Kate Smith Dances- just for fun

Kate Smith--remembered for her forthright singing style--was also quite the dancer, as seen here. Notwithstanding her girth, she exudes pure joy in movement; it's hard not to be uplifted by this lovely moment in time.

On Strike!

Finally, hope and change are coming to our area: the near-disaster of last week's trip to the grocery store left me no other choice but to announce my retirement as volunteer shopper/errand-runner/problem fixer. The actual announcement took the form of an email I sent to my stepbrother, enumerating the reasons that the current arrangement is unsustainable for all concerned. Somewhat to my surprise, he agreed without hesitation and took appropriate action.

A certain amount of guilt may be inevitable. Perhaps a more devoted son would have continued to do everything in his power to support his doddering parents, maybe even enjoying the self-imposed martyrdom, but I am not that son. Indeed, I couched my decision in terms of their safety, their happiness and well-being, and pointed out that by hiring professionals to take care of life's mundane details, we would now be free to help them enjoy life more by taking them out to lunch or a movie, or just visiting to chat and play a game. I believe those benefits will be, at least for the short term, real.

The agreement has been signed; a professional care agency will be sending someone out twice a week to take care of basic household chores, including cooking some meals, running errands and shopping. The total cost may run $200 per week, which, while more than they would like to spend, is completely affordable, and far less than the $600 per week a live-in caregiver would cost (also affordable, in my opinion, and a bargain at that.) But this is a good beginning, and after three years of my ongoing commitment, a welcome relief.

At the same time, what will my new role be? No longer a caregiver in any real sense, and no reason to be angry. My updated status begs the question as to whether this blog is even necessary. I might still have the occasional opportunity to take my dad to the barber, or pick something up from the store; indeed, packing the parents into a car and driving them to lunch may, in time, feel onerous. But the strict definition of caregiver will no longer apply.

It remains to be seen how much more I will want to write about the inevitable decline and fall of my aging parents, myself and indeed, of all people. It is a fact of life that hardly bears reflection. Yet there may be glimmers of insight, or humorous observations that I feel might be worth reporting. As I said, it all remains to be seen. Until then, enjoy your summer, as I intend to enjoy mine.

Same Old Same Old

A longer than usual delay between updates--but more than enough going on in the debility and decline department. The menu includes at least one fall, ongoing doctors visits to deal with a non-healing wound, a hospital stay, drugs and more drugs.

 Jeannie's week-long hospitalization, with its incumbent separation between her and my dad was stressful enough; he actually missed her while she was gone (I did my best to prop him up: took him over to visit, then out to dinner once; another time I prepared dinner for him.)

On his own, my father managed fairly well. One time when I called he informed me that he'd been cleaning up the house and doing laundry. When visiting, I noted that the house was indeed fairly clean and the trash had been taken out. There was enough food in the fridge, even if my dad wasn't eating much.

Now that Jeannie is back home, still dealing with the same issues, routine annoyances have once again taken hold. If my father missed her before, I doubt he'd say that now. For one thing, he's been hit with a flareup of his chronic digestive problems: pain, nausea, lack of appetite. On Father's day, I called and he sounded vaguely reticent and weak, but wouldn't tell me what the problem was. No problem--Jeannie took the phone and proceeded to fill me in with the details.

"He won't level with you. I was telling him to be honest. The fact is he's been sick and says he doesn't feel like eating, so he didn't have dinner last night and I had to eat alone. And this morning, he still didn't feel well, so I had to eat by myself again! It's just rotten timing, being Father's day and all. I don't want to have to eat alone again."

I try to digest this, but can only focus on the utter selfishness, the complete lack of regard for anyone else's problems other than her own. His illness and pain, the fact that he felt too sick to eat, was not the concern: it was that she was put out and had to eat by herself for one day. In fairness, she did acknowledge that her own ongoing troubles may have been making her more upset about the situation.

