Jul
14
The Hotel California
July 14, 2008 | | 14 Comments
Ageis was the kind of place my father would abhor living in if he had the choice. But at this mid-stage of his Alzheimer’s progression, he did not.
It was our third stop on a parade of retirement homes throughout the Santa Cruz area, and my younger sister Jenny considered it her top finalist for three reasons: One, it was spotless. Two, it had a Dementia wing. And three, it was bike-riding distance from her condo. These were all valid reasons to me, the delegated facility-screener, but the third reason pertaining to convenience rather than quality weighed most heavily in Aegis’s favor. I still had my reservations about the place. My first thought was “cold.” Jenny called it “clean.” My father would have called it “expensive.” And that’s why he would’ve hated it.
As we approached the entrance in all its faux grandiosity, predictable ivory columns and shining brass emblematic of the more upscale facilities we’d seen, I’d sensed something more personally familiar. Like I’d been there before…or maybe, stayed there before, overnight. Ageis seemed like a five-star hotel with an age restriction, with the primary distinction being the guest’s length of stay. The difference was rather than enjoying a fleeting getaway these guests were held inside the confines of the resort by electric fence and alarm-wired exits. These guests were permanent residents of a docile purgatory dressed up as a luxury resort. "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."
I did my best keep an open mind. More often than not my perspective was split between my father’s and my own eyes. And when this happened I was caught between his extreme budget-consciousness and my own total lack thereof. But this was Jenny’s turf now and if she was altruistic enough to host him in her home town, I would acquiesce to her decision–Not only with the appropriateness of the home but also, the convenience of it to her daily routine. I was more concerned with managing her burden than carrying on my father’s propensity towards an unnecessarily Spartan lifestyle. Although he never considered himself deserved of life’s luxuries, I did. And because I was in control of his finances now, I made the executive decision to spend graciously for the sake of Jenny’s convenience. After all, she would be the one taking on the lion’s share of responsibility. She would be the most compelled to visit, for placing him within bike riding distance of her condo–Which to me seemed both a blessing and a curse.
I assumed my five-page facility interview would be a piece of cake for Ageis, or shall I say, I expected it should be. If they were bold enough to deem themselves The Ritz Carlton of Elder Care, I assumed they’d have their bases covered. After all, this facility was not only the most expensive in Santa Cruz, but it was also nearly double the price of the all others we’d seen. They most certainly should have their ducks in a row. Nevertheless, I touted along my list of 116 questions anyway, rationalizing that at least in the research department; I’d be staying true to my father’s wishes. I was also curious to know what the obligatory $8,000.00 community-fee was being utilized for. Surely it was for something more useful than the Ageis Cadillac–a chauffeured sedan that transported residents to doctor’s appointments. Maybe they were serving caviar and champagne during cocktail hour? It definitely wasn’t for the grounds. The building was located just off the highway convenient to visitors commuting from more upscale suburbs of Northern California–But not so valuable to Jenny, who lived a mere bike-ride away.
I forcibly reminded myself that money was no object. In reality, it wasn’t far from the truth. But the frugal perspective that had been hammered into my brain since birth was difficult to undo. Dad raised me to believe exactly the opposite and for thirty years, he kept me completely oblivious to his financial status. Only after the diagnosis did he finally break down and share his secret. He was a planner, and because his imminent mental decline was on the table, he felt compelled to put a trusted family member in the driver’s seat: He defaulted to me, the daughter with her head screwed on straight.
The Grand Parlor was busy with activity, unusual for a retirement home. There was a pianist in the foyer happily tinkling a waltz and two sets of old people were dancing feebly in the center of the room. The scene was an equal mix of charming and heartbreaking. As bittersweet as it was, I did appreciate the crowd existing outside of their wheelchairs, and that they were doing something besides staring blankly into the distance. It was a nice contrast to Independence Village, my father’s current home, which was considered a progressive step above communities like Ageis because daily care was outsourced rather than all-inclusive. To me, Independence Village was a dressed up nursing home in the absence nurses, or any skilled care for that matter. With no medical care to speak of and no liability to insure, it became a popular option for the value-minded retiree too new at the elder care game to know better, which included us at the time. It was a laissez-faire operation appealing to those who needed meals cooked and linens washed, like my father did in the beginning. After he moved in he grew far more confused—But the staff at Independence Village never mentioned this. Apparently that was not their job, which perfectly illustrates the critical difference between the “Assisted” and “Independent” living. Independent living could be classified as senior citizens housed under one roof plus maid service. And that was all the help my father thought he needed back then. Assisted living offers help in all areas of one’s declining mental and physical condition. Offering services ranging from escorted nature walks to “toileting.” Had we known the distinction at the time, we could have saved Dad the stress and ensuing mental ramifications of moving twice. A transition, we soon discovered, that took years off his life.
It didn’t take long for us to discover Independence Village was the wrong choice. The social worker warned the new routine would take him time to get used to, but after 6 months not only was his new routine still a mystery, but his everyday habits were becoming entirely new obstacles. Accomplishing daily tasks such as dressing and showering turned painstaking. Eventually, to save time and aggravation Dad stopped changing his clothes. There were too many hindrances now. Buttons too tiny to see, laces too complicated to tie, patterns and colors too imperceptible to match, and discerning what was clean from dirty could only be detected by scent, allowing for spills and soils to multiply as the week progressed. Dad reverted to sporting the same outfit Monday thru Thursday, until Lois picked him on Fridays to spend the weekend at her place. Out of respect for her, he would spend half the day attempting to bathe himself– Feeling his way around the shower, testing multiple combinations of pulling, turning and twisting the faucet to start the flow of water. How to go from a flowing spout to shower spray? Which way to turn…or to pull…or to push? Was it the knob…or the handle? Was it the drain or the temperature gauge? This became a merry-go-round of trial and error that could go on for hours, episodes of scalded skin, overflowing tubs and frigid showers becoming dangerously familiar.
After a failed six-month attempt at adjusting to Independence Village, my father grew increasingly stressed. The stress exacerbated the confusion and the confusion kick-started the memory loss. Soon enough, the weekend jaunts to his girlfriend’s place became too much. He would take his frustration out on her, and she on us, and we made bets amongst ourselves how long it would take before she ended it. Within six months their five-year relationship took a genteel turn for the convenient and Lois slowly, but sweetly, began fading away. Her departure inspiring an entirely new onslaught of mini transitions we never anticipated. Dad was fading and fading quickly. We were duped, and yet again, left to frantically trample fires this disease had been igniting for years.
The dementia caught us off-guard for good reason. My father was a fabulous actor. He’d adopted a covert system of coping to shield us from his burden: Sleeping in his clothes rather than changing, sponge bathing rather than showering, sporting the same nylon jacket everyday to camouflage spills from mealtimes. All these shortcuts worked temporarily. He presented himself normal enough. I’m sure the staff at Independence Village was used to it, and his decent appearance was appropriate enough not raise any red flags with visiting friends and relatives. But when I flew out to see him on my third visit, seven months into his stay, I became suspect he wasn’t faring as well as he’d communicated during our bi-weekly phone calls. His paranoia was a bit more difficult to conceal.
“Someone’s stealing my clothes.”
“Dad, why would anyone want your jeans from 1974?”
