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.

Bittersweet Memories

None of my friends realize it, but I’m an out-of-control control freak.  People would be amazed to know that I can analyze the scene, actions and subtext of almost any situation and try to manipulate the outcome— yet always appear to be blissfully uninvolved.  All right, so maybe I’ve got a little problem, but we’re working on it...

This week’s visit to the parents gave me an opportunity to practice letting go. It was supposed to be our usual grocery run, but then I was informed that there were also prescriptions to fill; on top of that, my dad needed a haircut, and my stepmother would have to make a trip to the bank.  I take the new developments in stride, but then Jeannie complicates things by trying to make them easier: “Why don’t you drop me off at the bank, then I’ll walk to the store and get started on the shopping while you take Gene for his haircut. Then you can come back and meet me at the store.”

I struggle with myself briefly before saying, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk alone from the bank across the parking lot…there are people who target seniors in banks, and—“

We end up compromising. We all go to the bank, then walk with Jeannie to the market and make sure she’s safely inside before driving to Great Clips. In case we have to wait, I’ve brought a book to share with my father: When Blanche Met Brando, by Sam Staggs, a comprehensive history of one of my dad’s favorite plays, “A Streetcar Named Desire.”

While we’re waiting, we look at the book together. I open to the photographs showing various film stills and stage shots; he stares at them intently. There’s a picture of Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn. “They were artists in residence at Stanford when I was there,” he says.  “I worked with her.”  I ask if he saw Tandy in the Broadway production pictured, from 1947. “Yes, that’s when I saw it,” he answers.

Looking again at the photos of Jessica and Marlon in their prime, my father shakes his head sadly. “What is it?” I ask. “They’re so young…” he whispers, a note of disbelief in his voice. The unspoken words hang between us: “And then they got old, and now they’re dead. And soon I’ll be gone too.”

He is called up for his haircut, rescuing us from the moment of sadness and loss. The young semi-goth woman cutting his hair has purple highlights amid her own dark locks, but my dad seems untroubled, remembering her from the last time he was here.  He looks small and frail in the chair, and I think of the times he sat waiting for me when I was a child getting my hair cut.

Other memories crop up later, when we’re back at the supermarket.  Standing at the pharmacy counter, I recall my first job as delivery boy for a local drug store. My father adds, “And there was one time you walked through water to deliver somebody’s prescription.” I’m taken aback—he’s retained something I've completely forgotten about. Then, commenting on the strange quirks of human memory, I ask if he remembers the dog we had briefly when I was very young.  He ponders for a moment, and then says he doesn’t—until I remind him of the dog’s name—Thor.  Instantly, my dad responds, “We called him Thor to help you with your T-H sound.” Again, I’m awestruck by the revelations, at details both remembered and forgotten.

People have told me fairly often that I have an excellent, if occasionally selective, memory. It’s true—I remember details that came up casually in conversation decades earlier.  On the other hand, I’ve reviewed letters or journal entries from my youth, and sometimes have no recollection of the events described.

It rattles me to think of part of my life as—simply gone.  Our stories and memories form the biggest part of who we are.  And hard as it is to accept, over the long term, memory is one of many things I will have no control over.

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.