Hot Chocolate Talks

Getting my dad to come out with more than one sentence at a time these days is no easy task. Like “Silent Cal” Coolidge, president in the year of Gene’s birth, he speaks mostly when spoken to, and then just enough to get by. If pressed, he’ll say he has nothing to say, or that Jeannie talks enough for both of them.  That too, is an understatement. Jeannie chirps randomly, canary-like, about whatever she sees in front of her or makes pointless observations regarding their neighbors in the mobile home park.

Once a month or so, I’ve arranged for some “quality time” alone with Gene, usually over hot chocolate from the in-store coffee bar. These are about the only times I can have anything remotely like a conversation with my dad, discussing old memories, which are far more vibrant than whatever happened yesterday. 

Some of the stories are familiar; he’s told them to me before, but now I no longer interrupt him to say “Yes, you already told me that,” as I would have a few years ago. His life, the good and bad of it, is so much in the past that essentially there’s not much else to talk about.  My father’s present is almost as bleak as his future, if not more so; at a certain point it makes sense to look back exclusively.

Gene’s emotions, never close to the surface, bubble up as he recalls events from over 75 years ago. Talking about his childhood dogs, for example (the German shepherd poisoned by a hateful neighbor, or the small, short-haired mix killed by a car while he was walking on a country road) brings fire and unusual animus to his eyes, his voice.

“That bitch, Vera Yampolsky. She was half blind, shouldn’t have been driving in the first place.” He mimics the specter of an old crone crouched over the wheel, squinting straight ahead.  “I was walking on the shoulder of the road with Skippy, and she didn’t see us. She veered across the road toward us and I jumped out of the way just in time but she ran right over my dog. She barely missed me, and never even knew she’d hit anything.” He wipes his eyes quickly.

“I guess that’s something you can never forgive,” I say. Shaking his head: “No.”

I bring up another topic I know will animate him—the story of the two brothers who grew up together in the same town as my father, who farmed adjoining land and raised families next door to each other. At some point each brother realized he was in love with the other’s wife. After a while of pretending that nothing was going on, the families decided on a novel solution: the two brothers just swapped houses and the kids got to choose where they’d live. And who said the the sexual revolution was born in the '60s?

Sometimes I venture to ask about more intimate topics, things we never really discussed. I ask if he remembers his first girlfriend. He tells me her name, mentions that she was a nurse who lived in New York. Was that before or after the war? Before, he tells me.

He seems reticent, less willing to discuss these memories with me, and more comfortable recalling the world of his childhood; I accept his need for privacy, knowing there are some memories I, too, prefer to keep to myself. As long as the memories are kept somewhere, all is well. 

Portrait of My Young Friend.

Meet my good buddy, Dorian. He’s about 60 and has barely reached middle age, if you’re to believe him. Dorian plans to live at least another 60 years, and will tell you that not only is he going to reach his 120^th birthday, but will remain active and healthy—pretty much as he is now.

In fairness, I have to say he’s in great shape.  He exercises like a hamster on methamphetamine; no doubt he can run faster and farther than I could, even though I’m almost 11 years younger. His arteries are practically free of plaque and calcification—he knows this because he paid to have a virtual angiogram done and proudly informs people that his vessels are like those of a 25-year-old. His eating habits are pure Berkeley: oatmeal, for its fiber; flaxseed and walnuts for their lignin, tomatoes as much for the lycopene as for the pure joy of eating a tomato.  He consumes more fresh fruits and vegetables every day than many people eat in a week. Whole grain bread with olive oil. Now and then he enjoys organic chicken breast, skinned, of course. Seafood rarely appears on the menu, and it must be sustainably fished and local. He hasn’t touched butter or cheese in years. Ice cream? Bite your tongue. No added salt. No coffee, but plenty of herbal tea and just occasional red wine (strictly for health reasons.)

The attention he pays to diet and exercise will certainly help him live to ripe old age, barring accidents. Still, I imagine how fun it would be to pop Dorian’s balloon by sharing with him the simple facts about the aging process and how it affects the human body, no matter how healthy.  

I could tell him, for example, that his renal function is currently about 30 percent lower than it was when he was 25. Maximum heart rate is 35 fewer beats per minute. His hearing and vision are now less acute: the aging eye reacts more slowly to sudden changes of light, which can be especially dangerous while driving. Lung capacity, liver function and muscle mass are all reduced from when he was in his prime. But I don’t tell him any of these things; there’d be no point other than to annoy him: he’s a man on a mission—to live almost forever—and genetics be damned.

It’s not a uniquely American phenomenon, this quest for youth and health, but as with many things, we always seem to raise the bar a few notches. Think yoga. Remember the aerobics craze. High-powered juicers. (And I still run across those electric yogurt-making machines now and then at garage sales, right next to the rusted stationary bike).

