Vintage is Subjective

When I talk every day with Dad, we don’t dwell too much on memories. Recently, however, he was missing his favorite tools, specifically the heavy duty ratcheting jar opener. He was struggling to open the jar of jumbo garlic pickles (technically it’s my emergency supply I keep in his refrigerator, but never mind.) I got the “why didn’t you consult with me about what to bring to the apartment and what to throw out” speech. I pointed out that we were all a bit busy at that time dealing with renal failure and saving his life, however I did transport other great kitchen utensils. I suggested using hot water, whacking the jar to loosen the vacuum seal, rubber grabbers, getting a NEW opener (god forbid), even asking the maintenance crew to assist. Then I remembered this particular device from my childhood and it was kind of cool, so I searched the Internet for a replacement. I found one – made in 1935, available from a lady who specializes in estate sale goodies. (This is a revenue path my brother and I had not considered when we offloaded pounds of junk to Goodwill – a lost opportunity). I had the “vintage” jar opener mailed to Dad. His opener was from the 1950s; really, how different could it be?

Although my father appreciated the effort, the antique opener didn’t meet his expectations. Then my brother told me that Dad actually gave him the utensil, decades ago. It’s buried deep in a drawer somewhere in his Long Island home. Now Dan has to find it and bring it to San Diego on his next trip, along with a dozen fresh bagels. He also reminded me about the time we had Dad itemize which top 10 things he would rescue if the house was on fire. Tools were number 1. My mother was number 8. I asked Dad today if he remembered those priorities - he laughed and said yes, and he wouldn’t change the list. What were numbers 2 through 7? He’s not telling.

Seniors in Seattle

I’m getting all sorts of stories by volunteering at the senior center. Today a couple in their mid-80s came in to check out the place and they were pleased with all the free offerings. The husband told me that they had been married for 56 years – “2 decent ones and 54 years of abuse.” The wife said that he was fine company except for his obsession with football, and that she planned to murder him this Sunday during the Seahawks playoff game. Not missing a beat, I offered the phone number of a social worker for counseling and suggested she look into our legal advocacy services. We all had a good laugh. It felt so familiar, and I realized I had gone back in time and was chatting with replicas of my parents, when they were both still healthy and funny. It was delightful to have a glimpse of that love again.

The center is pursuing a liquor license to expand its appeal (and revenue). Apparently there’s a new law allowing distinct licensure for senior centers, with few restrictions other than keeping minor children away from the booze. Washington State isn’t just about giving bartenders more work. There are now guidelines for “bud-tending.” Along with medical marijuana dispensaries, wedding and private party planners are hiring folks who “must have a ridiculous sense of humor, squeaky-clean criminal record and an appreciation for platinum-level customer service” - I found this description on simplyhired.com. Not to minimize the benefit to patients who want high quality pot for legitimate reasons, but can you imagine what kinds of recreational programs could be available at retirement facilities as the boomers age?

Meanwhile, Dad is doing well and enjoying himself. He doubled his cocktail intake at happy hour yesterday, adjusted his insulin accordingly, and then excelled at the “You Play the Judge” trivia competition today. I never cease to be amazed at his resilience.

Middle-Aged Learnings

I’m halfway through my UCLA online program in patient advocacy, there’s quite the eclectic mix of students. The participants include a firefighter, nun, hospice worker, emergency room nurse, financial advisor, human resources manager, entertainment professional, high risk youth counselor, and lawyer. And then there’s me, whatever I am. During this quarter I’m also renewing my insurance licensure with exams about identity fraud and income maximization – what a schizophrenic stew!

I now volunteer as a receptionist at the local senior center, which is never dull and sponsors monthly karaoke bingo. Seattle is fortunate to have lots of community resources; folks of all ages enthusiastically attend classes in self-improvement and like to hike in the rain. Last week a reasonably attractive guy showed up and said “hey I turned 65, how the hell did that happen and what perks do I get?” Yikes, that may soon be my opening line. I’m going to help with an early memory loss chorus (singing is great therapy as music is stored in a part of the brain that is last affected by dementia).

On the Dad front, Sid had a fun New Year’s date, drank too much and learned to gamble. He’s taking Advanced Yoga, works out at the fitness center, and does laundry as a form of physical therapy. I’m visiting him every month and will be taking Laura, my friend and neighbor, on an upcoming trip to share the adventure. Plus we get to hang out at the beach. It’s all good.

Holiday Spirit

I missed Thanksgiving at the retirement village; due to a desire for decent food, I stayed home. I’m also going to skip Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year’s Eve in San Diego because I go there every month and traveling near holidays is not fun. It’s fine; Dad has lots of special events and parties to attend (more than me). Instead, I’m spreading holiday cheer at non-standard times. At my latest visit I presented 99-year old Ida with a Hanukkah Stocking (it’s blue and says “oy oy oy” instead of “ho ho ho”); it was an instant hit. She carried it around for days to show her buddies. All the residents wanted one; alas it’s now out of stock. I enjoyed the Singing Grandpas barbershop quartet concert. I arranged a golf cart tour for Dad and Ida to view organic produce at the local biosponic sustainable ranch – 67 acres of land using ancient Jewish farming techniques. And no, they’re not dating, they’re just friends.

