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.