A Christmas Letter

Well, not exactly. It's all about taking away, not giving...though paradoxically, if my plan works out, then the taking away could become a gift for everyone concerned. Am I making sense yet?

I decided to write a letter to my stepbrother about the ongoing concerns I've been going on about. Masquerading as holiday greetings in the form of an email, my primary message follows:

...The main problem, as I see it, is that they're relying on all of us (particularly on the two of you) far more than they need to. Certainly, they're dependent and need help--but it's unfair and inconsiderate for them to assume that we will be there to "do it all" when they have more than enough money to hire a professional caregiver now and then. There's no shortage of funds--and I know they could easily afford to hire a helper 3 or 4 times a month to take them where they need to go--and they could do this without even touching their savings, based on their monthly income.

To be honest, I've noticed a growing reluctance on their part (particularly with Jeannie) to spend money. I'm a bit confused and saddened to see how they deprive themselves of simple pleasures--and even basic comfort in some cases. But I don't think we're helping anyone by enabling that behavior.

We need to recognize that at some point, probably sooner than anyone expects, the parents will need more help than any of us can provide. And for that reason, I believe it would make sense to help them get accustomed to accepting help from people outside the family....

My suggestion was that he and his wife (rather than me, the official troublemaker) be the ones to broach the topic. And I asked for his thoughts...so far, no response, but we'll see what the new year brings.

PS: Yesterday we had a friendly visit with my parents, and exchanged Christmas gifts. Surprise: we got a gift card. But as people say, it's the thought that counts. Now I have to wait and see if my thoughts count...

Match point

Having been designated by Jeannie as a “naughty boy”—at least this season—I’m anticipating a lump of coal in my stocking, if that. So far, we haven’t received a holiday card from my parents, though I know she’s been sending them out.  If Jeannie’s trying to make a statement, my best revenge will be to pretend that I never even noticed. (Let me state for the record that they’ve sent us a card every year for as long as I can remember.) 

As for the usual token gift card we get, that may or may not happen either. Again, I know she’s been getting gifts for people as she’s mentioned the various things she plans to give this or that family member. But maybe my lecturing and obvious exasperation of late will inspire her to get back at me/us by withholding gifts. If that happens, I’m not so sure I’ll let it go.

The material element of “getting a gift” is not a concern for me; the gift cards she always presents us with are so rote as to be nearly meaningless. But if her goal is to pointedly let me know of her disapproval or anger, then I may take similar measures.

To begin with, I’d let her know that my free shopping and errand services will no longer be available—at least to her. If my father needs something, then I’ll help him out when I can.  But for whatever she needs, she can hire a helper or impose still more on my step-brother and his wife, who are stretched almost to the limit.

Why would I take such harsh actions against a sick old woman, especially knowing that to do so would hurt my father, making his life still bleaker? These concerns might eventually trump any high-handed decisions on my part. But perhaps the threat alone would knock some sense into her, especially if I were to carry out a short work stoppage.

Ultimately, the needs of my parents will become too onerous for any family member to handle, making hired help a necessity. It’s only a matter of time, and it could be that by forcing them to start now, they’ll be more prepared to accept the inevitable. Who knows—it might even give them a sense of renewed independence, the ability to enjoy a few adventures on their own…but I know I’m being optimistic. The most likely scenario is one of further withdrawal, anger and resentment.

And still more probable is the chance that we’ll get our usual empty gift, with empty holiday wishes, and we’ll all keep going on as before, resentful and waiting until things finally change.

Tea Party, Part Two

After simmering for much of the week over Jeannie’s recent failure to confront Mr. Tea Party, I decided to display my anger as the centerpiece for this weekend’s visit.  Civil, yet resolute—exactly as I wish she had been—I first verified that she was present when he made the hateful remark (“I HATE lesbians!”) but had said nothing. So my speech began:

“I don’t see why you didn’t let him know that members of your family, like your stepson, are gay—and that you don’t appreciate hearing remarks like that.  You may not change his mind, but at least you could let him know that it’s not OK to say things like that around you.”

Jeannie, clearly uncomfortable and defensive, said, “Well, I didn’t want to engage him in anything. I was walking back to the house and didn’t want to spend time discussing it.”

No problem, I assured her. “It’s not too late; I’m sure you’ll be seeing him again, and maybe then you could take the opportunity to let him know how you feel. After all, if this guy had said “I hate Jews!” wouldn’t you let him know that your husband and stepson are Jewish, and that you don’t appreciate his bigoted remarks?”

Her response bordered on the willfully obtuse. “Well, I believe he already knows that Gene is Russian Jewish,” she simpered.

“That’s not the point! He’s insulting a member of your family, and even if you’re not part of the community yourself, you should let him know—"

“Well, I’m not a member of the community, so I guess I don’t feel that strongly about it.”

This one took me by surprise…while I know it’s true, I never expected her to be so open about her ambivalence. As there was no point in dragging it out, I said (feeling like a 70s political protester) “I won’t be treated like a second-class citizen by anyone, especially members of my own family.”

At this point Jeannie started talking about the weather.  My dad stayed blissfully (or uncomfortably) detached from the whole discussion but I understood that his saying anything would just be throwing gasoline on the fire. 

Later, I discussed the matter with my father’s enlightened cousin Ruth, who gave me some good advice: “I’m sorry to see you upset over this—because you know what she is—she’s a stupid, selfish woman who doesn’t care about anyone else’s feelings. You know that, so why would you expect her to behave any differently?”

Ruth’s words were healing balm. Of course, I thought, what else should I expect from a narrow-minded, petty old woman who lives each day by the teaspoon?

But as for being stupid…I think maybe not.  Jeannie’s mind functions well enough most of the time—rather than stupid I’d say she’s simply foolish.  That combined with a lack of empathy and consideration adds up to a pretty ugly package.

Ho-Ho-Homophobia

There’s a guy in my parents’ mobile home park—a wildly obnoxious curmudgeon—who’s referred to by other residents as “Mr. Tea Party.”  Based on the updates I hear regularly, his behavior runs the gamut from merely annoying to outrageous. He hews steadfastly to the Fox News editorial line, sharing those opinions with anyone who will listen.  But does he listen to other people? Of course not—he’s right and everyone else is wrong.

Jeannie made a point of telling me of his latest escapade during the senior fitness class many residents attend.  One of the exercise videos features a short-haired, athletic woman who Mr. Tea Party has decided is a lesbian. When her video came up, he left the room, grumbling to himself. Afterward, someone innocently asked him why he'd left, and he said, “Because the woman in that video is a lesbian, and I HATE LESBIANS!” he said.

The other person responded, “Well, how do you know? And who cares?” To which he snorted: “I know. I can tell.”  And as usual, the other residents just shook their heads.