“Hell I don’t know. It’s either they’re stealing them or they’re hiding them. It happens all the time. That’s why I never know where anything is. People come in here, they buzz around, in, out, all over the place. They never tell me what’s going on…”
I did my best to preserve his dignity by offering suggestions rather than calling out his paranoia. It pained me to see him so helpless.
“Maybe they’re just stuffed up in your closet where it’s hard to see. You have sooooo many clothes Dad. You really don’t need all 200 sweaters.”
“I don’t know who bought me all this stuff but it just doesn’t work. These leather pants are way to heavy.”
He yanked at the top of his pant leg in dismay, a feeble attempt at demonstrating the inappropriateness of leather in June. Never mind he was really wearing Khaki Levis, a former favorite pair.
“Maybe later we can clean out your closet together Dad. We’ll sort everything out where you can see it.”
Solutions…I remember reading this in The 10 Golden Rules for Dementia Care. Don’t argue. Offer solutions.
“OK honey, “ he said, relieved. “That would be real nice.”
That was my method. Listen. Empathize. Strategize. Dad would reach a threshold and I’d find away to cross it. I was full of handy solutions. I decorated his bathroom in red. Despite his increasing blindness, he could still discern the color red and I took it to the extreme. I bought all red bathroom accessories: Shower caddy, toothbrush, sponge, bathmat, comb, even soap. I covered the handle on the faucet with colored electrical tape: Red for hot. His basket of fresh Bic razors placed on a washcloth: Red for sharp. I outlined every switch, knob, and cabinet: Red for on, off, up, down, push and pull. My father’s once serene domicile in beige had been transformed into a caricature lined in scarlet.
The funny thing is, I actually thought my systems would help him. I seriously felt that when I returned next time, Dad would be showering, shaving, and flicking the lights on and off like a pro. I headed back to New York ignorantly satisfied. A false sense of accomplishment packed neatly away in my suitcase: Red for wrong.
When Jenny came to visit the same complaints resurfaced in different variations. After her first day there, just as I did, she came to his rescue with her own set of coping mechanisms. She called me later to give an all-too-familiar report:
“Dad says someone’s hiding his clothes…He can’t find his soft towels, did you move them? He’s cut his face from shaving with dull razors…He can’t find his clothes so I re-arranged his closet…The maids are taking his chewing gum and hiding his favorite jacket…He had no toiletries when I looked in the shower. Nor the basket you mentioned. But I did find six barely-used-bars of strawberry soap on the floor…”
No routine would stick. No strategy could be retained. No matter what we did to Alzheimer’s-proof his daily existence, it wasn’t enough.
By the time we realized he was not suited to live independently at all, it was much later than we wanted it to be. After a year of struggling intensely with daily tasks, Dad was adamantly opposed to the idea of starting all over again at a new place. He was highly resistant to any change or new routine–not that he’d ever established one in the first place. It was of little consequence that he would be moved close to one of his daughters who could visit all the time. It didn’t matter that the place was steps from the beach, or had a view of the mountains, or was properly set up for Dementia care. Never mind the move would be in his best interest. He was not taking kindly to an entirely new transition only to find himself at another place like Independence Village. The place, he cited, “where old people came to die.”
I found it odd when he mentioned being bothered by the presence of these “old people” because as far as I knew, he couldn’t even see them. I began questioning if Dad was indeed bothered by what was truly going on around him, versus what he perceived to be occurring by referencing old precepts and stereotypes. There were many days when his reports of the place were joyful. And for a moment I would exhale and happily dial my sisters to report Dad’s sunny disposition, only to be cut short by someone’s opposite rendition of the same story:
“Dad was crying on the phone. He said he hates it there and there is no way in hell he wants to move to a place like that again.”
His reports would flip flop depending on the day and the daughter. When we all began to compare notes we heard completely different stories. After a while we learned his opinions couldn’t be taken as absolutes, that they were indeed fleeting thoughts that changed at whim, making our choices all the more difficult. We had to make the decision ourselves, and the decision had to be unanimous. This verdict of where we would move him next and what daughter would be in charge was the most challenging we’d faced yet. We loved him so much. We all had our own ideas for our own reasons. We all stood steadfast in our opinions. We all wanted to be the better daughter.
Mar
3
My Father’s Keepers
March 3, 2008 | | 18 Comments
I rushed into the restaurant breathless and made a b-line for the ladies
room hoping to get by unnoticed. This was less of an opportunity to relieve
myself and more of a chance to check myself out. These lunches were important.
They were instances that called for extreme apropos: To be dressed properly, to
be prompt, and to address the burning issue that had grown like a tidal wave in
our lives–my father’s steadfast progression of Alzheimer’s Disease.
I looked too tan. My dangly earrings were too bohemian. I looked all
together TOO relaxed and it bothered me. The last impression I wanted to make
was that of a jet-setter fresh off the shores of St. Tropez. Especially while my
dad was stuck back in Michigan counting down the hours alone in that stale
little box they call an apartment in his nursing home.
On the outside I may
have appeared the picture of R&R but inside I was a guttural mess. Yet revealing my unkempt side was never my style, be it physically or emotionally.
I had always relied on my well-monitored composure to mask whatever was really
bugging me. When it came to lunch with my father’s keepers however, keeping up
appearances seemed all too devil-may-care. What was the appropriate look for a RESPONSIBLE
TAKE CHARGE WOMAN when what I really felt like was a little girl without a plan? I padded down my highlights and yanked
at the sides of my periwinkle sundress in dismay. Why didn’t I just wear black?
This was Manhattan afterall, 90% of my closet was black…
Yes, the guilt was
definitely creeping in and we hadn’t even sat down to exchange pleasantries.
I approached them from behind relieved to find their appetizers freshly
delivered. My guilt faded a tad when I realized they hadn’t allowed my
tardiness to dampen their fine dining experience. I was always a bit
self-conscious around Frank and Eve, my father’s best friends, who routinely
met me for lunch in the city to discuss the progression of his AD and just what
the hell I was planning to do about it.
“It’s been difficult…" I would begin."…He constantly urges us
to hold off…He says he isn’t ready…that the thought of re-adjusting to a
new place sends him over the edge…”
Frank and Eve are my father’s transition friends. Meaning they stayed close
to him before, during, and after the Alzheimer’s went from bad to worse. They
knew him as the old John who joined them as a third Musketeer, and they’ve
stuck with him as the new, more unfamiliar John–The one that lags a few steps
behind. Still they remain dedicated to him and visit him weekly. They do their
best to carry on conversations that have grown progressively one-sided as he
slowly begins to forget their names and fun times they’d shared for the past
two decades.
They were an odd couple. Beyond their down-to-earthiness and extraordinary
intelligence they were polar opposites. Maybe that’s why my father enjoyed
their company so much–Dad liked stirring up the difference between the two of
them. He enjoyed the banter.
Frank was thin and speedy, with an overly-keen sense of his surroundings and
darting eyes too easily distracted. He was a human radar constantly tuning into
his environment. I used to make fun of
him for being the oldest man alive with ADD. Never short on wit or humor, Frank was on
stage always and got a kick out of entertaining us with his Brooklyn-based
sarcasm. His quippy demeanor was a sharp contrast to my father’s steadfast
seriousness. But these days the difference between the two of them was growing
inconvenient and uncomfortable. Frank couldn’t
concentrate or ponder a subject too long before tiring of it and eagerly moving
on. Dad on the other hand struggled to stay on topic, and would often need
reminding of who said what, and “what exactly was it that we were talking about
in the first place?” He tried his best but extended conversations seemed to fail
him. His responses started off strong, but somehow seemed to fade into the
uncertainty of an Alzheimer-y void.
