A Morning at the Opera

In a past life, I reviewed classical music—primarily opera—for a San Francisco alternative weekly.  My complaints were usually about the performers or direction—rarely would I mention the audience.  But all that’s changed since I’ve been attending live HD transmissions from the Metropolitan Opera at our local movie theater.

The Met recently reported that the average age of its audience is 57, but I’m sure they got those numbers reversed, based on what I see locally. Start with an art form that appeals to an older set. Then cut ticket prices by 85 percent and have the performances on a Saturday morning, in a nearby theater with plenty of free parking. Add the appeal of not having to dress up—and you can even munch on popcorn during the performance. The results are like something from “Night of the Living Dead.”

Old people everywhere! Seniors in varying states of decay, some in wheelchairs or hooked up to oxygen—the fortunate ones clinging to the arm of a slightly younger companion. A few are dressed in lavender or yellow track suits, grinning like superannuated Easter bunnies.

But they’re at the opera! They can enjoy a world-class performance for a mere $25 and visit with their friends at the same time. Fortunately, most are attentive to the music and restrict their socializing to intermissions. A few nod off, and with luck, wake up when it’s over.

I wish it were easier to ignore their clumsy maneuvering through the aisles, the mundane comments (“It takes so much dedication! They have to practice every day!”)  On my most recent visit, the older woman to my left immediately started peppering me with questions. Had I seen this opera before? What other Rossini operas have they done? I was almost happy when, behind us, someone swinging a large purse lost control as she was trying to sit down. The purse whacked the side of my head, giving me the chance to turn around and glare.

It could have been worse. One time, a doddering gentleman spilled part of his soft drink into my partner’s lap while trying to get past him—without realizing his faux pas. Another time, my audience-challenged partner looked daggers at the couple behind him who were talking during the performance; they took revenge at the final curtain, screaming “Bravo!” as loudly as they could, right in his ear.

Older people have always decried the loss of civility and morals in any given culture, freely blaming the young. In the United States, many elders feel ignored or mocked, and sense that they have been left behind, their contributions disregarded. And they resent being thought of as slow or out of touch, since after all, dammit, it’s the rest of the world that has sped up and become incomprehensible.  

Resistance to change may manifest as cranky or rude behavior. But the challenges of this new world don’t mean that older people shouldn’t try to keep up, to stay involved, to understand—even if that world doesn’t always seem to understand them. Nobody said life is fair.

Happy Anniversary, I think...

Welcome to the reality show of my dad and stepmother’s marriage—and this week, the anniversary special! Of course, reality TV wasn’t part of our culture back in the 70s, but if it had been, my parents’ relationship could have provided material for a popular season or two before viewers would come to their senses.

Since 1978, they’ve separated a total of eight times, and subsequently reconciled. On three of those occasions they actually started divorce proceedings which almost—but never quite—became final. Endless (usually one-sided) arguments and couples counseling just prolonged the agony. Finally, one or the other would decide enough is enough and then—that’s it, I’m outta here—resulting in expensive, ill-considered relocations.

They would typically experience, along with the pain and drama, a brief moment of relief. The initial elation would be followed by periods of increasing loneliness, some tentative phone conversations…and finally, after saying they now realized what the problem was, they’d move back in together and reactivate the whole cycle without actually addressing the problem.

When this back and forth had been going on for roughly 5 years, a good friend of mine predicted that they’d keep doing the same thing until finally getting too old and tired, when they would just call a truce. She proved to be right on target. The last reconciliation took place around 1991, and while things have been rocky at times, they’ve apparently decided that the pain of being alone would be still worse. Even so, I was shocked when my stepmother recently told me (we’d been talking about the incidence of domestic violence that occurs on Superbowl Sunday) how one time my father was so angry that, screaming his first wife’s name, he actually hit her. The thought of my passive, pacifist father striking anyone is more troubling to me than the event itself seemed to my stepmother. “That was the only time he hit me,” she remarked casually, and apparently she was willing to let it go.

At its heart, the problem in my parents’ relationship is fairly straightforward—and just as insoluble. My father is both chronically depressed and repressed; he told me at one point that he was “resigned—no, resolved” to never feel anything—presumably meaning pain or vulnerability. And for her part, my stepmother is emotionally needy: jealous, insecure and always hungry for attention. Their opposite natures could be a big part of what has driven them apart and drawn them back together over the years. Then again, it’s possible that they just couldn’t stand being alone.