Still, I held my tongue. Anything I could have said then (other than my usual palliative phrases) would cause further trouble. I'm trying to be politic and supportive, but my patience is running thin...it would be pure joy to just come out and tell her what a selfish, pathetic bitch she is. I wonder what would happen....

Book of Job

Much as I try to convince people otherwise, I’m not the uncaring creep I aspire to be; human suffering gets to me when I’m face to face with it—though in the abstract I still claim to be the ultimate social Darwinist, casually explaining why large numbers of innocent children should not be saved from disease or starvation. 

Jeannie has been suffering for a while now. A non-healing leg ulcer has been festering, refusing to budge against the slew of antibiotics being hurled at it. Visiting nurses have been coming over regularly, and even the doctor has made a couple of house calls to treat the wound, so things are without question serious.  On top of the pain she’s dealing with from her original problem, she has fallen several times, in one case injuring herself pretty badly and worsening her already tenuous balance. The only option not yet considered is hospitalization with IV antibiotics, followed by rehab in a nursing home. That, in fact, may still happen, at which point the question will become what to do about my dad.

I brought that question up to him yesterday while we were out taking care of errands. “Well, I guess we’d have to get someone to come in and help,” he said. I agreed, and said maybe we should start looking at that option anyway, since Jeannie’s ability to manage even basic domestic tasks is now severely limited.

Always at a snail’s pace, we’re moving in that direction. I spoke with my step-brother, who agreed the time is right, and he’s been talking to some of his connections. I’ve suggested an agency, which though more expensive than a casual helper, is at least licensed and bonded.  I’m betting that they’ll go for the cheaper option, and even so, put that off for as long as possible.

While visiting yesterday, I tried to maximize my usefulness; I did the shopping, mailed letters, filled prescriptions, and bought a new and improved cane—I even prevailed on Jeannie to let me pick up ingredients for that night’s dinner and get it going in their crock pot. She agreed to that, a clear indication of how disabled she is. Out of deference (or revenge) I prepared a modified version of one of her old favorites—Sherry Beef augmented with cream of mushroom soup, canned mushrooms and dry onion soup mix.  She used to serve it to company, and it actually wasn’t bad as long as you didn’t know the ingredients.

I did mess up on one thing: though mint-flavored milk of magnesia was on the shopping list, I neglected to grab some. Jeannie was distressed, as her painkillers are making laxatives more necessary than usual—but under questioning, she admitted she still had a bottle of the regular (non-mint) flavor…and I found a full bottle of another brand of laxative which would have exactly the same result, even if it didn’t taste like mint. So on that score, I put my foot down, saying I really couldn’t go back to the store, despite Jeannie’s obvious dismay. But I guess my compassion has its limits, even when someone is suffering.

One More

One more day, one more grocery run, one more haircut, and one more quiet lunch with my dad. It’s not my usual practice to write about something before it happens, but I’m willing to bet that the scheduled events for today will unfold as predictably as the sun’s rising and setting. The details might differ slightly, but not enough to change the overarching sameness of the experience.

With old people, new experiences—changes of most types—aren’t usually welcomed. Routine becomes the comforting friend, the “if it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” feeling.  Rigidity sets in, and the slightest snag is cause either for alarm or dismay. Even a happy change can be upsetting.

Last week, Jeannie’s ATM card wasn’t accepted at the supermarket. She was first frustrated, then panic stricken, as one attempt after another was denied. If I hadn’t been there to walk her through the best alternative, the manager may have had to call 9-1-1.

We got through it. I pointed out that she could use her credit card (“But I never use my credit card to buy groceries here!”)  and helped her understand that we could drive 1 block to the bank where she could sort things out as well as getting cash there. Finally, the dust settled. By the time we reached the car, Jeannie realized the problem: she had an expired ATM card that she kept in her wallet along with the new one and had just used the wrong card.

