Last night I ate barbecued ribs - appropriate to recognize Dad’s latest mishap.

Can’t Make This Stuff Up

I’ve been trying to take a beach walk for 3 days. Life intervened. As soon as I arrived in Encinitas for my monthly visit with Dad, I’ve been running around. The first crisis was when he complained his new hearing aids kept falling out of his ears. I scheduled a visit to the audiologist. However the next morning I got to his apartment to find him long faced, explaining that he somehow flushed his left hearing aid down the toilet. I was willing to dive in to the plumbing until he explained his stomach was upset and it involved #2. Nope, not gonna go there. He stripped his clothing for a full body inspection. I hand delivered an insurance claim to expedite a replacement. Then I wondered if perhaps the problem was that he had them reversed. Sure enough, when I brought the remaining hearing aid into Costco they confirmed it. “We color code the devices,” the rep said. “Red for right. Blue for left.” Nice strategy; however Sid is color blind.

This morning I arrived at Dad’s place to find him sheepishly holding 2 hearing aids. He found the missing one laying in the hallway in front of his door. Someone, a Good Samaritan, anonymously delivered it. Amazing karma! I tried to cancel the replacement claim. I re-inserted both aids into the correct ears. I would be mad at him but honestly, these gadgets are tricky. Plus last week he stole a pile of chocolate covered matzoh from the dining room and kept it in his walker seat for me. That’s love.

We had another talk about transitioning into assisted living, using this latest debacle as an example of how a little more help was needed to get through the day. It was a teachable moment. He calls it “the fancy bathroom place.” In the meantime, I’m arranging all sorts of services: nurse visits, repackaged medications, assistance with the laundry. I bumped into a little old lady using an electric mobility chair, and her husband told me that they plan to sell it to get one with a longer distance battery. I offered them cash on the spot. Sid could ride a red scooter at speeds up to 4 mph to relieve his compromised body (he has COPD along with atrial fibrillation, arthritis and diabetes).

The irony is that I was interviewed today by the Seattle Times about patient advocacy. I explained that you do whatever is necessary to make things easier. I didn’t mention that my skills are tested every hour!

Multi-Tasking

Accomplished during my week visiting Dad:

• Spent 3.5 hours preparing Dad’s taxes with AARP volunteers, wearing them out.
• Negotiated with deli manager for a new supply of pickle brine after spillage incident.
• Replaced ruined pickles with organic sour dills from farmer’s market, assumed it’s healthier.
• Shopped for frozen TV dinners to replace ones ruined by 15-hour power outage.
• Met with facility director to discuss building safety issues.
• Submitted paperwork to request move to assisted living unit, including scary forms about death.
• Toured potential apartments late at night to make sure staff were happy about their jobs.
• Prepared physician assessment forms, including items illegal for me to complete.
• Purchased and assembled shower transfer bench to make bathing less risky.
• Obtained new hearing aids and eyeglasses from Costco, cost of $2000.
• Bought Costco hot dogs costing $1.50 each, such a deal.
• Took Dad to barber.
• Took Dad to doctor.
• Shared tacos, beer and ice cream with Dad, diet be damned.
• Shopped for new underwear so Dad doesn’t have to do as much laundry.
• Did Dad’s laundry – twice.
• Interviewed the entourage of nurses, physical & occupational therapists hovering over Dad.
• Researched home care agencies about private duty caretaker services.
• Conducted medication review with specialist, trying to match prescriptions to pill box mysteries.
• Had “the talk” with Dad about needing a higher level of care in the near future.
• Got heartbroken that he understands and agrees.
• Got lectured by 101-year old Ida about how men are useless.
• Drank wine with my lodging hosts.
• Visited the chicken farm family, took their chihuahuas for a lagoon walk.
• Met with bank manager to consolidate 14 stock funds purchased 30 years ago – referred to as “peanuts” by Dad, actually worth a ton of money.
• Delivered boxes of peanuts to the bank manager to make Dad laugh.
• Realized that the peanuts fund will be depleted by uninsured long term care and future rent.
• Went for a back country drive with Dad, not bothered that he slept through most of the scenery.
• Took a bike ride through nearby estates to appreciate the gardens.
• Felt humbled by the many caring providers and friends who watch over my father.

I think I need a patient advocate. Oh wait, I am one!

That's the Way It Is

Transcript from Dad’s voice mail today.

"I called to inform you of a minor tragedy. The black plastic cover did not exactly fit the plastic jar, and when I reached to remove the jar I was holding the plastic cover but it fell apart. I had pickles and pickle juice on the carpet. I tried rinsing the pickles but they lost the flavor. So that was the major part of our pickle juice, and we have to start all over again. Otherwise, things have been very quiet here. I’m using the vaporizer and I’m breathing much better but the loss of pickles and pickle juice is a major, major tragedy. Anyway, that’s the way it is."

Okay, now for my perspective. Sid spent the last few days in respiratory distress. A series of visiting nurses and dining room buddies called me constantly, all very worried. I remotely micromanaged the delivery and instruction of nebulizers and inhalers to avoid a hospital stay. Since his fingers are arthritic and many of his pills wind up on the floor, his hearing aid is useless and his glasses are the wrong prescription, it’s kind of challenging for him right now. I’m gearing up – again - for crisis, crippling falls or death. But from my father’s point of view, none of that is relevant. His pickle supply is messed up. I really need to realign my priorities! Somehow Dad keeps on going, sense of humor intact. It’s these moments that I treasure.

Solidarity Large and Small

Many of you went on a Women’s March on January 21. Since I’m visiting Dad, I arranged to go to the nearby march in San Diego. I was ambivalent about attending a protest here. Most women strive to look like Barbie dolls, politics are conservative, and community spirit isn’t a core value. I was happily surprised to be part of a peaceful, well-organized event with 40,000 (good-looking) people. More diversity than I expected, an incredibly wholesome scene, with many men and children. It was actually really cool to hear thousands of participants sing the national anthem – folks even knew the words.

What I didn’t expect was that back in the lobby of my father’s retirement village, 52 women were doing their own miniature march. In their 80s and 90s, these ladies have experienced historical transformations they are unwilling to see reversed. They may use walkers, but that hasn’t slowed down their passion. Elders want to preserve a hard-won legacy and shape the future for their descendants. Although the demonstration wasn’t officially endorsed by facility management, the CEO showed up - joined by her mother. A local news crew even came to film the handmade signs. Where was my dad? Sid went to the lobby to get his mail, saw the action, and stuck around to watch. His buddy Ida, approaching 101 years, was leading the pack. By the time I arrived, everything was over; it was back to the routine of complaining about menu choices.

What brought the point home for me, more than any of the marches, was a short talk with a woman who sits next to my father at the dining room table every night. Tonia grew up in Poland and witnessed the growth of the Nazi movement as a teenager. Public apathy and media manipulation created events few believed could happen – let’s just call it “alternative facts.” She watched Trump’s inauguration speech and recognized the same populism themes, the hollow promises, and she got scared. She told me that American complacency was her nightmare.

There are tons of wonderful images of the big marches. I was privileged to witness a little one.

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?