The End. And the Beginning....

It was bound to happen, and it did. My father, Gene, died this April at the age of 90. It was, as death goes, not as bad as it could have been, and it happened at the right time: in his own home, with family at his side and aware of the love surrounding him. I had returned from an overseas trip, knowing before I left that he was in decline and would certainly be referred to hospice by the time I returned...

My one hope--not quite a gamble--was that he would manage to hold on while I was away; he did, and for the last 3 weeks of his life I was able to be there, helping to ease his transition. Spending nights and a number of days at the house was rewarding, challenging--life-changing. He knew what was happening, even without a clear diagnosis, despite his moments of confusion--and he was ready. When I told him that the doctor was running out of options to help, he looked at me directly and said, "I want no options."

Essentially, he stopped eating, as swallowing had become increasingly difficult. He requested, for the final weeks, sips of cranberry juice, until even that become too much. As he diminished physically and spent most days sleeping, or at least appearing to sleep, he was nonetheless present--smiled when he opened his eyes and saw me there, said "I love you" frequently, and allowed himself to be cared for, despite the loss of dignity he must have felt. We tried to make sure he was comfortable, and from all appearances, we succeeded.

I visited twice on the day before he passed, knowing that time was running out. The first time, he seemed to have more energy--smiling and answering basic questions. I knew about this "burst of energy" people frequently exhibit before the end, and sure enough when I visited again that night, he was no longer responsive, although he knew I was there...I placed my hand on his and he moved his other hand on top of mine. When I left, I knew that we would not see each other again. Instead of "good night," or "I'll see you tomorrow" I said, "Now I have to say goodbye. I love you." I wiped a tear from his cheek, kissed him on the forehead and left.

Next morning, he was gone--quietly, peacefully, without any sign of struggle or discomfort. It was, as I said, not as bad as it could have been, though it has been hard for me--the sense of finality and irreparable loss--the departure of the last person on this planet who loved me unconditionally, who knew the story of my life from its very beginning.

So who am I now? Not a caregiver, no longer angry...trying to gather the memories and incorporate them into my life as I go on without him, keeping him alive in me. It is both an ending and a beginning.

One day after my father died, I found something I'd been searching for repeatedly over the decades--a box of letters he'd written to his parents while he was in Europe during World War II.  I'd assumed they had been thrown out in one of their moves, but by pure chance, I located them in a box labeled "scripts." Some 200 letters, most from overseas and some from his student years at Berkeley, along with his English 1-A essays. A glimpse not only of history, with detailed accounts of the people and places he encountered during those momentous, formative years. More than stories of the past, but a view of who he was, and how he was shaped by events and who he would eventually become. Stories, reflections, hopes, plans: my father before fatherhood, the student yet to become a professor.

My next project awaits....a new blog written largely by my father, based on his letters. Thank you for sharing this part of my journey, and stay tuned.

After a long hiatus...more of the same

If the last year and a half had been worth writing about...

and parts of it may have been, but I simply didn't bother. There were a few noteworthy events, in any case. To wit:

• My father turned 90 last June, and gave a short speech of thanks for all the gifts and attention 
• A caregiver continues to help twice per week, and I'm visiting almost every Sunday 
• Stepmother muddles on, a bit more confused and every bit as self-absorbed

Of course, behind the headlines there are a number of stories, but my focus for now is on what I've been doing to give my dad as much pleasure and meaning in his final years as I can. I could always do more, and may yet do so, but my various exploits included a visit to the cemetery where his mother lies, and which nobody in the family had visited in at least 60 years. 

My grandmother, sadly, died young, years before I was born. Yet to this day, family members who knew her speak of her gentle, loving presence. Some even cry, remembering her difficult years of illness, mourning her early death. After a short while of online searching, I found out which cemetery she was in. As my spouse and I (oh, yes--forgot to mention we got married in 2013) were planning a trip to New York, I asked my dad if he would like me to visit and place some flowers on the grave. Somewhat to my surprise, he said, "Yes, I would appreciate that." So we went. Placed flowers. Took pictures--which my father studied intently when I returned, though showing no emotion at the time.

But he has mentioned my visit to his mother's grave, several times, in fact, at one point telling me that it "was very feeling." The ability to find the exact words he wants sometimes eludes him, but there's no question as to what he meant.