Mystery solved, I showed her how to use the ATM at her own bank, something she’d never done before—and while apprehensive, she was pleased to see all that money coming out of the machine, along with her balance statement (totaling almost $30,000.) “Well, I learned something today. That’s my attitude; always keep learning as long as you’re alive…” And on, and on.

Having dealt with the first crisis, I now wonder about the next one (which could be related to keeping such a large balance in her checking account.) Will she listen to reason if we explain how easy it would be for someone to clean out her account by just stealing one check? Or would it be better to wait and let that happen? After all, I wouldn’t want to deprive my stepmother of a learning experience.

Now looking back, we made it through yesterday staying mostly on script. At lunch, I asked Gene if he ever wanted to visit San Francisco, or perhaps take the ferry across the bay. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty much homebound now.”  When I suggested a quick drive to see our new (world-class) concert hall, he declined, and then said, “I guess you can see that my interests are slipping away.” I nodded. “Does that concern you?” I asked. After a pause: “A little…but not really.”

Losing interest in the fact of losing one’s interests…that must be the ultimate. In the end, I persuaded him to let me take the short detour, and he seemed to appreciate the view.

"A Poem a Day" Day

Casual Sunday visit with dad. Jeannie's at church, and the house is blissfully quiet (apart from the frequent cycling of their forced air heater.) My father and I, together on the sofa, trying to forge a meaningful conversation. It takes a while, but then I see the book I gave him for Christmas, "A Poem A Day" on the coffee table and that gets us started.

I ask if he's read any good poems lately, and he picks up the book right away. "Oh, yes," he says, starting to thumb through the pages. He goes straight for "Richard Cory" by Edward Arlington Robinson, pointing at it. "There's this one," he says.

For those who may be unfamiliar with the oft-anthologized work, it tells of a man--elegant, rich, blessed in every way, who has the life that other people want--and who ends up going home one summer night and putting a bullet through his head.

Why this poem? I wonder. I ask Gene what he thinks it means. "Well, obviously," he says. "He had everything to live for, outwardly, but it wasn't enough to keep him going."

Hmmm. "How about another one?" I suggest. This time, he turns to the short poem by Pastor Martin Niemoller--"First they came...(for the communists, trade unionists, Jews....) Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me." This is getting cheerful, I think.

"What about something by Emily Dickinson?" I ask, realizing too late what I was asking for. He goes to the index and finds an unexpected love poem, "Wild Nights," which I'd never seen. There may be hope, I think.

Then I suggest "Invictus" by Henley, known mostly by its final line, "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." I never knew how gloomy the thing was until I read it from the beginning:

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Well, I can only blame myself, right? Though perhaps there's no question of blame. My dad and I seem, for the most part, on the same page, with a similarly dark outlook. It is what it is.
 

Autumn to Winter

Clinging to my windshield, a small late autumn maple leaf: brilliant red and gold, wet with the recent rain and still pliable. I pick it up and carefully hand it to my father, who accepts it without words as if it were a priceless gift; a slight smile crosses his face. A moment that peels away years and revives memories of the same exchange that must have taken place between us many times before; a child, in silent wonder, gives a remarkable found object to his parent, sharing its beauty. And the parent accepts the gift.

I ask my dad if he recalls maple trees from his childhood in New Jersey. "Oh, yes," he says. "My father and I even planted one on our property, right before we moved." That would have been around 1942, I think, perhaps as Gene prepared to head back to Cal and his parents were moving to Brooklyn. Were they marking a transition in that father-son exchange? Establishing continuity? Or maybe they just decided to plant a tree....though it seems such a deliberate act, given the timing, one fraught with meaning.

For my father's 80th birthday, I gave him a dwarf Meyer lemon tree. He planted it in the small patio area of their townhouse. For whatever reason, the tree never thrived: it provided a few small, green lemons the first year but remained stunted, perhaps from neglect, and by the time they moved up north, I imagine it had died. A gift given too late, I guess, but one still filled with meaning....