Hearing the story, I asked Jeannie if she’d thought about saying anything to him—after all, she’d stood up to him once before when he was denigrating President Obama. But she said no, it wouldn’t do any good. I then said, “Well, maybe you could introduce me to him, and I’d be happy to say something.” But Jeannie declined that offer, reminding me of my (formerly) “vitriolic tongue.”

“But why would that matter?” I asked. “I could put him in his place and then you wouldn’t have to deal with him.” Well, said Jeannie, it wouldn’t be good for neighborly relations—after all, he lives right across the street.  “And,” she added, “sometimes he brings us our Sunday paper and puts it up on the porch, so we wouldn’t want to alienate him.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, but it didn’t sit well. As I thought about it later, I wondered what exactly would prevent her from making a point, even civilly.  How difficult would it be for her to tell Mr. Tea Party that she has a gay step-son who helps her out almost every week, and that she doesn’t appreciate his remarks?

Could it be that maybe Jeannie herself is less than comfortable with the whole issue? Or just not willing to take a stand on a topic that’s not especially close to her heart?  Thinking about it more, I remember how she called me during the hotly-disputed Proposition 8 campaign, asking if my partner and I stood to lose any of our current benefits if it passed.  When I told her that we would lose the right to get married if we chose to do so, but that our existing rights would likely remain, she seemed satisfied. “That’s good then. I just wanted to make sure that your current rights wouldn’t be affected.”

Affected by her voting yes on Proposition 8? I wondered.  Speaking with my father afterward, I found out that indeed, that was exactly her intention, even though he was “trying to convince her” to be more open-minded. Ultimately, I doubt that he succeeded.

It’s an interesting concept. While Jeannie pays lip service to equality and fairness, in her heart, she appears unwilling to alter her traditional understanding of “marriage.” As easily as she mocks the extremist in her midst for his ludicrous opinions, it seems that her own views may not be so different.  And what about my choice—do I insist that she update her attitudes and advocate for true equality, or do I keep the peace by letting her stay in her comfort zone?  It’s a hard call, and for now I’m not sure what to do.

Thanksgiving Report

Holidays with the family can go in any direction.  Either the experience is so dull you wish you could disappear, or so exciting (in the worst possible way) that you wish the same. I figure as long as there’s no need to call 911, then the holiday can be deemed a success.

This Thanksgiving, which was spent with my in-laws, fell somewhere between the two extremes, so we lucked out.  Our decision to stay in a hotel made what’s usually a tedious chore into a fairly enjoyable mini-vacation, complete with wine-tasting and some amateur antiquing. Our actual time with family was divided into manageable chunks with plenty of space in between.

So much has been written about the inevitable family tensions that rise to the surface around this time of year. People who have nothing in common, or too much in common, are forced to spend time with each other with the expectation that everyone get along and pretend they’re happy to be there. Old resentments surface as people re-adopt the roles they were once assigned as children.  Snide comments about who’s doing well and who isn’t slip into the conversation. Alcohol lubricates the dysfunctional machinery, until hostility boils over into shouting or tears, or actual blows.

In a best-case scenario, people just roll their eyes and bite their tongues until it’s safe to leave; then they go through the same charade all over again the next year.

I opted out for decades, starting when I was 20. I decided that this so-called family of mine was a farce, and that I no longer needed to play the game. I politely informed those in charge that I would not be joining them this year, thank you. Instead, I established my own tradition of cooking an elaborate dinner and inviting good friends—people I actually wanted to spend time with.  The guest list changed slightly from year to year, but the common theme remained: we all chose each other’s company.

Now that our parents are old, and everyone is confronting the reality that “each time might be the last,” I’ve decided to relent. Last year, we had Thanksgiving with my parents, step-brother and his family—an experience which helped us decide to spend the holiday with my partner’s family this time. Next year—who knows what we’ll do? The rebellious brat in me would like to opt out again, but I doubt if I’d have the courage…so we’ll probably go, and like families everywhere, just pretend we’re happy to be there until it’s safe to leave—hoping and fearing that maybe there won’t be a next time.

Just sayin'....

A quick Google search of the phrase, “stupid old people” brought up no fewer than 665,000 hits.  While the majority of these were supposedly humorous or wry comments, along with jokes and numerous videos of “funny stupid old people,” there was at least one fairly convincing scientific article that showed older people are, in fact, more prone to making stupid decisions. The gist of it is as follows:

Older people make worse decisions under risk than younger ones...Researchers asked subjects to choose some bets with known payoffs. And they found that whereas 52% of under-40s made the right choice--in terms of maximizing expected payoffs--only 32% of over-60s did so...In particular, older people were more likely to do worse as the number of bets they were asked to choose from increased. They were more bewildered when confronted with greater choice...

Other studies have documented that processing slows down dramatically, meaning that old people work harder to figure out problems that would have taken them far less time in their early adult years. And these are people who aren’t suffering from dementia—just the normal aging process.

Every rule has its exceptions; there are plenty of brilliant, engaged elders who defy the odds. And this group appears to share certain characteristics (staying mentally and physically active, for example) which could imply that cognitive decline isn't inevitable.

I’ve met a fair number of these individuals, some of them quite illustrious. It may be fitting (or just name-dropping) for me to mention my encounter with the historian Will Durant, as this month marks the 30th anniversary of his passing.

At that point I wasn’t even a cub reporter, but a mere high school student with enough moxie to think that Will and Ariel Durant would let me interview them for my class assignment (a fairly straightforward one: just talk to some old people about the way things were.) I looked them up in Who’s Who, sent a note—and in a week or so I got a personal letter back from Dr. Durant inviting me to spend half an hour with them at their home. 

They fit the requisite “old” category—he was 91 and she was 78, but in all other ways they were atypical. My shyness and total lack of experience as an interviewer allowed the couple to engage in a spirited debate on various topics; at one point Ariel took over and started asking Will questions—while I recorded it all. One exchange I remember vividly:

Ariel: What are future hopes and plans and aspirations?

Will: Well, that’s not a question to ask a man who’s 91 years old, darling—I have no future aspirations!

But he was wrong about that.  The two of them were still hard at work on a planned (but never completed) volume of their popular “Story of Civilization” series; they made TV appearances and published a joint memoir a year or so after I met them. And when they died in 1981, just two weeks apart—at 96 and 83—they’d been working productively almost to the end.

So the next time anyone (including myself) makes a dismissive remark about “stupid old people,” let’s all remember the wonderful exceptions—and hope that maybe we’ll be one of them.

Will & Ariel Durant

My father, the un-veteran

We made a point of arriving at 11:11 a.m. on 11/11/11…and the first words I said to my father were “Happy Veteran’s Day.”  He smiled, but only because he was glad to see us; he has no use for most holidays, especially those with a military connection. There’s a common belief that old people are deeply patriotic, but whoever believes that never asked my father his thoughts.