“It really pisses me off!” Frank would declare.
I wasn’t sure if he meant the dad’s deteriorating mental state, or the fact
that it could happen to him one day. Of course I forgave him for this. I knew at
the end of the day he just really missed his old friend. I empathized. I really
missed my old dad.
"There’s never going to be a good time to move your dad…" Eve
would remind me in her most convincing, non-confrontational tone. Then her
voice would trail off as if she were leaving me space to offer a solution. I
allowed the gap to widen into uncomfortable silence—as the solution never came.
Eve was a tall, gentle, empathetic beauty who spoke softly and deliberately.
She was peacefully disarming, graceful and quiet, subtle and warm. She was everything
Frank was not and I’m sure that’s why they got along so well. She was the
perfect confidante and my father trusted her wholeheartedly. When the blindness
took over he trusted her to open his mail and read it to him, financial
statements and all. That privilege alone spoke volumes of her character. Dad
looked to Eve for advice when the AD became too all-encompassing to
disguise–and he no longer trusted his own mind.
At one time they were the Three Musketeers, and dad maintained strong
friendships to both of them separately as well as a couple. He enjoyed Frank
for his incredible wit and battled him over politics for fun. Dad always
appreciated a good argument and Frank was one of the few people that wouldn’t
back down. He often poked fun of Dad and got away with it because he was his closest
friend. Dad endearingly referred to Frank as The Professor. Beyond the obvious fact he taught physics at the
University, I think dad held fast to this nickname he truly admired Frank’s
intelligence. Debating seemed a common pastime between the two, and he
challenged my father’s conventional thinking in a way most people wouldn’t
dare. Dad was a stealth debater in his day. He lived for the contest. Back in
the day, dad thrived on ideas to fight for.
But these days the relationship is growing strained. As the Three Musketeers
sit down to visit, the conversations are growing increasingly one-sided. Eve, the more patient; more genteel of the two
does most the talking. Dad’s passion to debate has now morphed into gentle acquiescence.
A man who once held rock-solid to his convictions now just goes with the flow
and tries to agree in all the right places. The common bond that he and Frank
shared has faded away along his unyielding inspiration to challenge him just
because. Now Dad dismisses Frank’s personality as too “all over the place.” And
he no longer refers to him endearingly as The
Professor. Sadly, he doesn’t refer to him much at all.
I know this hurts Frank as he witnesses his best friend dissipating both in
mind and spirit, as they no longer have anything in common but history. What’s worse
is that it’s a history only remembered by one.
During these lunches Frank and Eve would gently aver their opinions and
although I take their advice to heart it’s much easier said than done. In all
other aspects of my life I’ve been a go-getter. But in my father’s case the big
decisions were far more complex. They involve negotiating four separate opinions:
My sisters, my father’s and my own. And at this point none of us could come to
a unanimous decision. So for the past 16 months Dad struggled to get by alone
and totally dependent at Independence Village, while my family remained
in a stalemate over whether or not to move him out.
It doesn’t help that Dad changes opinion of the place daily. Last week
he complained he was surrounded by old people whose eating habits disgusted
him, but the week after he was spotted strolling arm in arm with an attractive
female resident and rumor has it, she’s got a crush on him. His stance on the place would
drift from repulsion to contentment depending on the day, and the daughter.
After a while we figured his reports of Independence Village were completely
subjective, and I restrained my knee-jerk reaction to call my sisters in a
panic and report his latest complaint. The following day he would typically
forget anything bothered him at all. Moreover, he’d go on to recount the
pontifications his men’s club shared over The Davinci Code, and how they were
covertly devising a plan to overthrow the administrators.
Half of me knows there’s no ideal time to pull the trigger. The other half
of me whispers Wait till he’s too far gone to know better. But until we can all put a
stake in the ground together we’re left spinning
on this merry-go-round of guilt and uncertainty…pondering, mulling, and
fighting tooth and nail over our respective positions, over what we feel is the
best option for Dad. As if each of us has their own psychic bond with him and
believes beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our connection is the strongest (We
each selfishly believe this).
It amazes me to think just two 18 months ago my father was lucid enough to
declare the move into a nursing home. It stuns me to think less than two years
ago he was driving his car 30 miles a day to and from his girlfriend’s house.
Today, he can’t even sit himself inside the front seat of a car without
assistance. Instinctively he heads to the driver’s side. Every time I say the
same thing, “its cool dad, this time I’ll drive.” And when he comes around to
the passenger’s side he laughs at himself shaking his head, as if this were our
first drill at whose driving who. Now when he reaches for the door handle it
turns into another woeful attempt to sit inside the car, backwards.
Post lunch, tea time was usually spent discussing the follow up back in the
day, I would obediently carve out the key phrases: “meals on wheels,” “day-glow
bulbs,” “talking remote,” etc. But these
days my dad’s condition was beyond handy living aids. Follow-up notes turned
into to specific agendas that I entered into my Blackberry punctuated by alarms
and due dates:
1. Interview top four nursing homes on the West Coast.
2. Sort out long-term health insurance.
3. De-archive Advanced Directives and submit Power of Attorney.
I still see Frank and Steve for lunch every 6 weeks. They still ask me
"What next?" and I still admit I’m not 100% sure. And I still try (probably too hard) to get my
point across. To state my case and explain although I’m here and he’s there I’m
still very much his daughter–The same responsible woman he raised in his likeness
that’s trying her best to do the right thing. I admit there are times when I feel
like that uncertain child not yet ready to let go of her dad, but I take
comfort in knowing it’s Frank and Eve who empathize.
Aug
24
The Taboo Moment
August 24, 2007 | | 18 Comments
As always, my trip felt too short. There was never enough time to get
it all done. There were always so many requests, so many adjustments,
so many to-dos that I never left my father and returned to New York
feeling a sense off accomplishment. So I adopted his habit of keeping
lists on his behalf–And they never seemed to get any shorter.
I had 45 minutes to say goodbye to dad before heading to the airport.
Dad’s last request before I left was to help him with “the voices.” Apparently, the neighbors next door were keeping him awake at night with their mumbling. At this point I never thought to question what dad had seen or heard. I still took everything seriously. Taking great care to ensure each time before I flew home, dad was left in good spirits, as comfortable as possible, with all adjustments made, and all items crossed off the list.
But this current request was a bit more complicated than the others.
I racked my brain for a useful quick fix. One that would keep him from being bothered by his mumbling neighbors in enough time to get me back to New York on the last flight out. I was desperate for a 30-minute solution. I could pass the buck to the ladies at the front desk, but I knew once I walked out that door the dilemma would be dropped. One of those Zen alarm clocks could do the trick, drowning out their ramblings with crashing waves or thunderstorms–But it was nearly 7PM, Wallgreens was a 10 minute drive, and my chances of making it before closing were slim. I considered the direct approach; just knocking on the door and talking to the neighbors myself…but there was no way to accomplish a polite sit down in 30 minutes or less. Stating my father’s case then running out of the room to catch a plane would be rude. The least I could do was offer them a box of Russell Stover’s or something, which again required Walgreen’s. A benevolent quest that time, unfortunately, did not permit.
