Back to Normal

“Man shoots nail into his own brain” ran the headline. Interesting choice, I thought, but I’m still celebrating my father’s recent milestone—the first newspaper article he’s cut out for me in two years. The story itself is odd (I’d already seen it, to be honest) and I wonder if my dad had any ulterior, if vicarious motive for choosing this particular article as he considers his daily life.

No matter, the simple fact that my father clipped an article is reason to rejoice, even as Jeannie, her post-birthday glow fading, resumes her dissatisfied carping about other people’s failures—particularly  Gene’s. This time, she’s grumbling about his birthday present to her—a gift card to Bed, Bath & Beyond—which I helped him choose.

“There was a mix-up with the cards. I wanted a gift card for Macy’s,” she huffed. Then, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “But he forgot.”

It took a minute for me to understand. “Do you mean you’d asked him to buy you a Macy’s gift card, and he got you this one instead?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “He forgot.”

“Well, blame it on me, since the Bed & Bath card was my idea. Maybe he didn’t remember, but at least he got you a gift. And you did say you might need a new bedspread.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Moody silence follows.

I had no doubt, though she was keeping her voice low now, that she’d spoken loudly enough to him when she discovered the mistake.  “What’s this!?” I can imagine her saying. “I told you I wanted a Macy’s gift card.”

Here again, I must remind myself that routine and expectations are of paramount importance in most elderly minds. The smallest uncertainty or deviation from the plan sparks an episode of anxiety just short of what someone else might experience right before a plane crash.

I used this incident as an opportunity to mention the idea of having a helper take them on a shopping trip; my stepbrother had already told her about the person he knows who could do that, and her first question was “Does she charge by the hour or by the activity?” Apparently, my stepbrother wasn’t sure, so he said he’d check.

The delaying tactics are endless…meanwhile, does anyone have a nail gun I could borrow? Just kidding...I think.

Party Time

I was hoping that Jeannie’s birthday party, held midweek in their mobile home, would have provided a few choice anecdotes or at least one really awkward moment I could talk about, but no such luck. Given that more than half the attendees were members of the Eastern Orthodox Church the event went surprisingly well.

Martin Luther King and Rodney King both would  have been proud: we really did all get along. It wasn’t mere icy politeness.  When people were introduced to me and my partner, there were warm smiles and casual references to other relatives and their partners.  My stepbrother’s wife asked us why we didn’t get married when we had the chance, and urged us to be more affectionate together as she was snapping a photo. She pointed out that her religious tradition is not one of judgment (like those happy-clappy Evangelicals!) and more about love and celebration. I took that with a grain of salt, but appreciated the thought.

And while I could get catty about some of the appetizers, there were enough decent offerings to let me ignore the weird ones.

Jeannie, queen for a day, was basking in the glow of everyone’s attention.  Being the main attraction, along with the generous gifts and a few drinks, brought out her best qualities: warmth, graciousness and even a certain humility.  She made her appreciation clear to everyone.

Maybe that’s the secret to getting along with people—just address their hidden (even obvious) need by giving them whatever kind of recognition or respect they crave. Of course, carrying out that philosophy all the time would make human beings unbearable—a bunch of perpetual two-year-olds being granted their every wish.

Painful as it is, we need to be thwarted now and then, to learn our place in the world; I just get tired of having to learn the same lesson.

The weekly mix...

Wraithlike, my father gradually appeared in the room on Friday the 13th after I arrived to perform my weekly duty. He stood there with a wan smile, yet looking vaguely troubled. He remembered that we had made plans to go out for lunch but knew that shopping had to come first; out of respect for his limited energy, I suggested he could skip the grocery run, letting Jeannie go alone with me. He accepted the offer and immediately went to lie down.

Jeannie was in overdrive, excited at the prospect of her 80^th birthday party. “I can’t believe it,” she said, referring both to the party and the number of years she’ll have amassed. “The latest count is 21 people!” She had stemware out on the table and decorations ready, with four more days to go before the event.

Once we returned, my dad was ready to go for lunch—true to form, he’d located a coupon for a local coffee shop, but said it was up to me where we went, so I chose another place we’d enjoyed before. We got there and sat down, speaking only occasionally.  Most of the conversation consisted of his brief responses to my questions. I asked him, at one point, if he wanted to increase his activity level. “No,” he said. “But then just lying around the house doing nothing is no fun.”

“Are you bored most of the time?” I asked. He nodded. I’d assumed this was an issue for him, but hadn’t come up with a solution. Then it hit me. “Well, you know one thing you might be able to do. Since I don’t get the newspaper now, maybe you could cut out articles you think would be interesting and save them for me.”

He brightened. “Yes, I could do that.” Indeed, he had been doing it for years before moving up here. At least once a month I’d get an envelope stuffed with articles he’d clipped, along with a brief note explaining why I might be interested in them.

What a simple idea! And why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? At the same time, I recall how annoyed I used to get at receiving the packets. He would spend several days poring over the Sunday paper, deciding which articles to send me. And why he thought I’d be interested in some of the things was a mystery—but that was before.  Whatever he decides to cut out now—coupons, legal notices—anything is fine! It’s all about giving him a reason to feel needed, and that he’s still performing a useful activity.  That’s all any of us truly needs.

PS: After a 2-week delay, I got an email response from my stepbrother. It was more encouraging than I expected; he said that while they don’t feel overwhelmed yet, he understands that I’m reaching that point—and that he’ll bring up the idea of hiring a helper (little by little, and he even has someone in mind who could do the job.) But progress is worth noting, even when it doesn’t follow a direct route.

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.