I've made the simple act of bringing him something to eat is less a chore and more an exercise in imagination. He's spoken often of his grandmother's stuffed cabbage, which he enjoyed so much as a child--and certainly hadn't tasted for decades. Jeannie wouldn't dream of making such a complicated dish, and even finding it in the frozen food section proved impossible. So I found a recipe, and made it. He pronounced it "a perfect meal" and "great," words which made the small thing I did seem much bigger. 

As we all reach that stage, it truly is the "small things" that matter most. I'm happy, so filled with joy that I've been able to do those things for my father--and hope to do a few more.

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....

Holidays...

It’s been quite a long holiday break for this blog, but I have decided to resume posting occasional, if shorter, entries—whether or not I have something compelling to say—it all depends on my mood. Of late, the mood has been somewhat darker. Things with my parents continue their slow descent: the shopping trips are more excruciating than ever; my father grows more silent, and Jeannie less so.

We shared Thanksgiving with good friends and had a much better time than we would have under any other circumstances, had they been available to us. I say that knowing that our choices were limited: my stepbrother and his family invited the parents over to their house while we were pointedly excluded.  Jeannie expressed slightly awkward embarrassment when she asked what our plans were. As I’ve told people, it was great not attending an event where we would have been truly uncomfortable—but it would have been nice to have the option of saying no thanks.

As for Christmas, we won’t be quite so lucky….again, my stepbrother’s family will welcome dad and Jeannie for dinner on the 24^th—and again, we were not invited—but as a consolation prize, Jeannie asked if my partner and I would like to join them for a simple dinner on the 25^th (without her offspring present.) The catch? We would have to cook everything other than the main course and dessert, a frozen wine cake Jeannie had made some months ago. Though it would have been tempting to decline, we decided to bite the bullet (and our tongues), and go through with the charade.

I imagine my stepbrother, who is a leader in his church, has either decided on his own or else was directed by his superiors to sever contact with his unrepentant, homosexual step-sibling.  I can almost imagine the dialogue, whether internal or with an actual higher authority, which certainly would have included an admonition to pray for us sinners, while obeying the church edict to avoid sin and the near occasions of sin. That would be us, I suppose. He would have been informed that his position in the church requires that he set a good example, both for other parishioners and for his own family, by not appearing to condone what scripture deems unacceptable.

Even the holiday card we got, sent by his wife, had only her name & return address on the envelope, as if using their family address labels might somehow be construed as laxity on his part. None of this is especially surprising or even annoying to me. If anything, I found the hypocrisy of earlier forced interactions less tolerable, so am happy to avoid contact.

A similar incident occurred not long ago when I tracked down our old family physician (who also lived across the street from us when I was a child) and sent an email to him. His initial response was enthusiastic: he was so glad to hear from me, happy that my father was still (relatively) well, and said he’d like to stay in touch. That ended abruptly when in my next email I mentioned my partner of 23 years. No response can be a very strong response.

I know there are many Christians worthy of the name, and even know some of them. But they (joined by representatives of certain other religions) have proved so many times through history and to this day that a simple majority stands out as a smug, judgmental crowd, quickly pointing its collective finger at those perceived as sinners. Meanwhile, they conveniently ignore the more garden variety “sins” they or their family members are often guilty of, and vilify The Other. This may be the season of good will but I say to hell (whatever that is) with them, and suspect that god (whatever that means) would say the same.  

Old and not grey in LA

Uncle Murray

Weekend trip to the Los Angeles area, valley of my birth, which I gladly forsook nearly 30 years ago…our first stop was for lunch with friends; the thermometer registered almost 100 degrees outside when we took our seats, and was well over that when we made it back to our rented Mini Cooper. Ducking into a nearby supermarket to pick up a gift, we then headed to our next destination: my uncle’s 90th birthday party.

The guest of honor, my one and only uncle, could pass for 70 more easily than 90; he and his wife (age 85) are genetic marvels who owe nothing to plastic surgery or high-caliber fitness regimens. They look and act as I always remember them—active and engaged. They drive, travel, play bridge—in short, they continue to enjoy life as few people in their age bracket can.

Aunt Evy

Is there a secret, other than good genes? Uncle Murray continued working part time into his early 80s, and loved his vocation as a post-doctoral professor. Aunt Evelyn, while retired, had served for years as a mentor to new teachers, helping them learn the ropes. Blessed with relatively good health, an active social life, and happy, well-adjusted children and grandchildren, they have ample reason to regard their lives with satisfaction.