I had 28 minutes to come up with an answer and I could feel my anxiety mounting. Dad stood there in the corner staring at me blankly, patiently waiting for the light bulb to flash above my head, totally unaffected by my quandary. He lingered, anticipating a cue to respond…I considered the ridiculousness of my own anxiety as I wondered to myself if he even remembered complaining about the neighbors in the first place. Then the semi-rational idea hit me:
“OK, dad here’s what we’ll do…We’ll move your bed to the opposite side of the room so you won’t hear your neighbors so much. We can put it there (roughly 36 inches away from where it currently stood) and then you’ll be furthest away from the wall that separates you. Plus, you’ll be facing the bathroom so you won’t get lost at night when you have to go. Look, from this view, you can even see your night light!” I vivaciously gesticulated my plan from across his bedroom. It wasn’t the most elegant solution, and certainly not the most efficient, but it was the best I could do in 28 minutes.
Dad stood peacefully to my opposite across the room. I sensed his attempt to follow my convoluted logic and respond accordingly, but the best he could do was smile half heartedly, uncertain as to what to do next. I doubt he fully comprehended my plan, but as usual he went along. I often wondered if it was the meds or the Alzheimer’s that kept him so compliant, but these days no matter how uncertain he was of anything, his default response was always “OK.”
“Ok honey, that sounds great.”
He continued to stand there, staring at the bed, a subliminal attempt to lend a hand. I’m sure he wanted to help, he just didn’t know how.
“It’s fine dad, just go in the other room, I can move it myself.”
He briefly drifted out of his trance, said, “OK,” and wandered into the living room.
It seemed like an easy enough task. His bed was small beneath the disheveled sheets. Just a thin narrow mattress, box spring, frame and wheels. He had no headboard, no footboard, no extra padding to comfort him. Just an old, thin mattress and rickety box springs, basic and spartan. The littleness of it made me sad. When I was a child I remember my dad’s bed being gigantic, a King size. But it never was, it was always a full. The only thing that changed about his bed since then was my perspective, and looking at it now, it seemed so feeble and lonely. A few years back I gave my father a set of luxury sheets, down pillows and a high-thread count duvet. But he never took it out of the package. He considered it too nice to sleep on. And lying before me now was the bed he laid on for the past 25 years—Just an old mattress and box springs with a set of low thread-count sheets on wheels. It killed me that throughout his whole life, my father never allowed himself to feel comforted, not even in sleeping.
I grabbed the left corner of his mattress and began turning the bed clockwise. Then I repeated the same with the right. My plan was to maneuver his bed into a 90-degree angle then shove it into the opposite corner of the room. I had 26 minutes to complete my mission. But as I reached 45 degrees I noticed something was wrong. The left side of the bed was no longer moving. I shoved harder and felt an unrelenting pull on the carpet. Something was stuck, hard. I peered underneath to find one of the wheels was completely missing from the frame. Dad had actually been sleeping on a lopsided bed for God knows how long and never knew the wiser. I glanced at my watch, 19 minutes and counting….
Inch by painstaking inch I tried twisting and turning each corner but without the forth wheel missing from the frame this was a mere impossibility. I began to sweat. The metal continued to grind further into the thickness of the carpet. Suddenly something gave and half of his bed came flying two feet out from under me. The frame slid completely off-track and was now totally unhinged; the front and back portions of his bed fully separated. God damn it, I cursed under my breath, taking care he wouldn’t hear me in the next room. I could feel my blouse sticking to my back.
12 minutes.
I dropped half the bed and reached to open his window for relief–Nothing. I pulled the metal lip of the window harder this time, irritation building with every bead of perspiration that dripped from my forehead onto the clamped sill. Locked. Of course. GOD DAMN IT! Some sort of senior-proofing fixture had been installed to keep disgruntled residents from hurling themselves out the window, which was a thought I was seriously considering at the time.
Air conditioner. I fiddled with the digital display, pressing the down arrow in a mad frenzy with no luck. It was frozen at 78 degrees. I tried unplugging it then plugging it back in. I slammed the display pad with my sweaty fist. Nothing. WHAT THE HELL? If I couldn’t figure this stupid thing out, how the hell could my dad? My blouse was soaked, my hands were slippery, and my watch kept ticking. SHIT! I’m totally not going to make it…
8 minutes.
I looked behind me at my father’s broken bed, cursing myself for even going there. He probably doesn’t even remember that people even live next door, and I’ve broken his poor little bed and messed up his room–His un-matching sheets now strewn across the floor, the skinny mattress bending at the center. It looked like an earthquake hit and it was all my fault. I was supposed to make it better and I made it worse and to top it off, I had to leave him. I had to fly back to New York in less than 6 minutes and leave him with his messy broken life.
I could feel the guilt descending like a storm cloud on, then the tears, no; he cannot see me like this. Why the hell did I blow off Walgreens? All of this could have been avoided had I just picked up the nature sounds alarm clock.
But I didn’t. And now I only have 5 minutes to clean up the ridiculous mess I created, and do right by dad. I had to cross this one last thing off the list. With one final surge I lifted the mattress with one arm and strained to connect the metal fame with the other. It was a ludicrous, senseless attempt. Within two seconds I was sitting on the floor: defeated. Bed: in shambles. “SHIT!” I said too loudly this time. I was as broken as his bed–Beatened, flattened. I’d lost it. Despite my valiant attempt to stifle the sobs as the tears came streaming, I heard his voice beckoning…
“Honey?”
My dad was in the doorway. I can only imagine his alarm as he surveyed his disassembled bedroom. I didn’t answer. I sat on the floor with my back to him, frozen. He couldn’t see me breakdown like this. This was a taboo moment. He could never know that anything I did for him hurt me. He could never know things were tiring or burdensome or heart wrenching like this. He was supposed to let me take care of things like a good daughter would; he was never supposed to know this was killing me.
“Honey?” He asked louder this time, his voice thick with concern, which made me cry even harder.
"It’s OK dad," I said, trying my best to sound normal, "I’m just sort of stressed out right now and the bed is a litter heavier than I thought it would be but…it’s OK. Really. I can take care of it just…go back in the other room, OK?”
But he didn’t say OK this time.
“Honey? Are you hurt?”
It was as if he didn’t hear a word I said…He started towards me.
“No dad. It’s OK. SERIOUSLY.” I said louder this time. As if the volume of my voice would stop him. But it was too late and he was directly behind me, hand on my shoulder, much too close for me to stave him off words, no matter how loud or seemingly authoritative.
I had no choice. I had to look up, to face him in all my broken-ness, bleary eyed and defeated, like a little girl who fell off her bike and skinned her knee.
I turned around to his embrace and lost control, the tears now coming hard and fast. We were both crying now and for a fleeting moment I succumbed to being his little girl again, allowing him to comfort and protect me one last time.
