The Day after Christmas...

So I skipped a week—big deal. Isn’t that what holidays are for? Trust me, though, the time was brimming over with activity, and now my only chore is to figure out what to write about.  Should I report on our trip to Universal Studios? Christmas dinner with family and new acquaintances, including an Olympic Gold medalist? Or maybe…the spontaneous decision to scatter my mother’s ashes, four years after her death.

A good deal of background would probably help clarify things for a reader unfamiliar with my bizarre family situation, but we can do without that. Just the facts, man, and if I seem a little cold or removed from the situation, that’s because I am—and have been from the tender age of 1.

Visiting my half-sister on Christmas day, I asked out of curiosity if my mother’s ashes had been scattered, figuring by now they had been. No, Bonnie said, they’re right here, and promptly brought out what looked like a gift bag, complete with peaks of white tissue paper. Inside the bag was a sealed plastic cube containing the ashes. “I've been keeping her in the cedar chest and never got around to doing anything about it,” she said.

The container was heavier than I expected, about 7 or 8 pounds, I guessed. We sat at the kitchen table, staring at the bag; a slow, oppressive mood permeated the room, resisting our light, even irreverent comments. Then I had an idea.

“You know,” I began, “she always talked about wanting to go to the beach. She brought it up almost every time I’d visit, even after she was in the nursing home..."

It’s true. My mother obsessed about visiting the beach, but after she became paralyzed in her mid-30s it never happened. Logistically, it would have been extremely difficult, nearly impossible…and at a certain point, her yearning seemed almost symbolic. “Going to the beach” meant reliving the happier, carefree times of her youth, forgetting the physical and emotional entrapment of her daily life.

And that’s how the decision was made.  We agreed to take her ashes to the nearby beach and release them into the Pacific.

The morning was sunny and clear, with a light breeze—a perfect Southern California day. I spent almost an hour walking on the beach, carrying my mother’s ashes in a backpack, while my partner, sister and her husband did yoga. As I walked, I had a quiet, one-way conversation while taking in the sights and sounds of the ocean. “OK, we’re at the beach mom. It’s a beautiful day.” The weight of the backpack was both irksome and oddly comforting.

Then it was time. We took off our shoes and socks and walked to the water’s edge, the waves rushing up to lap at our feet. Using a small abalone shell, one at a time we took turns scooping grayish-white ash into the surf and watching as it was carried out to sea.  Bon Voyage, mom, my sister said. You’re free now.

A Christmas Letter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Match point

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tea Party, Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ho-Ho-Homophobia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just sayin'....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ariel: What are future hopes and plans and aspirations?

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

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

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

Will & Ariel Durant