Yet they seem not to spend an inordinate amount of time either looking back or forward—but just enjoy their lives. When my uncle had to undergo a somewhat complex medical procedure a while ago, his wife was nonchalant. “Oh, it’s nothing, he’ll be fine.” Denial? Or maybe they've cultivated a serene form of acceptance that’s helped sustain them as they gradually head toward their long home.

There’s simply no comparison between their lives and the situation my parents are in. Pure luck may be part of the story, but I’d be willing to bet a good percentage of my retirement account that at least half the problems my parents are dealing with are directly related to their stupid diet and poor medical advice. It doesn’t help matters that they have an equally stupid marriage, filled with simmering tension and disappointment.

My parents' life together, never especially interesting, has only become more constricted and meaningless. If marriage is nothing else than having a somewhat warm body nearby, at least they’ve achieved that, but at a huge cost. I’m reminded of some of the miserable couples described in W. Somerset Maugham’s stories; Maugham himself was an expert on the topic of unhappy marriage—but at least he had the good sense to get a divorce and move on.

“Marriage is a very good thing, but I think it's a mistake to make a habit out of it.”   W. Somerset Maugham

Birthdays & Funerals & Weddings, Oh My!

Over the last month or so, my father turned 88, a good friend died far too young, and my stepsister treated family and friends to a wedding spectacle that nobody will soon forget no matter how much they’d like to. 

The birthday ranks as the least exceptional of the three events (other than the achievement of another year added to so many) so will remain undescribed. Nor will I discuss the circumstances of my friend who died, except to say he was a remarkable individual, and that his death was a profound blow for those who knew and loved him.

As for the wedding, however, I see no reason to hold back. After all, the bride showed no restraint whatsoever in arranging it—indeed, I hear she was repeatedly begged to curb some of her wilder impulses—but it still added up to what was certainly the tackiest, most painful event I’ve witnessed to date. The back-story here is that this marked wedding #3 for my stepsister, yet she demanded all the trappings (and financial support required) one could expect for a first wedding.

It wasn't quite this bad...

A few glasses of champagne might be appropriate after a big event like this, but apparently the bride felt it would be a good idea to have them before the ceremony….and so she did, while everyone waited. Then she sashayed down the aisle, grinning at those gathered in the little church, as her teenage nephew doodled around on an out-of-tune piano, playing part of the wedding march interspersed with whatever else he could think of at the time, before stumbling to a halt.

Why am I reliving this—is it some kind of exorcism? Enough blow by blow. Here are the highlights:

When asked if she would “take this man as her husband,” the bride gave us a fatuous grin and answered heartily, “Heck yeah!”

After they were pronounced married and given permission to kiss, they stood on the altar swallowing each other like two goldfish; at one point, she grabbed his ass.

The cake topper, at her insistence, showed a bride and groom—but it depicted the bride having leapt headlong into the arms of the groom with her legs wrapped around him.

At the reception, we were treated to a few more deep kisses, and then the inevitable garter ceremony, which the bride decided would be more interesting if the groom wasn’t allowed to use his hands. So he doggedly (as in St. Bernard style) wriggled his way up her dress, finally emerging with what looked like a pair of chewed up, variegated underwear—but which was in fact her garter.

I should mention that the wedding ceremony itself took place during a total eclipse of the sun, which my astrologer partner was quick to point is the most inauspicious time to start any kind of new undertaking. And while my first thought was they’d picked the day and time deliberately because they thought it was “special” it turned out they had no idea, and the stars just naturally fell into place…

As a rule, I don’t mind seeing Jeannie uncomfortable, but even I felt sorry for her that day as she tried to remain nonchalant and upbeat through the entire farce.  My one hope (sadly unrealized) was for one of the religious zealots there to insult me and my partner in some way so I would be able to ask them, with feigned enthusiasm, to tell me all about the sanctity of marriage, after witnessing what we all had.  But the guests all behaved themselves…if only the guests.

Going Monthly....

No need to make excuses; going from a weekly to a monthly format makes sense now that other people are involved in my parents' care. I’m visiting them less often, and while they still invade my thoughts, there’s less new material to explore—until now.

Once again, they’ve been scammed. I had hoped that their earlier brush with ID theft might have instilled more caution, but the con artists are always one step ahead. They know how to insinuate themselves over time, to make a good impression and gain trust—so when they move in for the kill, their victims don’t even realize they’re being taken.