Our worship of youthful energy, new ideas—the latest thing—seems to go hand in hand with our disdain for anything associated with aging. Never mind what “we” think of sagging, wrinkled skin and gray hair. Older people are not usually revered for their wisdom here, and tend to be viewed as more problem than solution. Ask any 58-year-old who’s been laid off how easy it is to find a new job.  And as unfair as it sounds, who can blame the employer?  Who wouldn’t opt to hire the energetic 30-something worker bee, with his more recent training and up-to-date skills, who will probably do the job faster and for less money?

As Bette Davis said, “old age is not for sissies,” and that holds especially true in the US. With the approaching tsunami of aging boomers, I predict that the once-fierce battle of the sexes will soon become the war of young versus old—and I don’t imagine it will go well for us.

Oh Joy, Oh Rapture!

Well, I’m still here, along with all the people I care about and those I don’t; the big day came and went, but near as I can tell the world is still overstocked with true believers. In a sense, I’d almost hoped there was something to the whole rapture thing—just the thought of an evangelical-free world gave me a brief thrill—the same feeling I get from buying a lottery ticket, even though I know I won’t win. But maybe, I think.…

Talking with my dad and Jeannie about the recent fervor, I knew what kind of response to expect from him. “Please—let them go,” he said. Even my stepmother, although nominally a Christian, thought the idea was silly. “Isn’t this the 10^th time or so something like this has been predicted? Anyway, I’m not ready to go” she added.

My father’s total lack of religious impulse was transferred to me early on, without a hitch. When I was about 5, I remember wondering why we didn’t go to church, and asked if “we” believed in God. “I don’t,” he answered. “But I won’t tell you what to believe. You can decide that when you grow up,” almost guaranteeing that I would adopt his attitudes.

Later, there were a few harmless flirtations—a short-lived involvement with a Christian youth group, mostly to hang out with my friends. Sensing danger, my dad then introduced me to our local Unitarian church, which for the uninitiated is a church in name only. I felt at home with the humanist, often humorous messages from the pulpit; the calls for social action and fairness made up for the silly bowdlerized hymns, any reference to Jesus or the trinity carefully plucked out.     

Traditional wisdom holds that people become more religious as they age; in fact, that turns out to be largely a myth, according to surveys. I see my parents giving the same amount of attention (or lack of it) to matters of faith that they always have.  My dad, normally tolerant of others’ foibles, has often referred to religion as an addiction, no different than any other drug.  The other day, I mentioned the gullible souls who have been paying $135 per pet to obtain “post-Rapture pet insurance” from certified atheists, who promise to care for abandoned animals once their guardians have been whisked off to glory. “Isn’t it funny how people believe that stuff?” I asked. “Actually it’s pathetic,” he grumbled.

For her part, my stepmother feels some kind of faith is crucial. These declarations, which come out whenever the topic is raised, always start with a preamble: “Well, I’ve always felt that people need to believe in something greater than themselves…” or words to that effect.  She is hard pressed to explain why such a need exists, but maintains that it’s just what she believes. I guess religion is like that—no real way to explain it rationally.

Or maybe it can be explained: life’s pain and uncertainty inspire some to imagine that there must be something better ahead, a reward for playing the game well, or at least a sense that mysteries will be solved and questions answered.  The universe is a big, lonely place; it’s easy to feel lost. No wonder people create cosmic roadmaps and hand them out at every corner.  But I think I’ve found my own map, with a pretty straightforward message:  

Kindness of Strangers

Another Saturday, another grocery store.  Even though it’s just a few dozen yards from our “regular” supermarket, I welcome the change of atmosphere. There’s a smaller crowd at Raley’s (most likely because it’s more expensive;) the insistent, perky background music is set to a lower volume, and the staff seems more genuine—they’re not ordered to smile at all the customers and ask us how we’re doing today, as are the employees at Safeway.  

We are at Raley’s this time because of its proximity to Ross Dress for Less, where my parents asked to be taken first. Our departure from the normal routine feels drearily predictable. My father has been told that he can buy a belated Mother’s Day gift for my stepmother; she’s written down the exact items, style and colors that she wants and gives my dad the note, along with cash to make the purchases. While there, she decides she’ll buy a Father’s Day present for him; after careful questioning, she opts to get him a new belt and some underwear.  To make things simpler, she also chooses her own clothes.

While waiting for Jeannie to try things on, my dad and I stand silently amid the racks and bustling shoppers. I ask how he’s doing and he shrugs, says “Oh, the usual.” It’s hard to get much more out of him. “Man of few words,” I joke.  He offers something more: “She always asks me what I’m thinking…sometimes I’m not thinking anything.” He pauses. “And other times I don’t want to tell her what I’m thinking because she won’t like it.”