“Honey…I’m sorry your hurt,” he said–And I was. I was more hurt than I had ever been but not in a physical way.<br>
It was the first time I’d seen my father cry. Thankfully, he was convinced I’d somehow injured myself while moving his bed, and his attempts to soothe me were just the same as if I’d had fallen off my bike and skinned my knee. My sadness however, was inspired for an entirely different reason. My sadness for him was far more permanent. We stood there crying in his broken bedroom for what seemed like an eternity. I held onto him tightly and sobbed in his ear, “Dad I’m so sorry,” I said between sobs. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“It’s OK honey…” He repeated between sobs, “…It’s OK.”
It was at that point our roles reversed. Suddenly I was the parent and he was the child and we cried because we didn’t want to let go of the relationship as it was, and as it had been for the past 34 years.
I missed my plane that night. I never told my father, I just checked into the Marriott down the street and collapsed. I sat the anonymity of the hotel room and broke down where no one could see. I pondered that taboo moment when my father caught me crying, totally disarmed and childlike. I played the scene over and over in my mind, the two of us hugging and crying, clinging to that delicate bond we shared as father and daughter–So unready to let go.
Our roles were inevitably reversing and neither of us could halt the progression. We said our goodbyes that night. The exchange was a final farewell to the familial roles we once knew. It was the most melancholy yet poignant milestone we’d ever shared.
The next morning my mother called, wondering if I was all right.
Unaware of how much she knew, I played dumb: “What do you mean?”
"Your father told me you were hurt. He said you pulled a muscle trying to move his bed last night, and you left in a lot of pain….”
I exhaled. Thank God that’s how he remembers it. Thank God his Alzheimer’s had erased the painful truth of what really happened that night. For the first time, I realized that through the sadness of the situation, there were moments of relief such as this. That Alzheimer’s had this unique was of forgiving and returning the mind back to innocence, wiping it clear of the pain–A most unusual consolation prize.
I realized that day; my father’s disease could be dealt with in two ways. One way, the way I had been dealing for the past two years, was to dwell on the problems, to the tasks at hand, to the quick fixes, and the chores and the attempts to incessantly aid the symptoms and handicaps–The things to do lists are made of. I thought if I could somehow make dad’s life easier, it would relieve me of some of the guilt.
But the chores never end, and the lists just see to multiply. There is never enough that can be “done” to cater to the handicaps. More often than not, those multiplying problems tend to weigh most heavily on the minds of the caregiver.
After that day I learned to view the time I spent with my father in a different light. To weigh our moments together based more upon quality rather than quantity. This was very difficult for me at first. At the beginning, I didn’t want to view my father in a reversed role. Maybe, I secretly wished he would remain dad, just as he always had, but with a few handicaps–With things that could be fixed. But after a while, I began to understand the lists will just keep growing, and there will always be one more thing to cross off in not enough time to do so–Life is far too short to keep up.
It takes courage to face the truth and accept dad as he is, rather than as someone he used to be, but with caveats. Only after I acknowledged Dad’s PCA completely, with all of its misgivings, did I learned to relax and enjoy my time with him not as much in the doing, but in the being.
Apr
12
Revisiting the Whipcracker
April 12, 2007 | | 15 Comments
Before: Devil inside.
After: Angel on a mission.
So he calls. Six months later. Informs me that he has changed. Fundamentally.
And although this admission is not necessarily geared towards me, I still feel somehow satisfied.
After so many pointless instances of scrolling through old emails and photos and deconstructing fragments of conversations once shared over too much tequila and too little inhibition–there was suddenly an opportunity to reconcile.
Maybe not for the relationship, but at least for my own jilted pride.
After all, we had a fu**king blast together, from what I can remember.
Our relationship marked by weekly anniversary’s in the usual celebratory fashion:
Getting kicked out of restaurants. Sprawling on his floor in a drunken stupor lip-syncing to Tricky.
And the usual morning after sarcasm that ensued as we struggled to recall:
"What exactly happened last night, and why am I wearing Lola’s dog collar?"
Yes, romance was budding in the scariest fashion but I didn’t care.
The guy was hot, smart, and kept me hanging on the seat of my la perla
underpinings in a way that left me breathless but I digress–
The end began like this:
Back in October, after having sabotaged myself in the usual fashion, I walked out on him and our "budding relationship" while still in the thick of it. Clutching onto my pride for dear life and heading out his door without peering over my shoulder to see if he
was even watching. Violently pounding my heels against the pavement and
soon to be
forgotten familiarities of West 22nd street. Pushing me far away from
him and all the bullshit insecurities he provoked. Chest heaving to
repress the scream. Teeth tightclamped to silence the words. Thoughts
much too scary to *gasp* speak to him. The ones that gave away the
secret: No, I was not OK. I was human–and I was hurting. NO, I WAS DEFINITELY NOT OK.
And with the spin of my heel in the opposite direction–I went from hurting to hating.
Succumbing to that mantra that reigns supreme in my subconscious. Like a safety reflex
propelling me forward from potential hazards such as this. So the little voice in my head chants on:
Being pissed is empowering; Pissing and moaning is for pussies.
I sublimated my anger for pain and continued on autopilot. Returning to my apartment where the screaming ensued outside the confines of my own fucked-up reality. I sat there numb in front of my laptop. Words aching to burst from my own bloated ego. And in submitting to my own twisted, masochistic defenses, I recorded our epitaph. An ode to the demise of a relationship that I decidedly snuffed: Words to him I could never verbalize, but instead would post on the internet for him to stumble upon and hear me out. Only after my fingers hit the keyboard did my pride allow for my acquiescence entitled:
"Getting Whipped, Licking The Wounds."
Yes–escaping from intimacy became a sport that I not only mastered, but depended upon for survival. By the time I reached my twenties I was a pro. Of course, I had mom to
thank for this well-honed technique of walking away from the
vulnerabilities of love. She was kind enough to outfit her offspring
with this suit of armor at the tender age of 7. Preparing me for
battle. Sending me off into the arena to joust away at those who tried
to invade my vulnerable heart. And reinforcing the warrior within were
guidebooks called: "Passages," "I’m OK You’re OK," and "Looking Out For
Number One." and my personal favorite; "Smart women Foolish choices."
Titles whispering subliminal affirmations that would surely empower, as
we sat together in silence bonding between episodes of Donahue.
So tonight, after his bold extension of the Olive branch, I agreed.
Yes, now I was ready to face my demon. Him, and the reflection of myself I saw within him.
Why did I bother to placate his guilty conscious? I had my own agenda.
It was in this confessional where that lacey curtain of pride was ripped open,
exposing the nakedness of my own, pathetic truths.
My attempt to reconcile the same guilt I felt towards all the other men in my life.
And in our shared confessions, we repented and saved each others souls.
Yet still I question it. Does the whipcracker ever truly relinquish control? Maybe he had.
As for my case…
I wasn’t so sure.
Mar
11
We Swear We Will Never Be Them
March 11, 2007 | | 16 Comments
My parents, my models, hated each-other at the time of their divorce.
And it stands to reason. Why on earth would a carefree, whimsical, French woman fall for a controlling, traditional, Greek man?
Two polar opposites. Both in culture and in character.
When I ask them how it happened, how they ever got together in the first place, they both recount a similar tale:
At the beginning things were different. And each of them remember a more perfect mate. At the beginning, they were perfect together.
From what they tell me, at the beginning they were in love.
