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. 

Going Down...

A medical appointment last week revealed that my father has dropped about seven pounds in the last 3 months. While some people might regard this as cause for celebration, in his case, going from 114 to 107 lbs without trying suggests something more insidious may be happening. For the record, he stands at about 5'-5 so is seriously underweight.

Yes, old people shrink. Muscle mass evaporates along with bone density, but this kind of weight loss in a short time is troubling. The obvious concern would be some kind of malignancy, so of course the doctor ordered more tests. But the issue could be much simpler: my father has been eating less and less, requesting very small portions and becoming pickier about certain foods. It doesn’t help matters that my stepmother’s cooking ranges from merely uninspired to god-awful.

It occurred to me that his giving up food could be part of his general trend of giving up. Maybe not an active suicide plan, but then again…maybe. He’s about to turn 87; he knows that his memory is slipping away. Moreover, he is still aware of how much worse things are likely to get—so maybe this is his way of avoiding the most miserable phase of his life—the indignity of having someone put diapers on him, of having to be fed and bathed. Who would willingly sign up for that?

Elderly white males in our culture have the highest suicide rate of any group.  Losing control, being dependent on others is anathema to most traditional men who have spent their lives being in control and having others depend on them. My dad is one of those guys.  

True to form, Jeannie doesn’t get it. She thinks he just “isn’t being practical.” “Not using common sense.” She ascribes everything to his “lifelong pattern of negative thinking.” Her solution, frequently voiced, is that he should just snap out of it and be more like her. She often remarks that he’s in good enough shape physically—better off than most men his age, so why can’t he just try harder?

She may be in denial, and also has a lot to lose if he dies. Naturally, she doesn’t want to be left alone, with nobody to chatter at. And she would suffer financially, standing to lose half of his pension, which I'm guessing is her primary concern. Maybe she even wonders if I would continue to be as willing as I am now to help her with shopping and errands. (Let me take this opportunity to pledge that I will not be very available, and don’t plan to help out more than once a month at best.)

Here’s another promise: I may not ask my father directly about his intentions, but will give him my full support if he chooses to leave this world.  I do “get it” and while I couldn’t bring myself to actively help him end his life, I'll do whatever else I can to make his journey easier, wherever it may lead.

Dad & I

Who Am I?

Just days after moving here from Southern California, my father’s identity was stolen. Actually, he gave it away willingly, tricked by one of those scam artists who phones elderly people pretending to be a helpful representative from their bank. “All we need is for you to verify your social security number so we can reverse this unauthorized charge to your account.” As the big red Staples button says, “That was easy;” even people without dementia might have been suckered.

I tried to be optimistic about it, saying that if we posted a fraud alert to the credit reporting agencies and notified Social Security, then not much would happen. The woman at the social security office sighed sympathetically as I was explaining the situation. “Oh, they’re so trusting. This happens all the time,” she said.

 

For a few months, we heard nothing more. But last week a Medicare billing notice came in for services rendered somewhere in Massachusetts.  My dad’s shaky, all-caps message on the bill held a pathetic appeal: “FRAUDULENT CHARGE” and “NO SERVICE PROVIDED.” He looked deflated as I told him that there may be more such notices, along with fraudulent credit card bills and so on.  I decided not to mention that collection agencies could start calling.

ID theft is a huge problem and promises to get bigger. The combination of a rotten economy and a growing multitude of confused old people with good credit means that increasing numbers of these young operators will be gathering like piranhas.  Identity thieves are hard to catch, and even when they are caught they face far lighter sentences than someone committing robbery, for example—although the sums they get away with are usually much larger. 

My parents, like most elders, are a disaster waiting to happen. Their penchant for writing checks in public all but screams, “Take my money! Please!” It’s as easy as snapping a quick photo from behind using a cell phone camera; all the thief needs is the routing number at the bottom of the check in order to create new checks with a different name.  A person’s entire account can be emptied in no time.

Until recently, my stepmother was leaving checks in their mailbox to be picked up (one of them was made out to the IRS in pencil because she couldn’t find a pen that day.) We’ve insisted she stop doing that, and now letters are taken to an actual post office.  But solving one problem sometimes leads to another. After years of resistance, she started using a debit card and is now a convert.  That also carries some serious risks, so I imagine it’s only a matter of time before someone swipes her info, makes a new card and begins plundering her account.

It’s a losing battle, and can take many forms. Fraudulent lawsuits are another way people scam the elderly. One 90-year-old woman I knew was sued by her next door neighbors for “water damage” to their basement even though there were no leaking pipes, just some random moisture that may have seeped in from the street above. The woman was so distraught that she had a nervous breakdown and ended up first in the hospital, then a nursing home for the rest of her life.

Maybe the wise old ones had the right idea: buy what you need, and use cash whenever possible. And trust only those people you know.

Not

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.