Kindness of Strangers

Another Saturday, another grocery store.  Even though it’s just a few dozen yards from our “regular” supermarket, I welcome the change of atmosphere. There’s a smaller crowd at Raley’s (most likely because it’s more expensive;) the insistent, perky background music is set to a lower volume, and the staff seems more genuine—they’re not ordered to smile at all the customers and ask us how we’re doing today, as are the employees at Safeway.  

We are at Raley’s this time because of its proximity to Ross Dress for Less, where my parents asked to be taken first. Our departure from the normal routine feels drearily predictable. My father has been told that he can buy a belated Mother’s Day gift for my stepmother; she’s written down the exact items, style and colors that she wants and gives my dad the note, along with cash to make the purchases. While there, she decides she’ll buy a Father’s Day present for him; after careful questioning, she opts to get him a new belt and some underwear.  To make things simpler, she also chooses her own clothes.

While waiting for Jeannie to try things on, my dad and I stand silently amid the racks and bustling shoppers. I ask how he’s doing and he shrugs, says “Oh, the usual.” It’s hard to get much more out of him. “Man of few words,” I joke.  He offers something more: “She always asks me what I’m thinking…sometimes I’m not thinking anything.” He pauses. “And other times I don’t want to tell her what I’m thinking because she won’t like it.”

Purchases made, we head across the parking lot to begin the grocery shopping. Notwithstanding the challenge of a different floor plan, we locate the same products they buy every week. The only moment of excitement occurs in the vegetable aisle, when Jeannie insists on getting a bell pepper, over my father’s objections. “You still have some from before,” he says. “It’s almost gone,” she counters. “We just used some the other night.” My dad speaks up, “Just don’t give any to me.”

Jeannie knows my father hates bell peppers but she uses them in her cooking regardless. Whatever she likes, she prepares, and vice versa. She loathes potatoes, even though he enjoys them—so of course, they’re never served. I asked once why she couldn’t just pop a single potato in the microwave for my dad, and she moaned, “It takes so long to stand there, scrubbing potatoes, I just can’t do it anymore.”

Nearly an hour later, and we’re at the checkout.  And something remarkable happens, at the end of a mundane shopping trip. A burly middle-aged man walks up to me, smiles. “Your parents?” he asks. I nod. He smiles again and says, “I’ve been watching you with them.  My dad’s about the same age, and…” He struggles to finish. Finally he taps his chest lightly, looks me in the eye and says, “You’re doing a good thing.”  Or maybe he doesn’t actually say the words and I understand what he’s thinking.  Either way, I whisper, “Thank you,” as we turn to leave.

It feels good, getting that kind of validation from a stranger.  Most of the time, even when my parents tell me how much they appreciate my help, I still focus on the inconvenience, feeling taken for granted.  This guy could have just smiled to himself without saying anything, and for me it would have been just another day at the supermarket…but this day I plan on remembering.

The Waiting Game

My almost favorite second-rate author, W. Somerset Maugham, once wrote that the real tragedy of love is not death or separation, but indifference.  He may have a point, but seems to have forgotten about the broad range of couples who stay together while actively loathing each other.

I’ve known some of these people; others I only heard about. My great aunt and her husband endured over 30 years of shouting matches, insults, betrayals—the whole gamut of negative emotion—yet never considered divorcing. This was back in the day when divorce was social death; the only option was to see who would croak first, and good riddance. (In this case, it was him.) My great aunt told me that she had a premonition, right before his fatal heart attack, that he was going to die but didn’t worry much about it, only calling the doctor after it was too late.

You might think these arrangements are a relic of the past now that divorce (or simply moving out) is so commonplace.  But they continue—in fact, we had dinner with one such couple only last night. What drew them together, late in life, is anyone’s guess, but their reasons for staying married are painfully clear. The husband has no income and isn’t eligible for social security; his wife has a small pension and social security, so he depends on her for his survival (not to mention the cooking and cleaning—after all, this is the man who once announced to her during an argument that he is “the captain of the ship, in charge of all executive decisions,” and that she, as the wife, needs to learn her place.)

Why would any sane woman put up with such a jerk? She has a number of friends and family members who would gladly help her escape. But there’s a catch: the husband has a rich childless aunt, worth millions, he says…and he’s convinced that when Auntie goes to her reward, he’ll get a nice chunk of the estate.  All she has to do is to die, which they’ve been counting on ever since she turned 90. She’s now over 100 and still in pretty good shape. 

And that’s why this couple is still together: the guy needs his wife for now, but if and when he inherits anything, he can dump her. Meanwhile she is determined to get part of the inheritance, which she can only manage by staying married to her obnoxious husband.  They’re not even sure if their names appear in the aunt’s will, but the assumption is strong enough to keep them in the same household; they even make costly long-distance pilgrimages each year to pay their respects and carefully inquire about her health.

I suppose that after a certain point, many marriages are based at least partly on convenience, if only as shield against loneliness and financial devastation. With luck, people still enjoy each others’ company, or at least don’t irk one another too much. My parents have been annoying each other for years, but generally keep things at a low boil. Now that they’re old, I realize that their respective weaknesses are almost complementary, and that neither one could manage alone.  

My father told me more than once that what keeps him going is a combination of antidepressants and the ability to “tune out” his garrulous wife. I've noticed there are times he doesn't even hear her, much less listen to what she’s saying.  For that matter, I suspect she doesn’t really listen to herself—but is just trying to fill the silence. Meanwhile, they both wait….

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.