All wrapped up in poetic love letters and picnics on sand dunes and Petosky stones collected off the shores of Lake Michigan.
Blinded by the misty haze of spellbinding romance, the two optimistic early day romantics only did what came naturally in those days.
They got married. And they had three little girls. Both burdened and blessed by the stresses and pleasures of their familial bond–
Life changed dramatically. But one thing remained certain. They were indeed opposite people.
And the moment that misty haze of romance faded into cloudy trepidation–they did what came naturally in those days
and gave up.
"…your dad and I are not going to live together anymore…."
I was 5 back then and distinctly recall thinking: Good. Now they’ll be no more screaming and yelling.
Stephany, my older sister, had the opposite reaction. Her sobs came instantly. Hard, fast, and loud.
Confused, I imitated her cue and forced a few half hearted whimpers, squeezing out a few tears.
Still all the while questioning: Am I supposed to act sad?
Because I wasn’t.
In fact, with the announcement of their split, I secretly felt the opposite.
At the beginning, when they were both different, I can see how it all made sense.
My father easily drawn into my mother’s carefree glow
and she in turn reveled inside the warmth of his mediterranean embrace.
And at the beginning, the two fell hard and fast for their complimentary halves.
Both awestruck and charmed by the differences each other.
Spellbound by the sides of themselves they could never be
but perceived through the reflection of each-others loving gaze.
My mother slight and pale, with delicate blue eyes and French bones. Hair cropped Mia Farrow short–the ultimate pixie.
She happily submitted to the Daughter’s of Penelope gatherings at the Greek Orthodox church. Obliged to belong.
She played dollar poker with quarters alongside the ladies from the old country. She baked Spanikopeta and learned the appropriate Greek phrases: "Theyes cafe?" (Can I get you some coffee) and "Christos anesti" (Christ has risen).
She attended church on Sundays and sang in the choir. Lightly chanting hymns in ancient Greek and having no idea what they ment.
Yes my mother played the role well. But indeed, it was only a role.
And it wasn’t long before that carefree mademoiselle became stifled beneath the confines of her Greek orthodox choir gown.
Naturally, she became itchy.
In marriage, my father didn’t change so much. At least not in a cultural sense.
He was dark and handsome, with brooding eyes and warm olive skin. Dashing in his Marine dress blues, standing stern and proud.
He possessed a quiet–yet undeniable charm. An artist, a writer, a lover of the simple things and the beauty of their details.
A dreamer and hopeless romantic that held strong to the ideals of family, religion and community.
Determined to be a good father and provider and willing to sacrifice his happiness for the future of his children.
He sold his soul to General Motors to do so. Pulling 60 hour weeks on the line and hating every minute of it.
In his mind there was no other option. My father, my hero, the ultimate martyr, believer in "doing what’s right" spitefully stuck it out and became ultimately, miserable.
It was no surprise his greek temper would easily escalate and turn our charming dollhouse on Darlington street into a den of volatility. Where my two sisters and I quietly tiptoed through eggshells praying not to set him off into a frenzy…
Trying our best to evade those wild screamfests we witnessed between he and my mother.
The ones that sent us running to our respective pastel bedrooms, doors slammed tight to muffle their screams.
But the chaos between them seeped into us regardless.
And as young ladies we grew adept at silencing our pain. Masking anger with false smiles, repressing our pain.
We became experts at walking away from chaotic scenarios that evolve between two people who supposedly love each other.
But doesn’t it always start this way? Two different people, in love with the characteristics in their partner that allow them to feel whole…
Yet in time, these once charming differences transform to annoying quirks that ultimately make us question what the hell we ever had in common in the first place. We blame it on the other, that the other had changed. In the end reason wins, and we hastily cut ourselves free. We hang it up. Start anew. And repeat. And repeat again and again.
We forget how to appreciate one another.
We forget to work and we forget that love, like anything in life, takes effort in order to survive.
In retrospect we question how on earth we could fall in love with someone that so closely resembles our parents.
Or worse yet, transforms us into them and everything we vowed we would never become.
Aug
16
Zorba, Van Gogh and the Eggman
August 16, 2006 | | 21 Comments
As far back as I can remember–my father always communicated with me on the level.
His level. He had this unique way of making me feel important–As if I were never a child.
He would confide in me: report his struggles at work, or with my sisters, or my mother, or society.
He’d utilize me as his personal sounding board but I took at as a compliment.
I would listen–intently.
As if I could comprehend his hardships with the mind of a woman.
And as one may guess, with his confidence in me I grew up quickly
and since abandoned what young girls find intriguing in their formative years.
I
don’t recall a sandbox, but I see myself in yellowed photographs
touting pail and shovel inside one. Maybe mine. But I don’t recall the
quintessential "fun" times of my youth.
I remember the serious times.
I was raised from a very young age to believe that FUN was a four letter word.
That our society was tainted by the blackening of the media.
And
the blockbuster releases of the summer months were pathetic and
henceforth "A deplorable reflection on our society." The world we lived
in, according to Dad, was plagued by the lethargic "ME" generation that
begged to be entertained. And frivolous things such as amusement parks,
dominos pizza, and shirts with tiny alligators on them were considered
vacuous, excessive, useless, unnecessary "things" of which his
daughters would never indulge.
Not as far as he was concerned.
Instead dad took us to college.
He turned the campus of Michigan State University into our playground.
It
was there that we’d get lost in botanical gardens, or embark upon
journeys through the arboretum. We’d find sunken treasure in gathered
pennies green and varnished within the fountain outside the library.
Or my favorite: adventures of the art institute. We’d wander aimlessly
amongst ghosts of The Masters, lost deep within the labyrinths of the
Expressionist wing. It was there that my father would point out works by Kandinsky, Modigliani, and Van Gogh, quizzing us on the differing methods of
each.
For a man who loathed the negative influence of our declining American culture,
he did his best to entertain us in unconventional ways.
His
library being our main source of amusement. Consisting mostly of heavy hardcover
versions on the subjects of Fine Art, Greek Tradition, or World War Memoirs. And as we read them or shall I say, paged trough the
pictures, he fed 8-tracks of the Beatles or Pink Floyd or some obscure
Cuban folk tune into the stereo. And we’d pester him with
deconstruction of funny lyrics incessantly giggling:
"Dad…Why is Lucy in the sky with diamonds?"
"Dad why is he saying he is the walrus?"
"Dad…why don’t we need no education?"
Occasionally
he would take us to the movies–The art house ones. Where popcorn and pop were exchanged for granola
and fresh cider. The featured
matinee was not Cinderella but instead,
The Milagro Bean Field War.
Sometimes we’d huddle together on his lap to take in some vintage TV: A
snowy 15" RCA from 1969 complete with (inert) rabbit ears extending
miles long. 60 Minutes on Sunday eves became a tradition. And we
bonded, laughing when he did, at the trivial discoveries of Andy Rooney.
That’s about as lighthearted as it got on weekends with dad.
But he never stopped trying.
He
marched us to church on Sundays, and Greek dance lessons on Mondays.