I’ve always scoffed at the belief so many people seem to share—that a bad relationship is preferable to none at all. It smacks of character weakness, of inadequacy and fear. While I enjoy being partnered and feel lucky to have that intimacy and support, I always managed pretty well as a single person and have trouble understanding why others seem unable to do so.

I maintain this attitude as an active, relatively healthy adult, and hope that even as I grow older I’ll feel the same way—but who knows?  The thought of long, silent afternoons and dinners alone, with nothing to look forward to except an occasional movie or the nightly news might cause me to re-evaluate.  Imagining myself sick or dying, with nobody to hold my hand and comfort me, could make for a pretty easy “almost anyone is better than nobody” conversion experience.  

Driving Me Crazy

This may be a stretch, but have you ever seen an old person who has no business being behind the wheel?  I know it’s hard to imagine; we’re very fortunate in this country where seniors realize when they’re no longer capable of driving safely. They cheerfully hand over the keys to family members, who in turn offer to become personal chauffeurs, taking their elderly relatives wherever they need to go. “Just give a call and we’ll be right there,” they say. And life goes happily on.

Fast forward to the real world. For every realistic senior who actually does decide to stop driving at the right time, there are many more who either don’t realize there’s a problem, or feel like they can’t give up their vehicles, no matter how dangerous it might be.  Some surrender after a close call, as my great aunt did after she blacked out momentarily, scraping her car against the garage wall.  Or, the epiphany could occur as it did with my father, who got hopelessly lost driving in his new neighborhood and only managed to come home an hour later by enlisting the help of a friendly appliance repairman.

After that incident, he refused to drive, saying he felt too unsafe. My stepmother urged him to keep trying, saying she had the directions written down to get to and from the store, and it really wasn’t that hard—but for once my dad dug in his heels and said he wouldn’t do it. I helped them donate their car before he had a chance to change his mind.

These are the success stories; no real harm done, with people making the difficult but rational decision to give up an important part of their independence and identity. Sometimes, when seniors are less compliant, family members must resort to trickery—like hiding the keys or disabling the car. Or they might get the person’s physician to state that this patient can no longer drive.

Right across the street from our house, there’s a woman whom I affectionately refer to as the “old witch.” She’s 88, lives alone, and—yes—drives almost every day.  Hunched over the wheel like a gargoyle, she literally has to stop the car in the middle of our street and get out, making sure she’s headed into her driveway. I’ve seen her trying to leave the parking lot at Trader Joes—true nightmare material. She’s backed into cars, nearly crashed into her own garage door, and yet she continues to drive.

And what have her concerned neighbors done about it? So far, nothing.  Maybe people are reticent to get involved, or don’t know who to call. And underneath it all, perhaps they’re thinking, “Why doesn’t her family do something?”  Of course, if she doesn’t have family in the area, there could be genuine reluctance to take away her independence. That could mean that her good neighbors might end up being asked to help her out, and nobody has time for that.

Once again, our culture’s emphasis on independence and self-sufficiency becomes a trap for the elderly—but when cars are involved, the consequences can affect anyone. Every couple of years, we see tragic news stories about an elderly driver who takes out a group of shoppers or kids walking home from school.  It’s not hard to look a few years into the future, as a multitude of aging baby-boomers will be facing the same tough question, and, one hopes, answering correctly. Smarter cars and stricter laws may help, but the numbers are not on our side.

Just Do It.

It’s standing room only at the Party House. Or maybe I should say the seats have been taken by those who need them most. A motley group of people, mostly in their 60s and 70s, wander around nibbling hors d’oeuvres and greeting each other warmly as old friends do when they meet at a wedding or memorial service—and we are there for both of those things.

What is the Party House, you ask? And why are we there for a wedding and a memorial? There’s no diplomatic way to describe either the place or the event. A distant cousin of mine has gathered family and friends together to celebrate the life of her first husband, who died a couple of months ago, and following a brief intermission, to witness her marriage to husband #4. The house itself, a 1920s-style residence in a quiet neighborhood, has functioned for the last 40 years as “the” place where nice couples meet other nice couples and then take off their clothes, though not always in that order.  My cousin and her first husband ran it as a business together even after they divorced; now it’s hers alone.

For this occasion, the house has been scrubbed clean and festooned with what looks like pale mosquito netting, paper leaf cutouts and winking Christmas lights. I suspect that a number of the guests are charter members of the Party House, former swingers now equipped with high-tech hearing aids and canes. Or maybe they’re still swinging—I try not to imagine. One woman in her 70s startles me when she coos, “Oh, you were making eyes at me.” It’s true, I may have been staring, but not for the reason she thinks. We leave immediately after the ceremony, not waiting to see if the group energy would coalesce into one of their traditional evening events for old times’sake.

