A little Schadenfreude, perhaps?

Jeannie had a pretty bad week; my dad had a pretty good week, and that ratio is unacceptable to her. It’s not as if she actively wishes other people ill, but if they’re doing OK while she’s suffering any discomfort or inconvenience, then by god, they’re going to feel her pain too. 

I got an earful when I called to check in. “Oh, Gene’s status quo, but me—well I’ve had a terrible week.” She proceeded to regale me with a litany of her woes: a dental problem that couldn’t be fixed in one visit; a pacemaker appointment that never happened because the technician wasn’t in; her daughter calling in tears because she had to (chose to, actually) give her cats up to the humane society. There may have been a couple of other items but to be honest I wasn’t paying attention.

Of course, it would be easy for me to go into my sympathetic listener mode. With most people I really mean it, but Jeannie has a knack for fashioning everyday annoyances into a do it yourself Greek tragedy, so I usually pay the least amount of attention possible.

Some time ago, I recall her describing a trip they took to Costa Rica. The trip itself, she said was wonderful, but getting back was “pure hell.” I had visions of airplane trouble, maybe an emergency landing…but no, it was just a crowded airport and a slight delay.

My usual response to her complaining is a blend of upbeat flippancy—“Oh well, I guess it keeps life interesting,” or something along those lines. If I’m feeling more sadistic, then I might start telling her about an acquaintance who’s battling cancer, or someone who just lost a family member. Predictably, she retreats, saying that maybe she should be grateful, and that things could be much worse.

The stereotype of the querulous elder, moaning about this or that problem seems more a matter of character makeup and is not the domain of the elderly alone. I’ve known many old people facing truly serious challenges, but who rarely complain about their lot, or they might just mention their problems in passing.  Jeannie is not of the “less is more” school and apparently believes that the more she complains, the more seriously other people will regard her problems, however slight.

She does the same thing in reverse when she’s happy about something—if her world is just right, and she’s thrilled that everything went well, she trumpets the good news (which usually consists of little more than a pleasant meeting with her club, or a meal out) as if everyone should celebrate for her.  

It isn’t my place, nor would it be right, to rain on her parade when she’s happy…but I can’t help feeling a sense of unrestrained glee when her day is clouded by life’s little inconveniences. Call me mean-spirited—but at least I keep those sentiments to myself...most of the time.  

Checking Out

Our local cemetery

We live a few blocks away from an old rural cemetery—a shadowy, run-down graveyard that might show up in any number of classic horror films. Every month or so I take a leisurely walk through it, just so I can feel fully alive. 

Among the denizens there is Robert Ripley, of “Believe it or Not” fame. The first time I ran across the tombstone, complete with his signature logo, I was with my parents who were up for a visit. Looking at the grave, I remarked automatically, “I don’t believe it.”

Exploring old cemeteries was an occasional pastime my parents and I used to enjoy together. In their former town, they also lived within walking distance to a graveyard. We never found the experience morbid but as it turns out, that visit when we found Ripley marked the last time we ever ventured into one. My dad was 82 at the time, and I guess soon after that we all tacitly agreed that such visits would just be too uncomfortable.

What I notice most when walking through my local cemetery is how brief so many of the lives were. My demographer friend has assured me that infant and child mortality skewed the average lifespan in those days before modern medicine, but I’m not convinced. A statistically non-binding survey I’ve conducted shows that even excluding those first tenuous years, people tended to die in their 20s and 30s far more often than they do now.  A few lucky souls made it into their 80s and beyond but many more expired around the age of 60.

As my parents (and everyone else) move inexorably closer to their own final number, it hardly seems worth mentioning how fortunate most of us are, if you see longevity as luck. The flip side may be that after a certain point, good luck becomes bad in the way a gift can be both a blessing and a curse.

Who wants to leave the party while it’s still going strong? Most of those people lying in the nearby cemetery would have given almost anything for a few more years, if such bargains had been possible back then. The trouble is that now those bargains are possible: medical technology has given many of us the hope of witnessing a full century or more. The price of those extra years, however, is not one most people want to think about.

Birds my father has known

Going back his earliest childhood, my dad has had an almost magical connection to birds. I was never able to understand (much less emulate) his ability to extend an empty hand, and within seconds have a blue jay fly down and perch there for a moment. (My grandfather possessed the same gift; both he and my father had mastered whatever call it was that gave birds the signal to “come over here—it’s safe,” which always amazed me as a child.)  

Gene and his pheasant, ca. 1932

On his way to school one morning, he found an injured pheasant, which he carried back home and put in the enclosure with the chickens.  The pheasant recovered, and stayed on as a family pet—until the day my great-grandmother made the mistake of showing the bird to an itinerant vegetable seller who grabbed the hapless creature and wrung its neck, thinking that’s what she wanted.  Ever practical, Grandma Clara prepared the pheasant for dinner, since the damage was done.  I asked my dad recently if he remembers eating any. “I ate some,” he said, with a somewhat guilty look. When I asked how it tasted, he paused, shrugging. “It tasted like chicken.” 