Purchases made, we head across the parking lot to begin the grocery shopping. Notwithstanding the challenge of a different floor plan, we locate the same products they buy every week. The only moment of excitement occurs in the vegetable aisle, when Jeannie insists on getting a bell pepper, over my father’s objections. “You still have some from before,” he says. “It’s almost gone,” she counters. “We just used some the other night.” My dad speaks up, “Just don’t give any to me.”

Jeannie knows my father hates bell peppers but she uses them in her cooking regardless. Whatever she likes, she prepares, and vice versa. She loathes potatoes, even though he enjoys them—so of course, they’re never served. I asked once why she couldn’t just pop a single potato in the microwave for my dad, and she moaned, “It takes so long to stand there, scrubbing potatoes, I just can’t do it anymore.”

Nearly an hour later, and we’re at the checkout.  And something remarkable happens, at the end of a mundane shopping trip. A burly middle-aged man walks up to me, smiles. “Your parents?” he asks. I nod. He smiles again and says, “I’ve been watching you with them.  My dad’s about the same age, and…” He struggles to finish. Finally he taps his chest lightly, looks me in the eye and says, “You’re doing a good thing.”  Or maybe he doesn’t actually say the words and I understand what he’s thinking.  Either way, I whisper, “Thank you,” as we turn to leave.

It feels good, getting that kind of validation from a stranger.  Most of the time, even when my parents tell me how much they appreciate my help, I still focus on the inconvenience, feeling taken for granted.  This guy could have just smiled to himself without saying anything, and for me it would have been just another day at the supermarket…but this day I plan on remembering.

The Waiting Game

My almost favorite second-rate author, W. Somerset Maugham, once wrote that the real tragedy of love is not death or separation, but indifference.  He may have a point, but seems to have forgotten about the broad range of couples who stay together while actively loathing each other.

I’ve known some of these people; others I only heard about. My great aunt and her husband endured over 30 years of shouting matches, insults, betrayals—the whole gamut of negative emotion—yet never considered divorcing. This was back in the day when divorce was social death; the only option was to see who would croak first, and good riddance. (In this case, it was him.) My great aunt told me that she had a premonition, right before his fatal heart attack, that he was going to die but didn’t worry much about it, only calling the doctor after it was too late.

You might think these arrangements are a relic of the past now that divorce (or simply moving out) is so commonplace.  But they continue—in fact, we had dinner with one such couple only last night. What drew them together, late in life, is anyone’s guess, but their reasons for staying married are painfully clear. The husband has no income and isn’t eligible for social security; his wife has a small pension and social security, so he depends on her for his survival (not to mention the cooking and cleaning—after all, this is the man who once announced to her during an argument that he is “the captain of the ship, in charge of all executive decisions,” and that she, as the wife, needs to learn her place.)

Why would any sane woman put up with such a jerk? She has a number of friends and family members who would gladly help her escape. But there’s a catch: the husband has a rich childless aunt, worth millions, he says…and he’s convinced that when Auntie goes to her reward, he’ll get a nice chunk of the estate.  All she has to do is to die, which they’ve been counting on ever since she turned 90. She’s now over 100 and still in pretty good shape. 

And that’s why this couple is still together: the guy needs his wife for now, but if and when he inherits anything, he can dump her. Meanwhile she is determined to get part of the inheritance, which she can only manage by staying married to her obnoxious husband.  They’re not even sure if their names appear in the aunt’s will, but the assumption is strong enough to keep them in the same household; they even make costly long-distance pilgrimages each year to pay their respects and carefully inquire about her health.

I suppose that after a certain point, many marriages are based at least partly on convenience, if only as shield against loneliness and financial devastation. With luck, people still enjoy each others’ company, or at least don’t irk one another too much. My parents have been annoying each other for years, but generally keep things at a low boil. Now that they’re old, I realize that their respective weaknesses are almost complementary, and that neither one could manage alone.  

My father told me more than once that what keeps him going is a combination of antidepressants and the ability to “tune out” his garrulous wife. I've noticed there are times he doesn't even hear her, much less listen to what she’s saying.  For that matter, I suspect she doesn’t really listen to herself—but is just trying to fill the silence. Meanwhile, they both wait….

Don’t Touch My Junk...

My parents have dedicated one entire bedroom of their mobile home to storing the excess junk they brought up with them when they moved.  Maybe “junk” is too strong a word—but since they refer to it as the junk room, I won’t argue.  The real mystery is why they still have so much stuff considering that they traded up (at least in square footage) from a smaller townhouse—and even threw out or donated a fair amount of their belongings before leaving southern California.

Unopened boxes are stacked randomly throughout the room along with a few paintings and odd pieces of furniture. A cheap roll-top desk is so overloaded with old paperwork that it lists to one side, on the verge of collapse.  Filing cabinets take up most of the closet. Among the boxes is one that contains the urns my parents will eventually occupy, part of a package deal from the Neptune Society.  (I asked them once if they’d ever opened the box to check out the urns; they hadn’t. I suggested they might want to see what they look like while there’s still an opportunity.)