The thought of seniors having sex makes me uncomfortable as I’m sure it does many people. That holds especially true when I think of family members, namely parents.  I’ll admit that it’s my problem, and that I should regard sexual intimacy as wonderful at any legal age. But I’ve always been prudish, more so as a child raised in the era of free love. Seeing couples make out in public has always offended me; once I even begged my father not to ask our neighbor when her baby was due. “Just don’t talk about it,” I said.

A few years ago my father and I were speaking on the phone; out of nowhere he began telling me about some sexual challenges he’d been experiencing with my stepmother.  I heard the word "Viagra," and felt like I was about to black out. Then he announced proudly, “But just this morning, even without the pill, I—“ And here I cut him off, saying I really didn’t need to hear it. He was 80 at the time.

Some of my friends found the story inspiring. “Your dad is eighty and he can still get it up?” one enthused. “I think it’s wonderful that old people can still enjoy themselves!” said another. Intellectually, I’m in total agreement. All the studies indicate sex is good for one’s physical and emotional well-being, even (or perhaps especially) for older folks. But that doesn't mean I want to picture it.

At this point, I can safely assume that the season is permanently over for my dad. I haven’t asked, and won’t, but judging from his frailty and diminished energy level I’d guess that there remains nothing more in that department than some good memories and occasional hugs. And if there is more, I truly don’t want to know.

The Wrong Route

I used to see her getting on the #24 bus in San Francisco. Coming up the little stairway she would emerge in stages: first the big blond wig, the heavily made up face, followed by a tight, low-cut blouse and miniskirt, the whole structure tottering on shiny red stilettos. Smiling brightly at the other passengers, she’d ease herself into one of the front seats. You might draw a few conclusions about this woman but they would all have to be juggled with the fact that she was, by my estimation, about 80 years old.

Nobody spoke to her, as I recall. There may have been a few snickers or droll comments from other riders but after all, this was San Francisco where anything goes. My own thoughts were strictly judgmental. Why can’t she act her age? Who does she think she’s fooling, and doesn’t she realize how ridiculous she looks?

These questions occupied me as I rode the bus to my job at an adult day health center, where old people looked and acted as old people should. The clients I worked with were long past pretending, or too damaged to care. They were old and they knew it.  But perhaps I’m being premature in my judgment; in my own case, do I feel like I’m over 50, or think I look as old as I do? Twenty five years from now, will my self-image be that of a proper old person?

I understand that women in our sexist society are under cruel pressure to look young, or at least as young as possible. For some of them, that means keeping the same hairstyle and color they had in their youth, using the same makeup (or just a lot more of it) even when it does more harm than good. But what they see in the mirror, or their mind’s eye, is the person they used to be—and they feel better for it.

My stepmother is one of those women. She visits her hairdresser every week for a shampoo and set, because she always did it and to stop now would probably feel to her like walking around naked in public. The same bright rouge and greenish-brown eye shadow haven’t changed in decades, even though the results call to mind a baked iguana with random fluorescent spots.

A total makeover and simpler hairstyle could actually improve my stepmother’s appearance, but I think that would be too difficult for her to accept. In her mind she is not almost 80, and doesn’t want to give up the illusion. So for the foreseeable future, Jeannie’s daughter in law will drive her to the weekly beauty appointments that, at least in my opinion, just waste money and time. 

It’s a good thing someone more understanding than I is responsible for that particular task. If it came down to it, I can imagine refusing, letting her make her own arrangements and causing a huge rift. I’d be accused of being heartless, of not understanding—and the accusations, at least in this case, would be hard to refute.

The Incredible Shrinking World

Preview of coming attractions: people shrink as they get older, and not just physically. How does it happen? What causes a vibrant, multifaceted adult to give up, bit by bit, the fullness of his or her experience and emotional life? Loss of physical stamina and mental acuity may have something to do with it, but I see a lot more voluntary contraction than can be explained by those things alone.

The inability to take for granted one’s own body, a sense of weakness and vulnerability may incite many seniors to live cautiously, but what about those fortunate few elders who continue to dance, swim, love and otherwise live life to the fullest, even in the face of physical decline? Are they merely the exceptions that prove the rule, or do they possess some wonderful secret?