He was less complacent about the ducks—which he cherished as pets, unlike the more numerous chickens which were a regular part of the family diet. On special occasions when duck was served, my father refused to partake of it.

Asking him now about the chickens his family raised, he recalls the old rooster, Tu-Tu, who he grew up with.  “My mother had named him Cho-Cho but I couldn’t pronounce that, so he became Tu-Tu.” The rooster, too, met an unhappy end when a well-intentioned neighbor gave the family a younger rooster which quickly attacked Tu-Tu, inflicting such extensive injuries that he had to be finished off by my great-grandmother, who was the designated chicken executioner.

I try to imagine the life my father had, growing up in the country with a variety of animals and very few neighbors, exactly the opposite of my own suburban upbringing.  We usually had a solitary cat, and at one point got a couple of parakeets which were eventually supposed to learn how to talk. When they never did, I lost interest and my father ended up caring for them.

The last bird he and my stepmother owned was a finch, Stanley. He’d outlasted two mates and then lived for an extended period as a widower. Every morning my dad would carry him in his cage downstairs to the living room where he could look out the window and chirp; Gene would give him fresh carrot tops as a treat and chirp back at him.

Over 10 years old, nearly featherless and barely able to hang on to his perch, Stanley ended his life with a splash—falling into his bath and unable to get out. My parents were out for a walk at the time, and returned to find him there, drowned.  They held a sad little burial ceremony for him out back and that was the end of it.

Roast Pheasant

The Real ER

Medical TV dramas were always my favorite. I loved the intense pace, hot doctors and compelling life or death situations—with everything wrapped up (most often happily) in an hour. The reality, in case you haven’t been to an emergency room, is nothing like what you see on TV. 

Friday found me waiting in an ER with my dad for over 5 hours, while his bowel impaction was addressed. Most of that time he spent lying back, occasionally dozing, waiting for the next nurse or doctor to come by, while I sat or stood there reading my Kindle.  A few attempts at conversation went by the wayside. Once, asking Gene how he was doing, he shrugged. “Bored,” he said.

Clearly, his situation wasn't critical so the more serious cases were dealt with first. The elderly woman next to us had fallen down “chasing spiders with her grandson,” breaking her wrist and sustaining a nasty cut to her head. Three people down the hall had cardiac issues; an old Chinese man was obviously sick but unable to communicate with anyone. The pace picked up over the afternoon; the staff were all busy, but efficient and organized—no shouting of orders or other disturbances. Now and then a security guard walked through, as did a sweet though persistent volunteer who kept offering refreshments to family members.

My prevailing thought was that all this could have been avoided if either my dad (or Jeannie) had been on top of the situation, which had been building for several days. But she was caught up in a social whirlwind—family members were in town; she was going out to dinner, shopping for clothes with her daughter, enjoying the county fair—and amid all the excitement, my father’s complaints were ignored or minimized.  When I asked him how he felt about the lack of attention, he said, “I resented it.”

About an hour after we got to the hospital, I called Jeannie to give her an update. She launched into a tirade about how Gene “needs to stick to a regime,” repeating that several times, making it out to be entirely his fault, and complaining about his lack of consistency. She rhapsodized about probiotic yogurt and vegetable laxatives; at no point did she ask how he was doing. I found that a little surprising, given that she’d been out socializing when I came to take him to the hospital, and didn’t know until coming home where we were—but on second thought, I wasn’t surprised at all.

Finally—just like in the TV versions—he was released, shaky but better. After a quick stop at the pharmacy to pick up some heavy-duty laxative, we headed back home where he went straight to bed. Jeannie asked me to help open her new box of white zinfandel. I wouldn’t have had any even if she’d offered…but a real drink that night would have been just what the doctor ordered.

All About Me

“But enough about me and my life—what do you think about me and my life?” So goes a joke I read somewhere, and which brings to mind the Way of Jeannie.  I guess I’m as self-absorbed as the next childless only child, but somehow my stepmother (who grew up with a brother and raised two children of her own) has managed to outdo almost everyone I’ve ever met on the “me-me-me” scale.

If she had a formal diagnosis (narcissistic personality disorder, for example) I might understand despite being irritated.  She may in fact have some type of disorder, but would never consider questioning her own motives or consult a therapist, unless it was to figure out why another person in her life was so troublesome.

She regards a question directed at someone else as an insult, and will find a way to answer it no matter how unrelated. (Asking my dad “So how long were you in the army?” prompts Jeannie to deliver a lengthy monologue about her teen years growing up during the war.)

This tendency is not new. Her attitude has always struck me as appallingly self-centered; even those few occasions when she’s expressed regret about something that she did, it’s been defined by her own sense of discomfort or pain, not the hurt she caused others. And most of the time (at least when dealing with me) she simply didn’t care how most people felt.