Dad in the Beetle

Gene served honorably in what many people consider the last “good” war. As a technical sergeant he was involved in radio operations and helped build a bridge over the Saar. When asked about combat action, he recalls the sound of bullets whizzing overhead a few times, along with some V-2 rockets in England.  If pressed, my father will also speak of the dead he saw after arriving in Germany, mostly straggling inmates of the concentration camps who were shot by the fleeing Germans; the liberation had taken place recently, so he was spared the most gruesome sights.

I recall as a child reading the letters he’d written home from one post or another; while restricted from specifying his exact location or where he would be going, he’d developed a semi-elaborate code with his parents that allowed him to communicate approximately where he was.

The cards and letters provided a fuzzy snapshot of my dad’s wartime experience—in general, he strived for an upbeat travel-diary tone so as to not cause undue concern, but as his parents’ only child, there could be no other option than worry from the time he was drafted. (Somehow, the packet of letters was either misplaced or thrown out, so it may take years to locate them, if I ever do.)

For all his direct involvement in the war and the contribution he helped make, once it was over he moved on, never wanting to get involved with any veterans groups or patriotic celebrations.  I recall his frequent derision of “the military mind,” and the military in general. He sneered at figures like MacArthur and Eisenhower. And though I pleaded as a kid, he never gave his consent to display an American flag in front of our house. “We’re not flag wavers,” is all he’d say. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

Maybe, as I think about it now, he’d already proven what denotes loyalty and patriotism—not in words or empty symbols, but in action. And all I can do is say thank you.

Gene in post-occupation Germany

Last first...

A few days ago, my father’s last surviving first cousin died.  She was 88, and had suffered a long, slow decline—but the end came quickly. After getting the news, I debated whether I should tell my dad; they were never especially close and hadn’t been in contact for years. But in the end, I decided to let him know, expecting the impact would be minimal.

And, sure enough, he reacted with his usual blend of rational resignation. “Well, she was sick for so long,” he said. “It wasn’t unexpected.” When I offered my understanding that they weren’t very close, but it was still a loss, he replied, “Yes, first cousins, after all.”

His last direct link to the old family is now gone. As a child, Shirley had spent summers visiting with Gene’s family in their small New Jersey town. Other than that, her life was in New York City—literally. Born there, she got married and lived in the same apartment at the northern tip of Manhattan starting in 1946 until two days before she died. The last time I was in New York, about 3 years ago, she wouldn't let me visit. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me," she begged repeatedly. "I'm not the same person."

Shirley had two daughters. When it became clear that she was going downhill (a series of strokes that slowly eroded her faculties), the elder daughter threw up her hands and gave up without ever trying. She stopped visiting, and after a while, didn’t bother phoning her mother. Meanwhile, the younger, busier daughter was left to arrange everything—caregivers, shopping, bills and medical care.

Thanks to the generous option that New Yorkers enjoy (at least for the moment) she was provided with 24-hour care at home, which her daughter chose instead of a nursing facility, all paid for by the Medicaid program.

California doesn’t offer anything like that. If people here run out of money and need constant supervision, they end up in a nursing home even though there are cheaper options that most people would prefer.  But we aren’t given a choice.

Meanwhile, my parents are here, inching toward the precipice. Their failure to plan will collide messily with the lack of options that their future promises. And I can only wonder who will be around to pick up the pieces…

Mirror, mirror on the wall

When the mirror was my friend

Looking in the mirror was never a favorite pastime for me. (OK, other than for a few years when I was in my 20s.)  Since then, and especially now, my glances at the mirror are purely utilitarian—no unshaven spots, eyebrows in some semblance of order, all right—but there’s no pleasure attached, just the occasional muted sigh of resignation. I recall it used to be mostly women who worried about looking older, but now the concern is universal in our youth-obsessed culture.

Great Aunt Goldie ca. 1906

My great aunt was a woman who broke the rules and normally didn’t care what other people thought—unusual for someone born in the early 1890s. Honest, strongly opinionated, yet warm and accessible, the flashiest thing about her was her name: Goldie Diamond.

Her long gray hair was pinned up into a simple chignon; I never saw her wear any jewelry and no makeup other than deep red lipstick (she always said it was just to keep her lips moist.) She dressed as an old woman “should” (her wild anarchist days long past) but shared opinions that were hardly conventional.

“If I had it to do over again, I’d never marry someone without living together first. It makes so much sense.” (In fact, she did live with a guy for a while, but decided he wasn’t for her and passed him along to her cousin, who married him instead.) Goldie’s own marriage to a more business-minded man was a disaster, but she stuck with it until he died. As my father said, it was their mutual loathing that kept them together.

Once, when she was visiting me at my boarding school, a younger boy there was fascinated by her, asking one question after another. He pointed at the wrinkled wattle hanging below her chin, and without malice, asked, “Why do you have that?” I was mortified, but Goldie didn’t mind at all. “Because I’m OLD, honey!” she said, laughing warmly. The boy laughed with her, happy to learn something about life and people.

Goldie in 1973

She smoked (“like a fish” as my Danish friend says,) and over the decades dealt with a laundry list of health problems: two bouts of colon cancer, gall bladder surgery, a hysterectomy (due to a tubular pregnancy) and a heart attack. Yet when she died, at 82, it was by her own choice: an overdose of heart medication, and a simple note on the night stand stating, “It is enough,” along with my father’s contact information. 

It took me years to acknowledge the fact that she had actually taken her own life; I explained away the note as a precaution, in case she died in her sleep. But once I realized, I accepted without hesitation her choice. She’d lived her life, and had nothing but more pain and sickness to look forward to. Honoring her words, I agree it was enough.

Nowhere to go and all day to get there...

Now and then, I wonder how I’d fill my days if I didn’t work and had to spend most of my time at home. It would be a huge adjustment for me; some people seem to manage free time pretty well, but for my part I thrive on structure and deadlines.  I’m also quite social, and can only spend a few hours a day reading or puttering around the house. 

It’s been interesting for me to see how old people manage their time. My father spends most of his lying down these days, but given his situation that’s understandable.  Jeannie, with more energy and a passion for talking, does quite a bit more—but even so she seems to have barely enough tasks to occupy half her waking hours. 

A few years ago, she would volunteer at the local library, but is long past that point now. Even my father had a couple of regular activities: he’d read the newspaper aloud for a blind neighbor, and served a few terms on the condo association board. At some point, he designated himself as the “public lighting monitor” for their complex, and would make the rounds every evening to be sure the lights were all working. But now he naps, while she reads mysteries and drinks white zinfandel.

My father’s cousin in Miami leads a much more productive life. At 87, she still drives to her volunteer job at the local performance center, and takes in occasional shows. She shops and cooks, emails and talks to people on the phone and enjoys watching videos most evenings.  She even finds time to read. Interested and engaged, she’s the ideal older person we should all aspire to be.