And while our classmates were shipped off to Mystic Lake for summer
camp, dad would take us on family excursions around town. Or sometimes
not so around town. Like the field trip which exported us 45 miles
outside of the cosmopolitan boundaries of East Lansing to the forests
of Pine Stump Junction (population 40). Just so we could catch the
excitement of the Soy Bean Festival…Which in retrospect is such a
happy memory, because after an excruciating three hour car ride we
discovered that the anti-climatic festival was just that: Mounds of
Soybeans and not much else lying dormant in piles, wilting in the rain. This was fun for us because even dad laughed that day, and we felt closer to him because of it.
Back
at his home, the condo, we would pounce upon our respective heating
vents. He kept the place a balmy 62 degrees when we weren’t there, and
on the special occasions when his daughters stayed the night, Dad would
crank it to 68 in our honor. Although the weekend sleep-away he created
seemed a bit chilly, his valiant attempts to make a happy home warmed
us from within. Even as children, our hearts went out to him for
trying. We knew this was the best he could do. No matter how
unconventional, he never stopped trying. He was the ultimate underdog
for his children. For that reason, he was our hero.
And always will be.
Dad taught me many lessons.
And
as a young girl, I may have been pushed into adulthood far before my
time but I will say this: I have no regrets. These lessons made me the
woman I am today. One that pays her own mortgage and trades her own
shares and rarely feels the stresses and burdens of a life
unhandleable. The flow chart lectures given behind a firmly closed
bedroom door may have been premature for a child of 9. But it taught me
responsibility, and that "money didn’t grow on trees." And that most importantly attempts to do right, no matter how unconventional, are never
inappropriate if inspired from the heart.
So this ones for you, Dad.
For the flowchart, and the campus, and cider, and the soybeans.
For Zorba, and Van Gogh and the Eggman…
Your most valiant attempts to raise me right, no matter how unconventional, are what made me exceptional.
And I am honored to be your daughter.
Mar
17
Know When To Fold
March 17, 2006 | | 109 Comments
There were things said after and things said before and words left hanging in between, but what I can most remember about mentally quitting my job today was his Zoloft façade; Two vacant windows upon a poker face that I was too tired or too un-inspired to read. After all, the hand I’d been dealt was meaningless. I had nothing left to loose.
The fact that I even gave a shit about this job more was the bluff of a life-time, and he called it. Suddenly the weight of my unaffectedness became so burdensome, the cash payout meant less than nothing. I’d ‘ve rather be struck by lightening than sleepwalk through another day of corporate slavery. Hell, my bags were packed already. Mentally I’d already cleaned house. Un-locked the shackles, spread my wings. But just to ease his jilted ego, I’ll let him believe I folded.
Had I played my cards right, I most likely would have walked from the table a richer girl. But at this point, my pride was worth more than a few thousand dollars.
And for all of you who know me, who have heard my broken record sobstory for far too long–let us all raise our glasses tonight in celebratory bliss:
The indentured servant has finally wriggled free of the shackles, or shall I say,
escaped solitary confinement to a caricature I was playing the imposter of
for the past 7 years.
When I walked out today at 1148am, I wondered where the hell I was headed, and what direction I should take. My future was more uncertain than it had ever been.
However, all the fear was a gamble I was completely willing to risk.
That subtle lightness I encountered as I emerged from the one thousand times recycled air of the Empire State Building, made it all worthwhile.
Suddenly I was free.
Finally I could breathe.
Although directionless and without a future to rely upon, I found myself swimming through the realm of possibility that I chose to be my New Life.
So many are tortured by the fear of what remains behind the door of everything that is not out everyday. The torturous routine. And we wonder, what would it be like
to feel that
and be this
and experience just for a moment, a world beyond our dome of limitation.
Well, today my friends I have crossed over.
I have walked the tightrope and tumbled to the ground.
And the report from the pavement is quite sunny because at the end of the day,
there exists a net to break your fall,
whether or not you choose to believe it.
Fear may prevent you from believing it-but the laws of nature remain intact:
A body in motion will stay in motion, and a body of rest will stay at rest.
All I can say now, is that the velocity of this transition has given me wings,
Today I have found myself at the bottom of my fate,
And there is nowhere left to soar-
But up. (More)
Jan
18
The Luxury of Breathing
January 18, 2006 | | 35 Comments
I’m aware this is not what you signed up for.
I’m totally with you and I completely apologize.
I’m sorry that when this avalanche called my daily routine caved in that you were knocked down cause you were holding my hand.
You may be right, I have been neglectful, selfish with my time, a bad girlfriend.
I promise next time to be more considerate.
But right now the world outside has raped and ravaged and left me for the flies and frankly, I’m too tired for self preservation.
So if I leave you angry and hungry and yearning for more, I apologize in advance.
It’s just that so many have sucked the marrow from my bones already–
I’m hollowed. And I’m sorry.
But at this point I don’t have enough leftover for someone to take another piece, then tell me its my fault for not saving the biggest slice cause I’m fucking crumbs right now.
Your girl that’s got it all under control, the one that gets shit done,
and makes it alright and gives and gives and gives–is suddenly spent.
And the view of the future from beneath this burden is clearly uncertain. Somehow all those happy endings once relied upon have crashed and burned and I’m left standing in the ashes of the aftermath–
of futures fallen in mid-flight.
But I do care. And you are special. And I do need you.
It’s just that the world is really coming down on me right now
and I can only give so much. You call it selfish and I call it human
but maybe, just maybe, enjoying this day off was not in the cards.
But there is indeed, a method to this madness.
Wether or not you choose to accept it, there is a context to this scenario. Just please bare with me–Just grab hold and hang on tight because if you let go right now, it will surely be curtains for me.
And this is not an attempt to play on your sympathies–
But admitting to feeling a bit crowded is putting it mildly.
I feel the need to go there. To justify myself.
See, there are these few thousand distractions that keep pushing my boundaries inches from a breaking point of which , I assure you, is not a becoming side of my shining personality.
I know my absence is hard to take and my silences keep your heart unhinged, maybe even teetering on the brink of unwelcomed vulnerability, but this is not my intention.
And pardon me if I seem a bit preoccupied but I’m juggling daggers here. No–this is not an illusion.
On the surface the waters are placid.
Every now and again I’ll allow for the occasional ripple to rise.
But these are really potential tidal waves carefully repressed.
Beneath these cool waters the undertow is deadly…and if I’m not careful, I’ll get sucked below the surface and dragged through the jagged coral and no one would know the wiser.
I’m drowning here but never to the point of complete relinquishment.
That resilient set point my father instilled resuscitates me.
Just in time to catch my breath and prepare myself for the next tidal wave.
After all, someone needs to follow in his footsteps.
Then there’s this separate issue of single-handedly overseeing thirty two employees on a shoestring budget that spreads even my talents thinner than clingwrap. And if acting as mother, teacher, cheerleader, dealmaker, newsbraker, negotiator, guru and translator to these people were not enough, I as the ultimate mediator, must translate their stresses to my phantom boss. The one who is barely there. That only exists in figments between "where’s the money?" and smoke breaks. And back at the ranch the phone’s ringing off the hook and my inbox is loaded and as of this very moment I have 37 unread messages to attend to. Low and behold, a text from you: "you alive?" I laugh to myself. "GOOD QUESTION." Then the midday madness returns and I barely have time look up much less indulge in the rubbery slice of coagulated cheese called lunch that grows cold between incessant requests for unnecessary help at my desk.