The strangest holiday gift for my father was his appointment with a dermatologist. This doctor, about 70 years old, grew up in Brooklyn, lived on Long Island, and was obnoxious/funny in a Henny Youngman kind of way. I wanted to give Dad some privacy so I waited outside the room and listened to their conversation. Did they discuss pre-cancerous skin lesions? No, topic number one was the doctor asking him why I was single. Dad reviewed: 1) how I was such a nice daughter; 2) my brief and toxic marriage to a Goy (non-Jew); 3) why anyone would want to live in a grey frozen outpost (Seattle); and 4) my uncanny ability to snag good airfares. He ended up describing me as an angel. Okay, fair enough. The doctor reviewed: 1) how he could make lots of money doing unnecessary surgeries; 2) his very young wife who would push him off a cliff when he got senile; and 3) the stupidity of non-New Yorkers. To hell with professional decorum and privacy! After a minute of zapping some sores, the door burst open, all was good, Medicare was charged and we were hustled out to the parking lot. Dad thoroughly enjoyed his exam. Oy!

Mind-Body Connection

Recall that I had an assignment from my father’s physician to make sure he had fun during my extended stay in Encinitas, to help him recover from grief and loss. I took the doctor’s advice more figuratively than literally, appreciating his sincerity and compassion. Along with 8 medical and dental appointments over the past month (I just counted), we’ve had lots of trips to the ocean, the desert, the theatre, the deli, and most valued by Sidney – Harbor Freight Tools and GTM Discount Store. He walked 6 laps around his courtyard nearly every day. I found classic movies for him every night on Amazon. I also made sure to have my own escapes, and was happy to bask in the sun.

Today’s exam included an EKG, following up on expected yet troubling indicators for his heart function. Imagine my surprise when the doctor looked up from the graphs and spikes to look directly first at my father, then at me. “Your cardiac output has improved remarkably,” he said. “It’s changed by 40%, and this is way more progress than I expected. What have you two been up to?” I beamed. Sid took it all in stride. He gave me all the credit for his enhanced outlook. The doctor corrected him to emphasize that we both deserved credit. He talked about positive attitude and the ability of the human body to respond to laughter and optimism. He gave practical tips about how to turn daily struggles of aging into affirmations. When my father complained that his left eye didn’t work as well as his right despite all the surgeries, the doctor said “well then wink and keep that eye shut!”

We drove home along the beach highway in the fading sunset, which Dad pronounced as “murky” and I considered the most beautiful of the past month. He’s got some more work to do on that optimism.

Town Hall

Out of curiosity, I attended the monthly “air your gripes to management” meeting today at Dad’s retirement facility. Lots of people showed up, way more than for my Thriller dance class. I was impressed that residents are encouraged to voice their opinions and get actively involved with their community. There was a brainstorming session for desired programs and outings, promotion of wellness services, and an operational review to assess what was working and what wasn’t. Here’s what I learned:

• There’s lots of walker congestion. Walkers are clogging up the hallways, rolling around the dining room tripping the servers, and being deserted in the synagogue. Folks may not have automobiles anymore, but they still like to play bumper car.
• Parking lot etiquette is terrible. Visitors and family members are parking their cars in residents’ spaces (oops, guilty!).
• The food is never hot enough, fast enough or spiced enough. The lack of bacon in a kosher kitchen was not mentioned, which is my father’s main gripe.
• One lady requested a training seminar on how to cope with change, recognizing that as a 90-year old, it was hard for her.
• The dress code may be overly relaxed – men are showing their legs in too-short shorts. It was unclear if this was about bad wardrobe choices or lack of good looking legs.

The last comment of the meeting came from a woman whose husband recently died; she wanted to know how to dispose of all of his stuff. I was torn between horror, sympathy and offering my list of previously used garbage bins throughout San Diego County. After an awkward moment, she was comforted by her neighbors, then suggestions poured forth. The facilitator suggested that this concern be handed privately as a 1-to-1 chat. No one here is in denial about death; it’s a practical topic. Just like where to get the best haircut.

Behind That Smile

Lest anyone think that it’s all fun hanging out with Dad, consider today’s 6 hour dental marathon. It started with me pestering him a few months ago to get his teeth cleaned, realizing that he had other priorities over the past 2 years, such as dealing with relocation, depression and death. We had worked through the list of body parts needing repair, and now it was time to focus on oral hygiene. I found a great (and expensive) dentist who quickly moved beyond flossing to fillings. When he started digging around the cavities he decided there was so much decay that a root canal was needed. Off we went to a great (and expensive) endodontist across the street. I now realize what’s worse than getting a root canal (I’ve had a few). It’s listening to a root canal being performed on your 92-year old father. Sid did fine. I was a nervous wreck. Actually I was surprised he declined to watch the procedure on the camera screen; he used to enjoy watching my mother’s heart surgeries.

Dad got frozen yogurt as a reward for surviving the torture, and for dinner we had Jewish penicillin (chicken noodle soup). We reviewed all the discounts that were pursued, making the experience more worthwhile: senior discount, birthday discount, military discount, cash discount (since he doesn’t have dental insurance, which wouldn’t have helped much). He saved a few hundred dollars due to my creative negotiations. More important, he can keep doing what he does best: eating.