Shopping for Necessities

My saintly errands today included taking my mother for a hair (and eyebrow) trim. I hauled my father to the DMV where he turned in his drivers license to get a senior ID instead (the final act of the automobile saga and my guilty but necessary role to remove him from the roads). I kept his license as a memento. He told the clerk that I was a good driver and he taught me how to be careful – OMG, probably not the time to mention I recently smashed up my front bumper, eh? Hey, I hear you all laughing, stop that. Then we went to the tool discount warehouse in the ghetto of El Cajon -- I understood that he needed to wander the aisles of manhood.

Dad found cheap amplifiers to wear in his decaying ears since he refuses to spend money on a hearing aid. My mother couldn’t navigate the steps so she went next door to the military surplus store, where she inspected the ammo and tried on hats to replace the ones I threw out on my last visit. I took her back to the car before she tried to bargain for used uniforms, and she proudly showed me her turquoise socks that had the initials of KV on the cuffs. I recognized those socks – they were mine, from 8th grade.

Tomorrow I will be transporting them to their doctor, who will tell me that they are obstinate, and I will meet their home health nurse, who will tell me that they are challenging. Then I will somehow find my way to a large margarita before escaping. I will fly back to my beautiful home, where I just learned that my cats peed and pooped all over my guest bed – and possibly mine. Feline acting out behavior for their own parental issues.

Buffet Bonanza

Sooner or later I had to come back to Santee to visit my parents, so I wrapped it into a work trip and came here to observe their latest status. I finally got smart and stayed in a hotel rather than their house. The hotel is the only one in town, next to Honey Donuts and the crack district -- the room is $59/night and worth every penny. It’s blissfully quiet with a fast Internet connection.

We had dinner at Hometown Buffet, a suburban mecca of overcooked and bland food, to belatedly celebrate their 89th birthdays. For the last 15 years my father told people he was about to turn 90. Now it’s true – and he’s changed his line to “I’m about to turn 100.” God forbid. My dietician friend Julie thinks the preservatives my parents are ingesting are keeping them alive beyond their natural expiration dates. Based on the spread I saw tonight, it’s a valid theory.

They had respective birthday 2-for-1 coupons, senior discount coupons, and promo coupons. Some were valid, some expired. My father tried to combine all the coupons for free food along with a dozen takeout cartons. My mother insisted that 3 other people could have been there with us to justify the discounts, but they didn’t show up. And with horror, I realized there is a strong genetic component to my love of a good deal and my negotiation skills.

After the feast (which I barely ate), my father assembled the walker for my mother and carefully pulled it behind him, huffing and puffing. The only problem was that Mom wasn’t attached to it – she was still at the dessert table, stuffing cookies into her purse.

When Blogs Collide (cross-posted)

My 89-year old father figured out how to use LinkedIn – he clicked on a hyperlink and read my profile. He was surprised that I had done so much since college (okay Dad, I’m almost 55 years old, I should have pursued a few things related to work . . .) seriously it was really sweet when he told me he was proud of my career achievements. Some people never get to hear that from their parents. He doesn’t quite get the nuances of how I made a living for the last few decades, nor why I have no pension plan. He is however, very happy that I finally got a job, and that it is with a company he has actually heard of – because they have screwed up his insurance claims. The dots connect.

Of Mice and Men

This afternoon I took my neighbor Laura’s mouse to get euthanized – old, blind, hairless, with a tumor on her butt (the mouse, not Laura). This poor animal refused to die naturally, and was becoming quite pathetic. Since I was bringing in my cats in for their annual exams, I asked my veterinarian if he could serve as Dr. Kevorkian. My vet is a caring, sensitive healthcare professional who has been there for me in good times and bad for the past 15 years. He understood the situation and took care of it at no fee (but charged me $311 for feline vaccinations, stool checks, blood titer and physicals.) The technician gave the mouse something to help her sleep and it was all very humane. Earlier today Laura’s 10-year old daughter Bella bid goodbye in a secret ceremony.

You know where I’m going with this topic. There is something really wrong when sick rodents get better care than elderly parents, and have more choices. I am not suggesting sending off Mom and Dad to an animal clinic – on the other hand, I am wondering if there’s a vet in their town who will step up . . .

I may not be the best daughter, but I am a really wonderful neighbor.

Transcript from Mom’s Call

Phone message, 8 pm

“Hi Karen, this is your mother. Your father showed me the article you sent him about Karin Vogel. I never saw the spelling of your name like that before. Who sent you this article? When I talk to you next time, if I forget, remind me I wanted to ask you what a smart phone is, and I see all these people get online with – I forgot what it’s called again - what do they call those crazy connections on the internet – I know you know you have to use a smart phone. But what is a smart phone? We’re kind of backwards.”

“Today I got a manager from one of the home care agencies. I found that one by dialing a wrong number; I thought I was dialing a retirement home. She said “I don’t have anything to with a retirement home, but I have a home care agency.” She sounded very nice, very informative. Your father didn’t want to see anybody so I never did see her. But I called her and asked her if she would come down and talk to us today. And she did, we gave her no decision, have to play around with it a little bit and see what we can come up with.”

“She would like somebody to come in and help organize the house, and maybe I can get some of those boxes away. I keep tripping over them, I hate looking at all those boxes. He keeps coming in and depositing everything he shops for and leaving it all over the place. Hard to move the walker around, so I wind up not using it, and that’s not a good idea. She thinks we need at least 4 hours several times a week, we don’t think so. I don’t have the time anyhow, between running to the doctor and having a nurse come here every week; they’re still doing that. They changed the nurse because I told the case manager I couldn’t understand the one I had and she was making a lot of mistakes handling the pills. Sidney keeps saying he can do it, but he is not up to doing it yet. His shoulder still bothers him and he’s still taking pain killer, he may need another shot . . .” (message cut off, time limit reached).

Should I laugh? Should I cry? Both? Can someone please call her back so I don’t have to?

Re-entry to Reality

My cell phone just rang with a mystery San Diego area code, and I answered it to find my parents’ neighbor informing me that fire trucks are all over their house and it looks chaotic. My brain goes into “okay, this is the inevitable crisis, I knew this was coming, at least it didn’t happen while I was out of the country.” I profusely thank her, then call my mother to find out that their smoke alarm doesn’t work properly and they’re getting an inspection. She’s fine, he’s fine, and they are still hiding out in suburban hell, refusing care and relocation.
Update: the back story. There was a coupon for a free alarm installation -- but Mom apparently called the wrong number and got emergency response instead. And hey, it was a slow day so the firemen spent a few hours fixing things. They noted their address for future visits -- sensing that in all likelihood they would be returning soon.

Calling in the Troops

My folks have a new doctor and a new insurance company and a new case manager – and in one of life’s strange ironies, I know her. Vivian was part of the client team I worked with as part of my (former) healthcare management job. I managed their account.

I feel like I’ve been screaming “fire” in a crowded theatre and someone finally heard me. She spent 90 minutes talking to my mother. She spent an hour talking with me. She read everything I sent her, and she follows up within minutes. She is badgering the doctor’s office to get referrals processed, she is recommending a home health nurse twice a week, she is sending a social worker once a month, and she is assigning the same driver to transport them to medical appointments for consistency. She is strongly advocating that they reconsider the move to the retirement community. She thinks my mother is smart rather than annoying. My tears are dripping with relief - not that I expect miracles, but at least someone else is monitoring the mess.

I would like to think that this kind of focused attention would have happened anyway, because it’s a good health plan (and I know a lot about health plans). However, I suspect my mother was put on VIP status because of my involvement. As long as she gets intervention, in the end it doesn’t matter.