It was only by chance I found out, when I phoned my dad to check in; he mentioned the workers were there even as we spoke, replacing their heating and air conditioning system.  Alarm bells went off, and I began interrogating my hapless father, then the workmen, about what was going on. Exactly why were they replacing a system that was barely 9 years old, and seemed to be working fine?

From what I could gather, my parents had accepted an offer from this company for a “free safety inspection” of their furnace, part of the “club membership plan” they paid $8.99 per month for. And gosh, wouldn't you know that these same foxes just happened to find a “serious problem” with the furnace, one that was “potentially life threatening” if not dealt with right away.

They recommended the furnace be replaced immediately, and “while you’re at it, don’t you think it would be a good idea to replace the AC unit” since it was a few years old, and had already been worked on once? It would only add another $4,100 to the original amount, and they could even get an 18-month interest-free payment plan, so it was a mere $487 per month…

After yelling at both parents for their poor judgment, I made my way up the food chain, eventually reaching the owner of the company. I informed him (without mincing words) that this looked like fraud, and that as a mandated reporter of elder abuse, I might have to move this case forward to the DA and the fraud unit of our local police department.

The owner started by trying to overwhelm me with technical details about furnaces, and spoke of his company’s solid reputation. I then pointed out that the reviews I’d read online revealed a reputation that was far from stellar—multiple horror stories from scammed or manipulated customers.  I said I looked forward to adding my own review, in addition to calling the authorities; then the owner started to backpedal.

“Well, we guarantee 100% satisfaction,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

For starters, I said, refund virtually the entire amount for the AC unit, which had been working and didn’t need to be replaced. As for the furnace, I knew there was little point in my trying to prove that it wasn’t defective (as it could easily have been sabotaged after its removal) so I’d let that charge stand. The owner said he’d need to talk with his “management team” and then get back to me.

Next day, I got what I wanted, at least verbally.  To seal his fate, I faxed over a letter to the owner (capturing a confirmation receipt) restating our conversation and agreement. Somehow, I suspect he won’t give us any trouble, but what’s more disturbing is that he probably regards this as part of the cost of doing business his way—for every one complaint or threat, he probably gets away with at least 10 fraudulent jobs, no questions asked.

My parents were sheepish and embarrassed, but grateful for my intervention. I let them know that this was a real wakeup call, and from now on they should not make any financial decisions without consulting one of us first. I may have saved them a few thousand dollars this time, but the nagging pessimist inside my head wonders what’s next.

All that's holy

Jeannie’s been praying for patience, but apparently nobody’s listening. I called a few days ago and she picked up the phone, sounding breathless and annoyed, but trying to cover it up with laughter. “Oh, it’s just the same old-same old,” she tittered. After some probing, she divulged that in fact she was upset with my father because she was having trouble making him understand her instructions.

The drama centered on her trying to explain, days ahead of time, that he would need to fill in the correct amount on a check, then sign it when he went to the store with me.  She was (from what I know of her style) probably telling him in exhaustive detail something he didn’t even need to know, so I told her not to worry, and that I’d write in the amount and get my dad to sign the check at the appropriate time.

Doing the shopping with my dad alone, while not exactly fun, was better than the usual arrangement.  He had a chance to make some choices about what they’d be buying, and picked out a frozen dinner he thought he might enjoy, then choosing the brand of peanut butter that he liked, as opposed to whatever was cheapest.

We returned to find Jeannie outfitted from head to toe in a flowing white gown and puffy cap, which comprised her baptismal vestments. She was awaiting the arrival of her godmother, who would be taking her to church to witness the baptism of the other new converts. “I’m supposed to wear this every day for eight days after my baptism, and today’s the eighth day,” she informed me. 

I was putting the groceries away while she expounded on the details of her new faith, telling me how meaningful it felt to her. I smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“My dad tells me that you’ll be having the house blessed,” I said.

“Oh, yes, when we get around to it.”

I didn’t mention that Gene had rolled his eyes when he told me about her plans, and said he didn’t know where he would go during the ceremony, but would like to be elsewhere. I told him I’d come get him if it was possible.

Godmother arrived. We greeted each other cautiously, and then she and Jeannie went off to discuss the significance of various religious symbols. “Oh, then that’s very significant,” I heard Jeannie say.