Another woman I know stays busy, but not in a way I can imagine doing.  Over the years, she has compiled an enormous collection of musical performances, both audio and video. Thousands of tapes line her walls, and she’s catalogued every one of them (along with her books.) She then loans things out to friends while keeping a careful record of who has what. Between taping and watching videos, reading, organizing her meals and exercise routine, I’m sure she’s rarely bored. But fulfilled? I wonder…

Then again, she may be just fine. I of all people should embrace the fact that there’s no one way to live, and however strange it may seem to others, if nobody’s health and safety are compromised, practically anything goes.

Mushroom Madness

“What are chanterelles?” It was a simple enough question, but speaks volumes about Jeannie’s awareness of food, given that I’d just been telling her about mushroom ragout. Good thing I didn’t mention the cremini and porcini which also played a role in my dinner party’s piece de resistance.  For that matter, she wasn’t quite sure what polenta was (“Now isn’t that some kind of pasta?”) Even my father, impaired though he is, spoke up to correct her.

No one has ever been better suited than Jeannie to the era of 1950s convenience cooking.  While feeling obligated to cook for the family, she always made it as easy for herself as possible. Even when not working, she never saw the point of getting creative in the kitchen.  A special dinner for company might consist of her famous sherry beef: chunks of stewing meat thrown together with two cans of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, dry onion soup mix, and a cup of sherry—just serve over rice and there you are.

My teen years found me for the first time eating canned mushrooms (stems and pieces, no less) in many forms: over watery turbot filets, mixed with frozen peas, folded into meat loaf. Another specialty of the house was honey chicken: equal amounts of honey and soy sauce, with minced dehydrated onions all poured over chicken, then covered tightly with foil and steamed in the oven for nearly two hours.

Anything that went into the oven had to be covered in foil; the goal was always to minimize “cooking smells” and avoid the possibility of spattering. The oven truly was as clean as on the day it was delivered. As added insurance, the exhaust fan was always running no matter what was on the stove—even boiling eggs.

One time my stepbrother decided to fry a couple of hot dogs while Jeannie was out; she came home to find a few spots of grease on the stove, a telltale frankfurter aroma lingering in the kitchen—and quickly went into Medea mode, racing through the house while shrieking imprecations, turning on fans and throwing windows open.  For once, I didn’t envy my stepbrother.

Now, of course, the convenience factor trumps everything. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, just the thought of scrubbing a potato overwhelms her. Instant rice, canned mushrooms and, as always, dehydrated minced onion are Jeannie’s loyal friends. And while she usually shuns frozen dinners, I think when she gets to the point of relying on them, everyone will be much better off.

Picasso on my mind

Quick trip to San Francisco this weekend: dinner with friends, followed by a play (including for no extra charge the world’s most annoying usher, who nagged patrons nonstop about a series of offenses that nobody was even committing) and then next day, a fine Picasso exhibit.

Picasso doesn't rank as my personal favorite, but I can appreciate a lot of what he did to define 20^th century art. That he lived to be 91 and was still active, growing in new creative directions, amazes me as much as the passion for life and art that burned brightly to his final days. A brief description of his love life, as detailed in Wikipedia, is exhausting to imagine, even at my comparatively young age:


In 1944, after the liberation of Paris, Picasso began a romantic relationship with a young art student named Francoise Gilot.  She was 40 years younger than he was.  Picasso grew tired of his mistress Dora Maar; Picasso and Gilot began to live together.  Eventually they had two children: Claude, born in 1947 and Paloma, born in 1949. In her 1964 book “Life with Picasso, (Gilot) describes his abusive treatment and myriad infidelities which led her to leave him, taking the children with her….

Picasso had affairs with women of an even greater age disparity than his and Gilot’s. While still involved with Gilot, in 1951, Picasso had a six-week affair with Genevieve Laporte, who was four years younger than Gilot.

Oh—and for the record, he was married during the time all these adventures took place. But this was a man who lived by his own rules, both artistic and personal. I’m torn between admiration and disgust at such a free spirit, knowing I could never live as he did, and yet wondering if maybe, at least to some extent, being a true artist means rebelling against all conventions.

Eventually, according to the experts, Picasso accepted the limitations of age. His later art apparently reflected a waning interest in young women, yet his love of life remained. His last words, spoken over dinner while entertaining friends in 1973 were nothing if not inspiring: "Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink any more."  


Here's to you, Pablo.

Nothing to say? Then...

Some eons back (during my early teen years, as I recall) I skimmed a Reader's Digest article entitled, "Are you a Bore?" And to this day, I can quote the opening lines: "Are you a bore? If you think you are, relax--you're not. But if the thought never occurred to you, then there's a terrible chance that you are..."

So now, all these years later and almost 10 months into this blog, I raise the question to myself, if only in hopes of avoiding the dread possibility. There is only so much that can be said about weekly visits to the grocery store, odd parental quirks, or even general observations on aging. And for the time, I may have said enough.

Complaining constantly about a single subject quickly becomes tiresome even when doing so offers readers some amusement or a sense of therapeutic release to the writer. Andy Rooney, who never ran out of things to complain about, finally reached the decision (at age 92) to give it a rest, after over 1000 episodes.

It may also be that focusing so much on the negative, or turning other people's problems and shortcomings into a subject of amusement, could be less than therapeutic. It certainly doesn't bode well for me in the karma department.

For now I stand by all the horrible things I've said thus far, and at the same time have decided to strive for brevity and enlightenment more than cruel mockery in the future.... but please note that there may be times I miss that goal, if I even aim for it. Sometimes, a story will be just too good, or a remark too foolish to let languish. No apologies for those eventualities. The only apology I'll offer is if I've been boring anyone...

Death of a Refrigerator (part 2)

The repairman said he felt terrible; he was truly sorry to be the bearer of bad news...but there was nothing that could be done to save my parents' refrigerator. Their 4-year-old Amana would have to be commended to the nearest recycling team, which, after stripping whatever metal might be worth something, will haul the remains to a landfill where they'll rest for the next 20 generations or so.

One hopes for something good to come out of this sad tale; a scientific advance, perhaps...or a life lesson--anything to prevent other families from going through the same pain. I was thinking our local newspaper might have run an inspirational story (my calls to the city desk went unanswered). Probably, these events are both too commonplace and depressing for them to burden an already overwhelmed public.

Here then, is the humble lesson, borrowed from the wisdom of many cultures that recognize this universal truth: "You get what you pay for." Put another way, "the very cheapest will cost you dearly." Or as a friend's Croatian grandmother said more than once, "I'm not rich enough to afford the cheapest."

Wisdom like that should guide us, help us from making painful mistakes. Sad to say, my parents once again opted for a fairly cheap refrigerator...but this time with my blessing. It appears to be a slightly more reliable brand and should get them through at least another 5 or 6 years--and may even outlive them. In any case, I'm not holding my breath...