At least the rest of their house is relatively free of clutter. So long as nobody needs the extra room, they can close the door and ignore what’s inside. I’ve known other seniors who live in squalor, almost buried in their own belongings. One man I met was the ultimate hoarder: even on his deathbed, he refused to let his wife throw out anything, once threatening to kill her as she tried to discard a used tissue.  

I’m not sure if hoarding and other obsessive behaviors are more common in the elderly, or whether old people are simply less able to hide the results.  Jeannie reports that my father now collects used paper napkins. They turn up all over the place, usually in his dresser. When helping them unpack after their move, I was alarmed to find several boxes of cereal stuffed in the filing cabinet, along with a year’s supply of allergy medication.

Even before Gene’s dementia diagnosis, I saw encroaching signs of odd behavior. I recall how once when I was visiting at their previous home he pointed out his two toothbrushes—“one for after meals, the other for after snacks.”

An 82 year old woman I know suffers from multiple compulsions, even though she’s allegedly dementia-free. I remember seeing a note posted in the kitchen, reminding her to floss on even days and take out the trash on odd days. Another time, I noticed that she'd moved the toaster from its usual place to the living room sofa, and was stupid enough to ask why it was there. Patiently, she explained that every other Saturday at 6:30 p.m., she makes a BLT sandwich for dinner, but because that activity conflicts with a prerecorded TV program she has to watch at the same time, the sandwich must be prepared in the living room while she's watching her program. Of course, I said.

And what else could I say?  I suppose there’s no real harm in stashing a few used napkins here and there, or enjoying your BLT on a tight schedule. Maybe the real issue is the lack of purpose so many older people feel.

The need for direction combined with too little stimulation may incite elders to create their own routines, however pointless, so they can have a sense of structure, something to look forward to. Without that artifice, maybe there would be terminal boredom and staring into the void…either that, or the looming sense of responsibility to do something meaningful with whatever time one has left.

Mine! Mine!

Maybe you’ve heard the expression, “l’esprit de l’escalier”—essentially, words of the staircase.  It’s that perfect rejoinder or put-down you think of only after leaving the scene. In this case, however, my words were prepared well in advance, polished and ready to fly as soon as I arrived at my parents’ home.  It was to be a self-righteous declaration denouncing their miserly torpor, their willingness to take my help for granted and give nothing in return.

A list of examples hummed in the background like impatient wasps. There was the time my stepmother found a $20 bill in the parking lot, and picked it up with palpable joy. “Look what I found!” she exclaimed, quickly putting it in her purse. She never thought of sharing it, or of asking if I might like anything while we were at the store, since this was free money.

And what about the time we went out to lunch (it happened to be Veterans Day) and I invited my father as my guest. Before arriving at the restaurant, I'd made it clear that I would be paying for his lunch—and that she could cover herself—even asking if she had cash with her. This may seem a little odd, but my parents have separate accounts, and generally pay for their own purchases.  When the check arrived, she just looked at it dumbly, wondering what I was waiting for. It soon became obvious that she had no intention of helping out, so I said, “I didn’t realize you’re a veteran also. Thank you for your service to our country.” She couldn’t have missed my sarcasm, but pretended that I was making a joke.

While both parents qualify as Olympic-level cheapskates, my stepmother has raised the vice to an art form. My dad, at least, has a generous side that occasionally shows itself, but not her. Once, visiting relatives in Miami, my father’s cousin asked Jeannie if she’d like to walk through the local Neiman Marcus. My stepmother was horrified.  "I've never gone in there—it’s so expensive!" Cousin Ruth tried to persuade her, saying it was just to look. "They've got such beautiful things; it’s almost like a museum," but Jeannie would have none of it and refused to set foot in a place that charged such outlandish prices.

They deny themselves anything that might seem remotely extravagant.  Once, shopping with my father, I noticed avocados on sale for 99 cents each. He always enjoyed avocados, I know, but refused to buy one now. “It’s fine, I don’t really need it,” he said. I ended up buying one for him and putting it in their grocery bag.

In case anyone might be wondering if my parents, like many seniors, live on the edge of poverty, let me put that notion to rest. At the end of every month, they have more than they started with. Their expenses may be somewhat higher now than in the past, but they’re still coming out ahead. Apparently, they're gripped by the fear so common to the elderly, that they might “run out of money.” That certainly could happen if a protracted medical problem were to befall either of them, but even so it would take a while.

My great speech never materialized. As soon as I arrived, I saw them in all their frailty, with their limitations both chosen and imposed and I realized that they’re not going to change—may not even be capable of changing. And I knew that all my sharp, practiced words would only wound them.  Remarkably, instead of resentment I felt an odd sense of warmth and pity toward my parents, along with a tremendous relief that I left my words somewhere in the staircase.