It was time for me to leave. I hugged my dad, and then went over to Jeannie, as usual, to give her a hug as well. But this time was different: she grimaced, and accepted my embrace stiffly—perhaps feeling that I would contaminate her sacred garb, or maybe not wanting the godmother to see her as too accepting of her gay stepson…who knows?  It was definitely time to leave.

Old and New

Old Man, New iPad

This week’s visit to Dad, on the first day of Passover, covered a lot of ground. Jeannie was at church getting baptized, so the house was blessedly quiet. I’d brought over a rich chicken and matzo ball soup to share—something he hadn’t been able to enjoy since last year. And for entertainment, I came equipped with my new iPad. 

I take for granted today’s technology, and indeed, look forward to more ahead. But for my father, who on top of his recent confusion is a virtual technophobe, it’s all a bit too much. He can manage things like the answering machine—and even had a pre-internet era computer which he would fire up now and then for word processing only.  A few years ago, with some urging from me, he bought the new “e-mail station” which could be plugged into a phone jack and then used to send or receive e-mail; he got as far as taking it out of the box and trying to read the instructions before nearly having a panic attack; he returned the device unused.

My dad is not unlike many older people in his fear of all this newfangled stuff.  He’s seen plenty of changes in his life, and has gone along with most of them, but there may be a limit to how many new things a person can learn. At least that seems to be his situation.

Trying to make the experience more relevant, I’d uploaded something special on Youtube to share with him: an educational TV broadcast from 1966, featuring none other than my father discussing the history of Commedia Dell’arte. I remember, as a 6-year-old, being awakened earlier than usual to watch the broadcast with him as it aired on a weekday morning.

Now, 46 years later, we’re together watching it again. But for my father, the experience appears to be more overwhelming than fun. I imagine him struggling to understand how the old broadcast, captured by kinescope and preserved on 16 mm tape, is now coming through my sleek iPad as we sit at the dining room table.

Maybe there’s another problem too—for him as he is now to watch the image of who he used to be—the competent, if overly reserved, professor holding forth on a topic which he clearly knew well. Yet in the video, he appears stiff, even uncomfortable at times. The crude technical quality of low budget 60s educational television makes his presentation seem even more awkward.

Sensing his discomfort, I switch to other apps: Pandora radio, including a performance by a singer he always enjoyed, then a live webcam view of New York harbor and the Statue of Liberty; he comments on the boats as they go by. “It’s a real-time view,” I say helpfully. “It’s actually happening right now.” Again, he seems overwhelmed, though he describes the experience as “stimulating.”

I suggest a walk around the complex, and he agrees. On familiar territory—his own back yard—he is more relaxed and focused. He shows me the pool and the club house and greets a neighbor working on a project, as we make our way around and back home.

Now that I think of it, a leisurely walk in the early spring sunshine, father and son talking together, is better than any number of high-tech devices, which often end up separating people more than bringing them together. Much as I like my toys, Gene seems to know inherently that there are more important things in life.

Decisions, decisions

My father spent nearly a month agonizing over whether he should open a can of tomato soup before deciding not to; meanwhile, Jeannie has moved ahead full bore on her spiritual path, and is scheduled to be baptized as a member of the Orthodox Church next week. Neither of these decisions surprises me.

Anybody who knows Gene would never describe him as reckless; precise, careful, reserved—those are the qualities that comprise my dad’s fundamental character—yet he has been known to throw his legendary caution to the wind when it comes to major life decisions like marriage or relocating. Confronted with a truly important matter, he has more than once leaped without looking, and consequences be damned. A can of tomato soup, on the other hand, apparently warrants much more careful thought. 

The soup in question was my idea: a creamy tomato basil bisque which I brought over hoping to give him a little variety from the split pea soup he’s been eating almost every day. I did my best to promote the virtues of the bisque—not too spicy, no strong garlic flavor—and then left it up to him for a while. But soon, in my weekly phone calls, I began asking if he’d tried the soup yet.

“No, not yet,” was his invariable response. So I let it go for another week. The next time I asked, I thought there was hope. “Well, I took it out and thought about it, but then decided against it,” he said.

Exasperation began creeping into my tone. “It’s just a can of soup, dad. It’s not like getting married or buying a house.” He chuckled.