A truly rotten day

What a day. I’ve never had so many opportunities to say “I told you so,” even though I held back almost every time. So for all those occasions I could have said it to my parents, here goes: moving up here to live in a flimsy tin can? A bad idea—I told you so. Trying to manage the details of everyday life with only occasional help? A terrible idea, and yes, I told you so.  As for that Amana refrigerator you bought, I really did advise you to get any other brand, but it was the cheapest one so of course you went ahead and made the purchase.

It wasn't quite this bad...

And as I could have predicted, that very refrigerator took center stage in yesterday’s little drama. Barely four years old, it gave out sometime during the past week, but true to form, my parents weren’t quite aware it had expired until Friday evening when my dad noticed that his ice cream was a lukewarm soup. 

I got the call just before 9 a.m. on Saturday, about an hour before I was scheduled to stop by. “Well, we have a major problem,” Jeannie began. And in her predictably tortuous fashion, she described every detail pertaining to the refrigerator’s final illness (“I knew something was wrong because the lettuce was warm”) and ended up saying, “So I guess it doesn’t make much sense to buy groceries since we don’t have a way to refrigerate them.”

Still, there was no other choice for me but to drive there and help them carry out an action plan. Call a repairman? Buy a new refrigerator?  I knew that whatever path we took was bound to be a lot more involved and time-consuming than our normal Saturday. And, with Murphy’s Law in force, I had to be back home for a 2 p.m. appointment.

Arriving at their place, I opened the refrigerator and was hit by an almost palpable stink of rotting cabbage.  When I informed them that nearly everything would have to be tossed, Jeannie protested:  “But the yogurts? They haven’t been opened yet, they should be all right.” No, I said. “What about the eggs—I’ll bet they’re still good.” I pointed out that their “use by" date had passed more than a month ago, to say nothing of the recent conditions. Desperate, she made one more attempt: “And these chicken breasts were in the freezer, so they just thawed and are probably OK.” In answer to that, I opened the package of chicken and reeled back, nearly gagging.

I have no doubt that given their diminished sense of smell (coupled with a profound reluctance to throw out food they’d bought) they would likely have tried to eat at least some of the spoiled things if I hadn’t been there to intervene.

Ultimately, I maneuvered them toward a solution. After a hearty lunch at our local Chili’s, we stopped at Target where I located a mini-refrigerator on sale for only $59. Just big enough for juice, wine and a couple of food items, it should tide them over until they can get a repair person to come out. 

This small crisis will pass—but others are surely on the horizon—and for some future emergencies, even the most skillful repair person will only be able to shake his head and say that nothing can be done.  Just remember: I told you so.

Food, glorious food

My dad’s continuing weight loss—he’s now down to 102 lbs—hasn’t really been addressed, if in fact it can be. Knowing the pathetic state of Jeannie’s cooking (and having heard that lunch earlier that week consisted of grapes and nonfat yogurt) spurred my resolve to find a solution.

Beforehand, I checked out a handy online Calorie Calculator, which tells you to plug in a person’s age, height, weight and sex, along with their activity level, and it will then give you the minimum calorie requirements for that person.  Gene’s magic number would be about 1250 just to maintain his current weight, and I estimate that he consumes no more than 1000 calories on a good day. 

My battle plan: take Gene out for lunch, mostly to see if giving him a choice of tasty, calorie-dense foods might inspire him to eat more. He opted for Chinese, since Jeannie dislikes it, meaning that he never gets to enjoy what used to be a favorite cuisine.

We headed for the nearest Chinese restaurant, and after some discussion, he decided on sweet & sour pork. The lunch special came with soup, salad and a fortune cookie.  As the food arrived, so did the problems: the hot and sour soup was too spicy for Gene, so a couple of spoonfuls were all he could manage. The salad was small and bland, but he ate most of it.

When our main courses arrived, I noticed the servings were huge—each one big enough to satisfy two normal (read non-American) appetites. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to clean his plate I still imagined that he might get through half of it.  As it turned out, some 20 minutes later, the mountain of Chow Mein on his plate was barely diminished, while more than half of the pork remained—and he said he was full.  We packed the rest to go, though I wondered if it would ever be eaten.

So—despite my best efforts—taking my father out to a restaurant of his choice and giving him an opportunity to eat what he wanted resulted in a net intake of perhaps 450 calories. While that’s more than he would get from one of his usual lunches, it still isn’t enough. 

As tempting as it would be to cast all the blame on Jeannie, even if she were to prepare enjoyable, adequate meals every day it’s likely that my father would not eat enough to gain weight and maintain his long term health.  And the downward spiral goes on….

Labor Day Special

People look at me strangely when I tell them I love my job. “That’s nice,” they say, but with a mix of bewilderment and resentment that reveals how odd they must think I am. Strange and lucky, I guess.  Nevertheless, it’s true—I love my job and get bored on 3 day weekends, ready to go back to work.

Almost everyone else in my family went into teaching, which could explain why I chose another path.  Dad, mother, stepmother, stepbrother, aunt, uncle—all in different branches of the same business.  Education may be a rewarding profession, but it’s also more demanding and repetitive than many jobs. Maybe that’s why so many teachers get worn down over the years.

My father would come home most days from teaching community college students and head straight to the bedroom for a nap. “Teaching is hard work," he would say. “It wears me out.”

For many years, my stepmother worked as a substitute kindergarten teacher, because a full time position would be “just too much” given her domestic responsibilities.  I recall once she had a longer term assignment, and everyone in the household was put to work helping her keep up with the chores.  (I didn’t mind doing my own laundry, but preparing the next day’s bag lunches for 3 people just felt wrong.)

On the positive side, with both parents working as teachers, our schedules meshed. Leisurely summer vacations were the rule when my father and I lived alone; not long after he and Jeannie got married, the two of them would take extended trips, allowing for some marathon parties at our house.  

The end of summer always brought with it a sense of looming finality, the death row feeling of numbered days.  Labor Day weekend was more of a cruel joke than a holiday, and then back to school…I imagine that was one of the times that most teachers and students were on the same page.

Retiring at 60 was a true gift for my father. Unlike those men who retire and then, having no idea what to do with themselves, die shortly afterward, he’s enjoyed the ultimate long and leisurely vacation which summers only hinted at. The few times I asked if he would want to volunteer as a mentor, or even work part time, he would laugh. “Never again,” he said.

I should be so lucky.

A little Schadenfreude, perhaps?

Jeannie had a pretty bad week; my dad had a pretty good week, and that ratio is unacceptable to her. It’s not as if she actively wishes other people ill, but if they’re doing OK while she’s suffering any discomfort or inconvenience, then by god, they’re going to feel her pain too. 

I got an earful when I called to check in. “Oh, Gene’s status quo, but me—well I’ve had a terrible week.” She proceeded to regale me with a litany of her woes: a dental problem that couldn’t be fixed in one visit; a pacemaker appointment that never happened because the technician wasn’t in; her daughter calling in tears because she had to (chose to, actually) give her cats up to the humane society. There may have been a couple of other items but to be honest I wasn’t paying attention.