I ask myself these things during weekly errands with my parents, as I witness their agonizingly slow progress from one task to the next.  Every step needs to be broken down into sub-steps with running commentary until finally completed, while family and employees wait patiently for the money to be counted out one bill at a time, or the check to be written or buttons to be pushed correctly. It would take me a fraction of the time to do all the shopping myself, but their efforts are part of the ritualized self-deception, the notion that they’re still independent which for now is too meaningful to abandon.

Even at home, life is lived carefully, by the teaspoon; every move is planned from the time they get up. Meals are predictable and bizarre at the same time. White vinegar is the primary seasoning no matter what’s being prepared.  The same two vegetables crop up repeatedly—even asparagus on sale doesn’t lure my stepmother, Jeannie, away from the usual broccoli and zucchini. Frozen peas or canned yams denote a special occasion.

This week’s grocery delivery did not go so smoothly.  Jeannie forgot to add fresh vegetables to her shopping list, and I failed to notice that the sugar free jello didn’t make it on the final order. After a lengthy discussion, followed by enormous relief that they weren’t charged for the things that were never ordered, Jeannie announced that she can do without her regular vegetables this week and will get by on canned yams and frozen peas.  The suggestion that she could ask my stepbrother, who lives a mile away, to pick up a vegetable—or even take a taxi to the store herself—was swiftly rejected.

Their lack of spontaneity is now matched by an unusual dearth of generosity. Since moving here eight months ago they have not once invited us over for any other purpose than to do their shopping or errands. Thanksgiving can hardly be called an exception given that my stepbrother’s wife did all the cooking. Even birthdays, which used to be an occasion to take us out to lunch or dinner, are noted with a gift card and nothing more. 

I’m torn between pity for the smallness of their lives and real irritation at their deliberate choice in making them so. Once again, the note to self is: don’t let this happen to me. I will be generous within my means, and enjoy life as much as I can. 

Shadow of Himself

There are times when I’m in the same room with Gene and he quietly disappears. He doesn’t go anywhere—I just stop seeing him.  Or he’ll come into the room while other people are talking and I don’t notice him until suddenly he’s right there, standing among us.  His life force, a presence which was never overly assertive, these days is more akin to a firefly on a summer evening: now you see it, now you don’t.

I value the brief glimpses of his quiet humor, and even the negative outbursts he occasionally voices. The other day, getting back into the car after our weekly bout of shopping, he was shaking with the cold, his eyes bright and intense. “You’re freezing,” I said. He sat on his hands, still shivering. “I’m FREEZING,” he said loudly, with more conviction than I recall hearing from him in a long time.

My father’s life, the things he’s experienced over these past 86 years would be considered noteworthy by almost anyone.  The list of flukes is long and uncanny. How many people from that era can say they were raised on a socialist-anarchist commune? How many boys actually saw the Hindenburg fly over their small New Jersey town, not to mention firing a BB gun at it? (No, he didn’t cause it to crash.) Would you believe that he saw Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig playing on the same field? That when he was 12, his father gave him a baseball signed by the entire 1936 team of the New York Giants, the same year they played in the World Series? (The ball, its autographs badly faded, is still with us.)  

 I can also note that my dad was listening to the radio on that night in October 1938 when Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds” was broadcast, causing mass panic throughout the country. For his part, he did not panic—but looked out the window and saw that everything appeared normal. Then, to make sure, he listened to a few other stations before concluding it was just a radio drama.

Gene was always a bright kid, and after graduating from high school at 16, headed straight to UC Berkeley, far from home. World War II interrupted his studies and found him serving in the army, stationed first in England (where he heard the sound of V-2 rockets overhead before they exploded) and then in Germany and Austria.  While in Vienna he used his nascent theatrical experience directing plays at the Theater an der Wien for the entertainment of American troops.

Back home, he completed his BA and went on to Stanford for a Master’s degree in dramatic arts.  He began a long teaching career; at 34 he got married, only to find himself in a relationship that was troubled from the beginning and which neither party had the tools to repair. My arrival became the primary focus of his life, as he had full custody of me from the time I was one year old.  I remember him as always there, reliable and quiet, focused and withdrawn at the same time.  People have told me how lucky I was to have such a loving, present father, one who read stories and sang songs to me at bedtime every night. I have to agree—he did his best.

It’s only now that we’re again living in the same area, seeing each other almost every week that I’m starting to realize that my dad and I are writing the final chapters of our story. As before, there are some sweet moments….but I’m angry to see what's happening to my always steady and predictable father; sad to witness the slow disintegration of his memory and wit, the loss of his physical stamina. And I’m forcing myself to accept the reality of his gradual, then ultimate, disappearance.