Then, over at their place last week, I asked one more time about the soup. As I could have predicted, he hadn’t tried it. Jeannie piped up, saying that she too had mentioned it to him several times but he didn’t appear interested. “OK, that’s fine, I’ll just take it back,” I said. Gene, with seeming relief, handed me the can of soup. One less thing to worry about for both of us.

As for Jeannie’s conversion experience, I knew it was coming. Her monologues now are filled with references to divine intervention (which apparently extends to simple mistakes in legal documents and the address of another church member but to her all provides fresh meaning in an otherwise dull life.)

She’s undeniably happy, and I won’t begrudge that. Befuddled and trivial as she is, anything that gives her a sense of purpose is fine, so long as she doesn’t try to foist her beliefs on others. That’s a big “if” given that she has a lifelong tendency to share her feelings about everything. I’ll do my best to smile and bite my tongue rather than debating her.

After all, beliefs are just that—beliefs. They can’t be proven or disproven, and no matter how illogical or strange they might seem to others they make perfect sense to their owners. I accept that believers see the world as they do, and leave them alone; what annoys me is that so many of them seem unwilling to return the favor.

Old Jokes

Went to a birthday party this past weekend; I think everybody there was over 50, and many were in their 60s or beyond. The birthday girl, a sprightly 68, looked great—partly due to decorative art—but never mind that. What stood out was how much younger old people seem to me now compared to some years ago.

Granted, this group would be classified as the youngest of the older set, but somehow they seemed more vibrant than people of that demographic appeared to me in the past, in touch with themselves and each other, looking ahead rather than behind.

Spirits were high and people were telling jokes—appropriately enough, most of them about old people. Maybe jokes about the elderly are still acceptable, given that almost everyone will have the opportunity to be one of “them” at some point.  Ironic, though, since “some point” may be here far sooner than people realize.  Then again, there could be an element of denial or defensive posturing that takes place when people tell jokes about their own kind (while not thinking of themselves as those other people.) 

As I said before, this group could hardly be called typical. San Francisco Bay Area folks are less inclined to identify with the “older adult” category—clothing and hairstyles are more likely to be hip, and most importantly, attitudes stay current: no grousing about “young people these days” or “back when I was young, we used to…”  If I were to observe a gathering of mature Idaho Republican churchgoers, I might encounter the same old folks/old attitudes I remember from my youth.

Even so, my Berkeley buddies aren't blindly optimistic about the future, unaware of the world’s challenges. I see more hope and less head-shaking going on than I used to: the prevailing attitude seems to be, “Things may be going to hell now but somehow it will all work out…”

And if things don’t work out, most of us older folks won’t be around to deal with it. The joke, as it were, will be on the next generation. 

The most important thing....

AFTER all this time, it occurs to me that writing a blog is like keeping a diary—the now quaint habit of scribing daily events and thoughts—do people still do that, I wonder? As in: “Dear Diary, I woke up late and suddenly remembered that…”

And while I don’t think of these random offerings as my diary, there’s enough personal (and, I hope, literary) depth to bring things up to a level slightly higher than the pathetic self-promotional bleating of too many cyber-authors.  What I’m aiming for is more like a journal, something that lets me record incidents or conversations I can look back on later to provide myself with context, or just to reflect.

A recent exchange between me and my father merits recording, even though I’m unlikely to forget it anytime soon. We were talking about my stepmother’s ongoing religious conversion process (which I referred to as brainwashing); my dad agreed, saying, “Definitely. She’s really going for it in a big way.”  I then said, “I don’t imagine you’ll be moving in that direction.”

He laughed, and said “Definitely not.” And after a short pause: “Well, I have you…and you’re the most important thing in my life.”

What can one say to that? It’s not the first time he’s told me how much I mean to him—but it’s always moving. For me, seeing him as a representative of his buttoned-up generation, it’s a bit of a shock when my father speaks from the heart so directly…I almost feel embarrassed. I respond in kind, though, thanking him and saying I feel the same…but a little unsure of what that means.

The bond between parent and child changes (at least from the child’s perspective) once the child is an adult.  A unique connection is still there, but I imagine a parent will always feel the sense of being a parent, loving his or her child in the same way, while the adult child loses at least some of the intense attachment that characterizes the early parent-child relationship.

Almost every phone call ends with my dad telling me, “I love you,” and I say the same to him. It feels incomplete, almost wrong, if for some reason we don’t get to say that to each other. Hearing those words, knowing their truth, is a big part of who I am—my feelings of worth and self-confidence I owe at least in part to the strong emotional support I got from the beginning.