Of course, it would be easy for me to go into my sympathetic listener mode. With most people I really mean it, but Jeannie has a knack for fashioning everyday annoyances into a do it yourself Greek tragedy, so I usually pay the least amount of attention possible.

Some time ago, I recall her describing a trip they took to Costa Rica. The trip itself, she said was wonderful, but getting back was “pure hell.” I had visions of airplane trouble, maybe an emergency landing…but no, it was just a crowded airport and a slight delay.

My usual response to her complaining is a blend of upbeat flippancy—“Oh well, I guess it keeps life interesting,” or something along those lines. If I’m feeling more sadistic, then I might start telling her about an acquaintance who’s battling cancer, or someone who just lost a family member. Predictably, she retreats, saying that maybe she should be grateful, and that things could be much worse.

The stereotype of the querulous elder, moaning about this or that problem seems more a matter of character makeup and is not the domain of the elderly alone. I’ve known many old people facing truly serious challenges, but who rarely complain about their lot, or they might just mention their problems in passing.  Jeannie is not of the “less is more” school and apparently believes that the more she complains, the more seriously other people will regard her problems, however slight.

She does the same thing in reverse when she’s happy about something—if her world is just right, and she’s thrilled that everything went well, she trumpets the good news (which usually consists of little more than a pleasant meeting with her club, or a meal out) as if everyone should celebrate for her.  

It isn’t my place, nor would it be right, to rain on her parade when she’s happy…but I can’t help feeling a sense of unrestrained glee when her day is clouded by life’s little inconveniences. Call me mean-spirited—but at least I keep those sentiments to myself...most of the time.  

Checking Out

Our local cemetery

We live a few blocks away from an old rural cemetery—a shadowy, run-down graveyard that might show up in any number of classic horror films. Every month or so I take a leisurely walk through it, just so I can feel fully alive. 

Among the denizens there is Robert Ripley, of “Believe it or Not” fame. The first time I ran across the tombstone, complete with his signature logo, I was with my parents who were up for a visit. Looking at the grave, I remarked automatically, “I don’t believe it.”

Exploring old cemeteries was an occasional pastime my parents and I used to enjoy together. In their former town, they also lived within walking distance to a graveyard. We never found the experience morbid but as it turns out, that visit when we found Ripley marked the last time we ever ventured into one. My dad was 82 at the time, and I guess soon after that we all tacitly agreed that such visits would just be too uncomfortable.

What I notice most when walking through my local cemetery is how brief so many of the lives were. My demographer friend has assured me that infant and child mortality skewed the average lifespan in those days before modern medicine, but I’m not convinced. A statistically non-binding survey I’ve conducted shows that even excluding those first tenuous years, people tended to die in their 20s and 30s far more often than they do now.  A few lucky souls made it into their 80s and beyond but many more expired around the age of 60.

As my parents (and everyone else) move inexorably closer to their own final number, it hardly seems worth mentioning how fortunate most of us are, if you see longevity as luck. The flip side may be that after a certain point, good luck becomes bad in the way a gift can be both a blessing and a curse.

Who wants to leave the party while it’s still going strong? Most of those people lying in the nearby cemetery would have given almost anything for a few more years, if such bargains had been possible back then. The trouble is that now those bargains are possible: medical technology has given many of us the hope of witnessing a full century or more. The price of those extra years, however, is not one most people want to think about.

Birds my father has known

Going back his earliest childhood, my dad has had an almost magical connection to birds. I was never able to understand (much less emulate) his ability to extend an empty hand, and within seconds have a blue jay fly down and perch there for a moment. (My grandfather possessed the same gift; both he and my father had mastered whatever call it was that gave birds the signal to “come over here—it’s safe,” which always amazed me as a child.)  

Gene and his pheasant, ca. 1932

On his way to school one morning, he found an injured pheasant, which he carried back home and put in the enclosure with the chickens.  The pheasant recovered, and stayed on as a family pet—until the day my great-grandmother made the mistake of showing the bird to an itinerant vegetable seller who grabbed the hapless creature and wrung its neck, thinking that’s what she wanted.  Ever practical, Grandma Clara prepared the pheasant for dinner, since the damage was done.  I asked my dad recently if he remembers eating any. “I ate some,” he said, with a somewhat guilty look. When I asked how it tasted, he paused, shrugging. “It tasted like chicken.” 

He was less complacent about the ducks—which he cherished as pets, unlike the more numerous chickens which were a regular part of the family diet. On special occasions when duck was served, my father refused to partake of it.

Asking him now about the chickens his family raised, he recalls the old rooster, Tu-Tu, who he grew up with.  “My mother had named him Cho-Cho but I couldn’t pronounce that, so he became Tu-Tu.” The rooster, too, met an unhappy end when a well-intentioned neighbor gave the family a younger rooster which quickly attacked Tu-Tu, inflicting such extensive injuries that he had to be finished off by my great-grandmother, who was the designated chicken executioner.

I try to imagine the life my father had, growing up in the country with a variety of animals and very few neighbors, exactly the opposite of my own suburban upbringing.  We usually had a solitary cat, and at one point got a couple of parakeets which were eventually supposed to learn how to talk. When they never did, I lost interest and my father ended up caring for them.

The last bird he and my stepmother owned was a finch, Stanley. He’d outlasted two mates and then lived for an extended period as a widower. Every morning my dad would carry him in his cage downstairs to the living room where he could look out the window and chirp; Gene would give him fresh carrot tops as a treat and chirp back at him.

Over 10 years old, nearly featherless and barely able to hang on to his perch, Stanley ended his life with a splash—falling into his bath and unable to get out. My parents were out for a walk at the time, and returned to find him there, drowned.  They held a sad little burial ceremony for him out back and that was the end of it.

Roast Pheasant

The Real ER

Medical TV dramas were always my favorite. I loved the intense pace, hot doctors and compelling life or death situations—with everything wrapped up (most often happily) in an hour. The reality, in case you haven’t been to an emergency room, is nothing like what you see on TV. 

Friday found me waiting in an ER with my dad for over 5 hours, while his bowel impaction was addressed. Most of that time he spent lying back, occasionally dozing, waiting for the next nurse or doctor to come by, while I sat or stood there reading my Kindle.  A few attempts at conversation went by the wayside. Once, asking Gene how he was doing, he shrugged. “Bored,” he said.

Clearly, his situation wasn't critical so the more serious cases were dealt with first. The elderly woman next to us had fallen down “chasing spiders with her grandson,” breaking her wrist and sustaining a nasty cut to her head. Three people down the hall had cardiac issues; an old Chinese man was obviously sick but unable to communicate with anyone. The pace picked up over the afternoon; the staff were all busy, but efficient and organized—no shouting of orders or other disturbances. Now and then a security guard walked through, as did a sweet though persistent volunteer who kept offering refreshments to family members.

