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?

Locker Room Talk

It seems that some athletes are upset by politicians misrepresenting the true nature of locker room talk. I watched the most recent painful presidential debate while in Canada and 1) I’m embarrassed to be American and 2) my personal and professional world consists of much more interesting chit-chat. Here’s what I hear on a regular basis from hanging out in senior center bathrooms, fitness center changing rooms and hospital hallways.

• My (fill in the blank) is getting droopier/grayer/missing (choose your favorite).
• I can’t remember where I put my (name your frustration, it’s not age-related).
• Why is that doctor so YOUNG?

In my father’s dining room at the retirement village, there’s no concern about sexy ladies or ethnic refugees ruining our country. After all, residents now include Colored People, Orientals and even a Protestant and it has all worked out fine. Paying for long term care without destroying assets, approaching death with dignity, where to get a decent Reuben sandwich: these are issues Dad’s buddies want to talk about. Wouldn’t it be nice for all of us to have discussions about these important topics instead?

Milestones

I suspected that Mom, who left the world 3 years ago, would be causing trouble on her birthday, which was yesterday. I was hesitant to be on an airplane on that day. I even made sure to monitor my car and house keys and have a backup system, because making me lose keys is her usual routine. However, I didn’t think that she would trigger the disappearance of my credit card as soon as I arrived to visit Dad. One minute we used it for pizza, then I went to buy him some pickles, and whoosh, it was gone. Okay, I understand Mom was jealous that we were having a good time on her special day. She wanted her own slice of the action. Perhaps there is a shopping mall in the great beyond with a fantastic sale and she wanted to get herself a present. I fully expect her to return the card on Friday, just in time for Dad’s 94th birthday.

I stopped using logic long ago to understand my parents, both dead and alive. Dad fixed his broken footstool with a toothpick, and it works fine. He naps in mid-sentence but miraculously wakes up when there’s a meal nearby. He’s doing well despite his terrible nutritional habits. He says that he doesn’t want a party this year, although I don’t quite believe him. Instead I purchased tickets for a special boat cruise to see the Tall Ships Parade up close in San Diego Bay, and he’s delighted. When I asked if he wanted me to accompany him to Yoga class today, he said “hell no, I travel really fast with my walker and you can’t catch up.” Roll along, Dad.

I'm Kinda Busy, Part 2

Five years ago I created a farewell video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUHtj8AoZQE) when I was laid off. It was a montage of favorite hobbies to affectionately point out to colleagues that I wouldn't miss the corporate healthcare bubble, and to remind friends that play outranks work. Then after a few months of fun I wound up employed in yet another bureaucratic cluster. It didn't stick. After 3 years I walked away (more like ran) from that job to change direction toward issues that I cared about and people that mattered. All through this phase, actually since 2010, I've been blogging about aging quirky (my other blog, "My Career Colonoscopy,” was put on hold along with my career).

Well now it's 6 months into my new profession as an independent patient advocate and I like it. I've had 8 clients so far, and some of them even paid me. A few were pro bono on purpose, and the one that matters most was unintentional. Dad is still client number one, which he regularly reminds me.

In this new chapter, I don’t have to do much marketing and public exposure falls into my lap. The need is growing and the stories are intense. A local news crew came to my house to film me in action; it may or may not get on the air, I’m fine either way. The highlight of the experience was the camera guy complimenting me that I had clearly been trained on media interviews. Indeed I was – in 1997, courtesy of the insurance company I used to work for and am now poking a stick at to make sure they do their job. That’s perfect. As I wrote in my first blog post 6 years ago, I thank my parents for their genetic transmission of a fine sense of irony and appreciation of the absurd.

Shameless plug: look at www.kazadvocate.com and let me know any suggestions for improvement, because I realize that promotion has its place.

Yiddish is Alive

Back in Encinitas for 2 weeks, I’m farm-watching and pet-sitting in exchange for free rent. Since the sun didn’t come out today, I decided to get historical insight by attending the monthly Yiddish-speaking meeting at Dad’s retirement village. This is a social club where more than 50 people used to belong; now it’s down to 5 participants. Those who can converse in their childhood language are dwindling. Klezmer, the Yiddish-inspired loopy music that thrived in Eastern Europe for centuries and was almost decimated by the Holocaust, is being revived by survivors’ grandchildren. Yiddish talk, however, is not enjoying the same attention other than a few words mainstreamed by Jewish comedians (e.g., putz, schlemiel, kvetch).

I learned more than I expected. Applying the theme of Father’s Day, everyone described their parents in Yiddish and English. “My father was a tailor.” My father was a butcher.” “My father was a businessman and a rabbi’s son.” “My father was a watch maker.” “My father was an author.” Then each person added a postscript: “He died because the Nazis killed him.” “He died young in a Polish ghetto.” “He liked to sing but only lived to be 37.” “He was funny and philosophical.” They turned to me next. I said “My father is about to turn 94 and is enjoying his new life. He was the first person in his family to attend college. His father was a truck driver in Brooklyn.” They all nodded.

With their pin-curled hair and compression socks, these elders deserve my respect. I feel very fortunate to have been raised with freedom and privilege. Yiddish is a darkly comic language. “Abi gezunt dos leben ken men zikh ale mol nemen.“ Roughly translated this means “Stay healthy, because you can kill yourself later.” Oy gevalt.

Trying a New Flavor

After my mother died in 2013, her 10-year old rickety blue walker was adopted by my father. His own balance deteriorated after a bad fall a year ago; he couldn’t rely on a cane any longer. It was hard for him to accept that he needed help, but he liked having a constant reminder of his wife. I’ve caught Dad talking to Mom a few times while wheeling down hallways, although she’s been gone a while. I asked him if she ever answered; he smiled and said “sometimes.” When the brakes stopped working and bolts starting falling out, he insisted we fix it, and the maintenance guys did their best. I periodically suggested a new walker to no avail – after all, why pay good money when this one was perfectly functional?

I went to San Diego last week for a round of doctor visits and shopping, it’s our ongoing routine. Imagine my surprise when Dad agreed that safety prevailed and allowed me to purchase a new walker – as a “backup.” Before he changed his mind I quickly bought one, ergonomically sound with two cup holders (one for coffee and one for beer?) It was even the same color blue. He insisted we leave his name tag on the old walker so Mom could still find him. He visited his favorite physical therapist, the one who worked with him for months after his accident, explaining that he had a new Porsche needing adjustment. Afterwards he went to the onsite fitness center to ride the exercise bike for 45 minutes. He continues to build back his leg strength, and he’s enjoying chair Yoga three times a week.

I successfully packed the new walker into the rental car (it folds flat! it’s lighter and stronger!) and off we went for frozen yogurt to celebrate. Dad has eaten chocolate/vanilla swirl yogurt forever. I rarely ask which flavor because I always get the same response. This time I looked at him carefully and said “the usual, Dad?” He paused for a beat, looking back at me with bemused pride. “No,” he said. “Get me toffee crunch. It’s time for something different.”