I realize there will come a time when those three simple words will no longer pass between us, so I treasure them even more. Knowing how many children rarely (if ever) heard them from their fathers gives me good reason to feel grateful…

Help!

No reason to party yet, but maybe things are headed in that direction: my parents had their first experience with a paid helper, a young woman who charges a mere $10 per hour (plus mileage, I would hope.)  Gene needed to visit the podiatrist, so she got him there on time, waited, and then took him back home. Cost: $20.

A grocery run, which will take place sometime after the 10^th of this month, may cost about the same. Twenty dollars here or there sounds like a bargain, and I hope my parents agree. For me, the free time is priceless, and for one less grocery trip per month, I can live with the minor pangs of guilt that may visit me for not being the perfect son.

I console myself with the knowledge that twice a month, for the time being, I’ll continue to help with their shopping in person, as well as maintaining the monthly online routine. And if for some reason (a vacation, perhaps?) I’m not available, they now have someone else to call on. On top of that, I still plan to go down for a purely social visit on weekends that I’m not shopping for them.

A childhood friend of mine takes wonderful care of her mother, now almost 90 and living with chronic pain and increasing dementia. Almost every day, my friend (or her adult daughter) picks old mom up, loads her into the car and takes her out to one of her favorite restaurants.  It helps that grandma is the one who pays the bill; in addition, neither my friend nor her daughter is working, so it’s not a big imposition on their time. Hell, if I weren’t working and someone wanted to take me out to lunch every day, I think I could manage.

Without casting aspersions on my friend or her daughter, they both stand to inherit a lot when their matriarch finally dies.  Even a few years in a nursing home wouldn’t diminish the family fortune by much.  The good news here is that that my friends aren’t just after money--they genuinely care for their elderly relation, and enjoy spending time with her.

In my case, however, things are different.  I enjoy the company of my dad, but once every week or so is fine. The tension around money makes me less willing to engage with them; getting my parents to pay for anything beyond the bare necessities is a struggle—and as for some future inheritance, I can predict with confidence that I’ve been effectively disinherited. The fact that there’s relatively little money in the first place makes that knowledge easier to bear. By the time they reach their journey’s end, there could be nothing left apart from their mobile home, which I would frankly prefer go to anyone other than me.

So many families I’ve known fall into bitter dispute over inheritance issues; I’m glad to say my family fell apart years ago, and there’s little more that can go wrong. But I’m an optimist…and could end up very disappointed.

Exercise in futility

Jack Lalanne, before & after

Exercise guru Jack LaLanne didn’t enjoy exercising much—in fact, he hated it—but that never stopped him. He exercised daily, almost obsessively, because he knew it was good for him—that along with a boring whole foods diet.  He lived to age 96, active until nearly the end. 

Experts on aging agree that regular physical activity is an essential part of wellbeing as folks get older. My parents got on board with the message a long time ago and made going to the gym a regular part of their lives until moving up here, where their activity has slowed to an occasional walk.

The good news for people like me, who eschew regular strenuous activity, is that it’s never too late to begin. (Well, almost never; let’s assume that we won’t die before getting started on some kind of regimen.) Former couch potatoes see results in a fairly short time. The benefits of exercise include improved balance, strength—and cognition.  Add to that a few extra years in most cases. All of this is well documented, but I’m still not convinced.

Nothing is required except taking the first steps, and then building a routine you can live with.  I did it back when I was in my 20s, before gradually losing interest; my distaste for the gym environment was part of the issue. Then, just three years ago, I decided to combat middle age spread by engaging in regular brisk walks. I noticed a difference, and may decide to take it to the next level within the next 5 years or so…

Still, at a certain point it all feels like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.  You may take longer to sink into oblivion (and will probably enjoy a slightly smoother voyage), but sink you will—and may even ask if all the time and energy spent exercising might have been put to a higher purpose. And enough people make old bones with little or no exercise for me to believe that genetics trumps behavior.

But for those who can tolerate regular exercise and want compelling evidence of its benefits, check out this short video of Maia, the 95-year-old great aunt of a friend who has kept up her routine for decades (she’s a former dancer, by the way, which probably helped her in building the discipline and stamina she has.) And unlike Jack LaLanne, Maia appears to enjoy her routine, which is less exercise than pure joy in movement. 

http://vimeo.com/31733784