My prevailing thought was that all this could have been avoided if either my dad (or Jeannie) had been on top of the situation, which had been building for several days. But she was caught up in a social whirlwind—family members were in town; she was going out to dinner, shopping for clothes with her daughter, enjoying the county fair—and amid all the excitement, my father’s complaints were ignored or minimized.  When I asked him how he felt about the lack of attention, he said, “I resented it.”

About an hour after we got to the hospital, I called Jeannie to give her an update. She launched into a tirade about how Gene “needs to stick to a regime,” repeating that several times, making it out to be entirely his fault, and complaining about his lack of consistency. She rhapsodized about probiotic yogurt and vegetable laxatives; at no point did she ask how he was doing. I found that a little surprising, given that she’d been out socializing when I came to take him to the hospital, and didn’t know until coming home where we were—but on second thought, I wasn’t surprised at all.

Finally—just like in the TV versions—he was released, shaky but better. After a quick stop at the pharmacy to pick up some heavy-duty laxative, we headed back home where he went straight to bed. Jeannie asked me to help open her new box of white zinfandel. I wouldn’t have had any even if she’d offered…but a real drink that night would have been just what the doctor ordered.

All About Me

“But enough about me and my life—what do you think about me and my life?” So goes a joke I read somewhere, and which brings to mind the Way of Jeannie.  I guess I’m as self-absorbed as the next childless only child, but somehow my stepmother (who grew up with a brother and raised two children of her own) has managed to outdo almost everyone I’ve ever met on the “me-me-me” scale.

If she had a formal diagnosis (narcissistic personality disorder, for example) I might understand despite being irritated.  She may in fact have some type of disorder, but would never consider questioning her own motives or consult a therapist, unless it was to figure out why another person in her life was so troublesome.

She regards a question directed at someone else as an insult, and will find a way to answer it no matter how unrelated. (Asking my dad “So how long were you in the army?” prompts Jeannie to deliver a lengthy monologue about her teen years growing up during the war.)

This tendency is not new. Her attitude has always struck me as appallingly self-centered; even those few occasions when she’s expressed regret about something that she did, it’s been defined by her own sense of discomfort or pain, not the hurt she caused others. And most of the time (at least when dealing with me) she simply didn’t care how most people felt.

Once I noticed she’d gone through my closet while I was at school, intent on throwing out “unnecessary” things. One of those things was the treasured overcoat that I’d inherited from my grandfather, made by the workers of his own union in the 1940s—and which I still have today—only because I found it in the garage, packed in a box and ready to donate to Goodwill. When I protested, she was flippant: “That old thing? It’s just a dog, why would you want it?”

Her exasperation at having to “put up with kids” (including her own) was an attitude I’d never encountered before. She seemed to compare being a parent to an 18 year prison sentence, rather than expressing the sheer gratitude I’d come to expect.

I freely acknowledge that I wasn’t the easiest kid to deal with. My sense of entitlement was nurtured by a doting, overly-indulgent father, who along with my grandfather assured me that I was the best and brightest, the most loved member of the family, destined for success.  After being the only child for 14 years, it was inevitable that having to share my father (not to mention living space) with three new people whom I never would have associated with would result in big problems.

Somehow we all survived. I guess that now would be the time to wrap things up philosophically, to affirm how everyone’s become older and wiser—and maybe there’s some truth there, but in so many ways we’re exactly the same as we always were.

How Much More?

This past week found me checking out actuarial tables with mixed hopefulness and trepidation. How much longer will my parents stick around? The correct answer, of course, is that nobody really knows. But according to the life expectancy chart I looked at, my dad can look forward to another four years, while my stepmother has some nine years ahead of her. (For both their sakes, I truly hope it’s less than that, based on their present condition.)

Four years. It sounds like so little. Even my own number (29.5 years left) seems pitifully small compared to what I’ve enjoyed so far.  Our lives are simultaneously blighted and blessed by the full (if often repressed) awareness that we are here only for a brief moment in time. Not long ago, I asked my father if he ever expected to live as long as he has. “I just never thought about it,” he said. I can’t imagine that’s true; unless I’m the only one obsessed with these things, I’d guess most people wonder from time to time how much time they have—and then hope for more. 

I read somewhere that “old” means anyone who’s 15 years older than we are.  But how does that apply to someone in their late 80s with serious health problems?  My attitude, as anyone reading this may pick up, is that truly old people are sticking around too long, although not always by choice. Thanks mostly to medical advances and healthier lifestyles, 70 really is the new 50; the formula works well as long as people stay healthy and active, though at a certain point the inevitable problems start creeping up.  Medical intervention might prop us up for a while, but….

When humans are warehoused in nursing homes, staring blankly at a TV screen, or at nothing, what have we accomplished? They may be technically alive, though it’s not a life most people would want.  Yet there they are, in ever-increasing numbers, but nobody in the political sphere would dare suggest that we “do something” that would help nature run its course a little faster. 

At least for the moment, the humane option of setting people free from a miserable, pointless existence is not available here—but let’s hope that changes before “we” get there.

Not Over Yet...

“Over 90 and Loving It” sounded like it would be an inspiring program to watch, so I watched it. As expected, this PBS special showcased people in their 90s who remain active and involved—a 94 year old taxi driver, a 98 year old woman who completed her master’s degree, Pete Seeger at 90, chopping wood behind his cabin. Bandleaders leading bands, politicians running for office. You get the drift.

So was I inspired? Ultimately, no. If anything, the program was exhausting and a little pathetic. My parents watched it too, and felt similarly—in fact, Jeannie commented, “They must have really spent a lot of time finding those people—that’s not how it is for most of us.”

And so it isn’t. While it may be helpful to counter the negative stereotypes of old people so prevalent in our culture and media, a program like this does not convey an accurate picture of what most elders should expect. To give seniors (or their families) the impression that aging well is more a matter of attitude than anything else is frankly cruel.

Of course, attitude is important.  It’s important to stay connected with others, with the world. People shouldn’t give up too soon, and are better off if they push themselves a little farther than they want to. Just adopting some kind of regular physical activity makes a positive difference.

But we know the best laid plans sometimes go awry. As my mother used to say, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.” The combination most aging people face is one that simultaneously adds and subtracts—a devilish formula of new illnesses and pains, countered by diminishing strength, senses and (often) mental or creative ability.

The prospect of an intact mind trapped inside a diseased body is no more appealing than that of a fit body housing a debilitated mind.Yet most elders end up taking one of those two routes, however unwillingly. An unlucky percentage suffers through both—while only the very fortunate few manage to escape chronic physical and mental infirmity until the end.

