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. 

The New Normal

Today marks the 3^rd anniversary of when I jumped the corporate employment ship, shifted personal and professional priorities, and altered my lifestyle. I’m in San Diego, which seems fitting, to visit my father. For the first period in 3 years, I’ve got time on my hands. Sid is doing well in assisted living – he enjoys the special attention, the environment is safe, his drugs are taken on schedule. He figured out how to use Alexa to listen to classical music. We even solved the hearing aid issue – he now has custom ear molds (thank you Costco, a caring technician and $80 fixed a very annoying problem). Since walking has declined, we use a travel wheelchair to go out for non-approved meals (lots of salt) and occasionally share a glass of light beer.

And me? I’m working on my tan at the beach. I have a few patient advocacy clients here and there, enough to keep my brain firing. Travel is now for fun, not work. My lodging hosts make me nightly cocktails. I’m happy that my father has a wonderful last chapter. Yesterday I walked into his apartment to find him writing it. He hadn’t touched his keyboard in 2 years other than to try to figure out his taxes. His arthritic fingers type slowly with lots of errors. His language is very practical in his assessment of his current physical condition. Yet Dad’s spirit is intact, and he’s a kinder and gentler person. So am I.

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.