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.