Once I noticed she’d gone through my closet while I was at school, intent on throwing out “unnecessary” things. One of those things was the treasured overcoat that I’d inherited from my grandfather, made by the workers of his own union in the 1940s—and which I still have today—only because I found it in the garage, packed in a box and ready to donate to Goodwill. When I protested, she was flippant: “That old thing? It’s just a dog, why would you want it?”

Her exasperation at having to “put up with kids” (including her own) was an attitude I’d never encountered before. She seemed to compare being a parent to an 18 year prison sentence, rather than expressing the sheer gratitude I’d come to expect.

I freely acknowledge that I wasn’t the easiest kid to deal with. My sense of entitlement was nurtured by a doting, overly-indulgent father, who along with my grandfather assured me that I was the best and brightest, the most loved member of the family, destined for success.  After being the only child for 14 years, it was inevitable that having to share my father (not to mention living space) with three new people whom I never would have associated with would result in big problems.

Somehow we all survived. I guess that now would be the time to wrap things up philosophically, to affirm how everyone’s become older and wiser—and maybe there’s some truth there, but in so many ways we’re exactly the same as we always were.

How Much More?

This past week found me checking out actuarial tables with mixed hopefulness and trepidation. How much longer will my parents stick around? The correct answer, of course, is that nobody really knows. But according to the life expectancy chart I looked at, my dad can look forward to another four years, while my stepmother has some nine years ahead of her. (For both their sakes, I truly hope it’s less than that, based on their present condition.)

Four years. It sounds like so little. Even my own number (29.5 years left) seems pitifully small compared to what I’ve enjoyed so far.  Our lives are simultaneously blighted and blessed by the full (if often repressed) awareness that we are here only for a brief moment in time. Not long ago, I asked my father if he ever expected to live as long as he has. “I just never thought about it,” he said. I can’t imagine that’s true; unless I’m the only one obsessed with these things, I’d guess most people wonder from time to time how much time they have—and then hope for more. 

I read somewhere that “old” means anyone who’s 15 years older than we are.  But how does that apply to someone in their late 80s with serious health problems?  My attitude, as anyone reading this may pick up, is that truly old people are sticking around too long, although not always by choice. Thanks mostly to medical advances and healthier lifestyles, 70 really is the new 50; the formula works well as long as people stay healthy and active, though at a certain point the inevitable problems start creeping up.  Medical intervention might prop us up for a while, but….

When humans are warehoused in nursing homes, staring blankly at a TV screen, or at nothing, what have we accomplished? They may be technically alive, though it’s not a life most people would want.  Yet there they are, in ever-increasing numbers, but nobody in the political sphere would dare suggest that we “do something” that would help nature run its course a little faster. 

At least for the moment, the humane option of setting people free from a miserable, pointless existence is not available here—but let’s hope that changes before “we” get there.

Not Over Yet...

“Over 90 and Loving It” sounded like it would be an inspiring program to watch, so I watched it. As expected, this PBS special showcased people in their 90s who remain active and involved—a 94 year old taxi driver, a 98 year old woman who completed her master’s degree, Pete Seeger at 90, chopping wood behind his cabin. Bandleaders leading bands, politicians running for office. You get the drift.

So was I inspired? Ultimately, no. If anything, the program was exhausting and a little pathetic. My parents watched it too, and felt similarly—in fact, Jeannie commented, “They must have really spent a lot of time finding those people—that’s not how it is for most of us.”

And so it isn’t. While it may be helpful to counter the negative stereotypes of old people so prevalent in our culture and media, a program like this does not convey an accurate picture of what most elders should expect. To give seniors (or their families) the impression that aging well is more a matter of attitude than anything else is frankly cruel.

Of course, attitude is important.  It’s important to stay connected with others, with the world. People shouldn’t give up too soon, and are better off if they push themselves a little farther than they want to. Just adopting some kind of regular physical activity makes a positive difference.

But we know the best laid plans sometimes go awry. As my mother used to say, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.” The combination most aging people face is one that simultaneously adds and subtracts—a devilish formula of new illnesses and pains, countered by diminishing strength, senses and (often) mental or creative ability.

The prospect of an intact mind trapped inside a diseased body is no more appealing than that of a fit body housing a debilitated mind.Yet most elders end up taking one of those two routes, however unwillingly. An unlucky percentage suffers through both—while only the very fortunate few manage to escape chronic physical and mental infirmity until the end.

That reality, the hard facts of aging are what make me uncomfortable with programs like “Over 90.” Having good genes is not a choice we get to make, at least not yet. The environment we live in exacts its toll on almost everyone. Avoiding toxins only goes so far: I know one man, a healthy vegan who never smoked in his life, who was diagnosed with lung cancer in his early 70s (fortunately, he survived.)

So for those who truly want to believe that aging is a subject of “mind over matter,” I say good luck and bon voyage. Just don’t be surprised when a hurricane hits.