That reality, the hard facts of aging are what make me uncomfortable with programs like “Over 90.” Having good genes is not a choice we get to make, at least not yet. The environment we live in exacts its toll on almost everyone. Avoiding toxins only goes so far: I know one man, a healthy vegan who never smoked in his life, who was diagnosed with lung cancer in his early 70s (fortunately, he survived.)

So for those who truly want to believe that aging is a subject of “mind over matter,” I say good luck and bon voyage. Just don’t be surprised when a hurricane hits.

No Shit

Chronic constipation is one of the few things my parents have in common. They both down a variety of laxatives and stool softeners which sometimes do the job—but a couple of days later they’re heading back to the medicine cabinet. On average, they go through milk of magnesia at a rate of two 12-oz bottles per month, supplemented by “softening” caplets, and when all else fails, they bring in the big guns: magnesium citrate and Fleet enemas.

It’s an unpleasant reality for many elderly folk, and yet once again I find myself sighing in exasperation when, at the store, they head down the digestive aid aisle to replenish their supply. There are so many things they should be doing (or not) that could wean them from their laxative dependency, or at least reduce it.

Start with an attitude adjustment: a BM every day is not strictly necessary. For an older person, 2-3 times a week may be sufficient, but many seniors are fixated on the idea of daily evacuation. Other than that, simply increasing fiber and water intake along with more physical activity would help everything along.

Ah, but that’s where things get sticky. My dad, anyway, drinks nowhere near enough fluid, and shies away from fiber.  (He’s the only person I’ve ever met who, before eating raisins, carefully inspects them one at a time, removing any vestige of stem.) As for staying active, he goes from the bed to the sofa to the bathroom and back again…only rarely venturing outside for a walk. Jeannie ranks slightly higher on the activity scale and drinks more liquid—even if that means white zinfandel and Diet 7-UP—but she’s been chugging laxatives since she was in her late 30s so is pretty much addicted. 

I don’t pretend to understand their diet, but know it only makes the situation worse. Focusing heavily on dairy products (ice cream and nonfat cottage cheese by the quart each week along with a daily “light” yogurt), they eat about half the recommended daily amount of vegetables and virtually no legumes or whole grains other than occasional whole wheat bread. Usually, they opt for English muffins or sourdough. Meat every day is a given, followed by sugar free jello, or a bowl of ice cream for my dad; then Jeannie devotes her evenings to sugarless gum. How she goes through 4 packs of gum per week—each pack containing 15 sticks—is a mystery for someone to solve, if anyone actually cares to figure it out.

But it is what it is. No amount of gentle persuasion will change their habits at this point, and like most problems my parents have brought on themselves, this one is not worth arguing about.  You could say I really don’t give a shit…

Kiss & Make Up

The most tedious argument has a longer shelf life than the ideal reconciliation. We forgive, but we don’t forget; raw feelings can easily be reignited, while the memory of sheepish—even sincere—words of apology stokes anew the fire of resentment.

But being good citizens and realizing that we need to get along, Jeannie and I followed up our recent outburst with a rational discussion, each acknowledging the other’s feelings and apologizing (more or less) for the harsh words. We even agreed on the point that my father and I deserve some “father/son” time together, doing whatever we choose. 

Happy times

To top it off, she even said she’d like to treat us to lunch one of these days, an idea I gratefully acknowledged while trying not to think that my accusation of her selfishness is likely what prompted the offer.

Again, as we negotiated the usual, tedious shopping trip I noticed Jeannie’s increasing frailty, her failing body and mind. Simultaneously sympathetic and annoyed, I realized it will only be another year or so before even these basic errands will be past her ability.

I also question my own abilities: will I be able to stand this until my care-giving services are no longer required? How much more patience and understanding will I have to cultivate?

Happy 4^th to everyone—and may we all appreciate our independence as long as we have it.

Fight! Fight!

Nothing clears the air like a good argument.  A sudden, therapeutic release of negative energy and everyone feels better.  That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?

Jeannie and I finally had it out; months of resentment and occasional snide remarks gave way to a full-on brawl, minus the physical contact. Unfortunately for all of us, it started on Father’s Day and culminated on my dad’s birthday, shedding new light on the concept of "special occasion.”

I’d mentioned beforehand that I planned to pick up my dad on the morning of his birthday for an appointment at the DMV (to replace his expired license with an ID card), followed by brunch. She heard me, but automatically assumed that she would be going as well. When I informed her on Father’s Day that I was planning to take him alone, things got ugly. “Don’t exclude me, don’t EXCLUDE me!” she cried. Besides, she added, there were a couple of errands she needed me to do, like going to the bank and the post office.

Nothing doing, I said. She hadn’t mentioned those errands earlier, so I told her she’d have to make other arrangements. And I wanted to spend some quality time alone with dad on his birthday. I imagined that would be the end of it (I have a lively imagination).

When I arrived to pick him up, they were both waiting at the door; I could see the anxiety on his face, while she was darting back and forth like a boxer preparing to lunge. Before I was halfway up the stairs, and faster than someone can say, “Happy Birthday,” the yelling started.

“I want you to know how UPSET I am at what you’re doing!” she shouted.  “This is so inconsiderate and thoughtless, and I want you to know how I feel!” I waved away an imaginary cloud of mosquitoes and said, “Let’s not discuss it now, this can wait.”

“NO IT CAN’T! I want you to know how I feel, and Gene has some things to say to you too. He’s going to talk to you about how upset you’ve made me. You’re being very selfish.” 

At this point, I decided to hit back. “Selfish? Look who’s talking! We’re at your beck and call, doing your errands every week and you don’t even think about our time and energy. And I hope you enjoyed the Father’s Day lunch we treated you too—you never even said thank you.”

More shouting ensued. I accused her of ruining my dad’s birthday; at one point I bowed deeply, saying, “Of course, your majesty, your needs are the only ones that matter,” and finally my dad and I left. My mouth was parched and I was shaking.

At that moment, my concern was for him. He slumped in the front seat of the car, and when I asked him how he was, he shrugged. “Oh, we’ve been yelling at each other for the last couple of days.” I apologized for causing the upset; I didn’t want him to be the recipient of her rage and assured him it was between her and me. But of course, it wasn’t.

Our visit turned out well. We finished early at the DMV, and I took him to the office to meet my co-workers. He perked up at the friendly attention. At brunch, I asked him if he had anything he wanted to say (or had been directed to say); but he said no, nothing. I also mentioned that he might get her to shut up by threatening to leave her, and that he could stay with us for a while. “That occurred to me,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to do that to you.” Still, I could see how easy it would be to persuade him to leave, once and for all, at the tender age of 87.

Truce

But no. It would not be easy and we all know it. In the end, I took him back home to find that tempers had cooled considerably. We were all cordial—and the next time I called to discuss the weekend grocery list with Jeannie, the conversation was friendly, as if nothing had happened.  But it did happen, and will probably happen again unless we manage to decide calmly on an unsupervised visitation plan.