The children are restless, pulling at my skirt, interrupting the conference call between father, banker and lawyer that will address my father’s soon to be forgotten future. These days we need two sets of ears, so the daughter with her head screwed on straight is appointed the task of mediating his lifesavings and the fact that my little sister needs 35k for her new house wired to California by tomorrow and dad simply can’t understand why. And must be convinced, yet again, that this is not a scam and that Jenny is no longer a hippie with dreadlocks, but indeed, has prepared like a good Greek daughter should and like me, knows what she is doing…
Dad’s not against it. Really. He just doesn’t remember ever saying yes.
We all know that posterial cortical atrophy can cause symptoms alarmingly similar to this other little problem we call Alzheimer’s Disease and on that note, he’s asking whatever happened to the Advanced Derivatives– You know, those convenient little death directions you give your doctor while you’re still living and coherent enough to instruct your loved ones how NOT keep your body alive if your brain is dead.
Yes, it is I, the chosen one, that has been granted the honors.
Leave it to the daughter with her head screwed on straight to take on he responsibility of assessing wether or not if my father’s life is worth living because there WILL be a time, experts claim, that he will forget how to breathe.
And it bares repeating I’m not looking for sympathy here–
I mean, it would all be much worse if dad were coherent enough to comprehend the reality of the situation.
That his lifesavings he sacrificed for the sake of his offspring is dwindling along with his memory of what happened about 30 seconds ago…
As his favorite phrase "Wait, what were we just talking about?"
becomes a mantra. And we all laugh and so does he but inside we are all slowly dying.
Thankfully dad may have it slightly better because he doesn’t recall the pain of forgetting. But the irony strikes those less fortunate like a boomerang. Blind-siding us.
The most dire reality that no matter how meticulously one plans, no matter how carefully one prepares, insures, shelters, scrimps, saves and sacrifices–futures have this way of falling in mid-flight-.
They crash and burn and spare no survivors.
And that utopian freedom that supposedly exists in early retirement is exchanged for the confines of ones own limitations:
The inability to read…to recognize a face…to lace a shoe…
to breathe.
No this was definitely not what we signed up for.
This erroneous countdown that mounts like a tidal wave before us.
That inevitable day when he forgets who we are.
So for the sake of his 3 daughters, his reasons to be, he worries. Constantly. Then passes his worry on to me, the daughter most like him–the sacrificial lamb.
Even if he forgets who I am, my mind will pick up where he left off.
This never ending responsibility, an inherited burden that I couldn’t shake if I tried. This is his blood working through me.
And inevitably, the daughter he struggled so much to raise the right way,
the one with her head screwed on straight, will dutifully carry out his final wishes. She will be directed to assist in plans he devised in advance…
to end his very life.
So could we please move the conference call up to now, because in 5 minutes my boss will be back and he’ll cast a silently disapproving glance and wonder why the hell I’m utilizing work time for my own personal pleasure. And he’ll bid me his famous "enjoy your day off" with sarcastic intonation as he saunters out the door ending his day before most leave for lunch but I digress. ‘Cause this dedication is really to you my love,
this one is about us. And the reasons why sometimes I may not always be there in spirit.
So here are my Advanced Derivatives:
Find solace in this heartbeat. Let this be evidence. Tangible proof.
The ultimate assurance that I am with you.
And even if my mind seems lost in a foreboding tidal wave of expectation–and even when the undertow nearly drowns me and I’m left weathered and hollowed and shaken–I may emerge less idillic, but no less your girl.
All I need is that gentle reminder that life is not something I cannot handle. That I’m strong and wise and good like that, and as always,
I will bounce back in my usual fashion. Deep I know these things.
But also remember, this strong woman that’s got it all under control,
is no less a daughter afraid of loosing her dad. And on days like this, sometimes even the girl with her head screwed on straight
needs a shoulder to cry on.
To be reminded to breathe,
because not everyone, my love…
has this luxury.
Jan
6
Wish You Were Here
January 6, 2006 | | 10 Comments
Cut off as I am, it is inevitable that I should sometimes feel like a shadow walking in a shadowy world.
When this happens I ask to be taken to New York City.
Always I return home weary but I have the comforting certainty
that mankind is real flesh and I myself
am not a dream.
– Helen Keller
“I always knew you would leave for some big city. It seemed only natural you would end up in New York. But I could never do it… It just seems so–crazy. The pace, the noise, the pressure. Every one so transfixed on materialism…”
Yes, you may be right. I never considered city life to be easy. Nor do I claim it would be for you. But that’s the very reason why I think you’d love it. New York is not for the weak willed, but with a will like yours, I am confident you would find your niche.
Allow me to elaborate…
Being a deep thinker, a passionate seeker of life’s greater and more meaningful,
I feel strongly if the opportunity presented itself, you’d be up for the challenge.
You would love it there Kevin. Wether or not you choose to accept it, I know you would thrive in an environment that keeps your mind whirring. Feeding that incessant craving to expand your world. New York is the essence of you. It will rise to your challenge as well, and prove a place exceptional, worthy of struggle and intimidation. Yes, you would truly love it here.
And I understand your hesitation. May I remind you, I never planned on ending up here. I never visualized my future as a real estate mogul calling the shots to a team of 30 in the Empire State Building. I never fathomed a 400sf studio as my home and I never intended on spending $1373 a month for the privilege of renting it. I never visualized sharing a sidewalk with 1.5 billion neighbors. Nor could I conceive of calling central park, on oasis of nature. I never considered a Brooklyn accent charming, nor put up with standing in line, every Saturday, for an hour, just to consume a $8 gourmet burger. I never thought I’d endure 100+ degree summers and 10 below zero winters and walking mile in stiletto sandals regardless.
I never in a million years pictured myself living here, Kevin,
but I love that I do.
New Yorkers emote a great deal of pride in there city for many reasons.
The most obvious: The city asserts itself.
Only in New York will you find the culmination of all things great. Thriving Industries that drive our economies and dictate fashion. That develop our taste-buds and enhance our appreciation for art. That expose us to a multitude of religions, ethnicities and philosophies on a daily basis. It all flourishes here.
And the people that uproot their lives from all over the world to surround themselves with what is best described as an incredible unifying energy. A draw so powerful it’s no wonder our opportune streets are crowded. How could they not? Where else in the world invites any dreamer, without discrimination, such fantastic opportunity?
New York City is a microcosm of Social Darwinism. For those who live on the outer edges of the bell curve, Manhattan embraces. And if you can embrace the city back and call it your home, well, you’ve already got an edge over the rest of the world. In this town, even the bums on the street have an edge.
I admit, living in the big city can be a big challenge. A series of incessant mini-struggles survived only by the fittest.. And there have been many times I attest to pulling my hair out over the noise, delayed subways and 12.00 glasses of Pinot Gris. But these setbacks are minor. A small price to pay for the joys I reap for belonging here. In my mind, to transcend the urban stress and gingerly go about the routine sharpens character. Wherever you find a city in where the living is hard, you will find the hard characters living there who know how to whip it. Those who refuse to take the easy way out and are naturally energized by the challenge: The survivors.
And New York City demands nothing less.
So the best of the best are drawn here from around the globe, joined together by the common thread of opportunity. Quintessentially, realization of the American dream. Every second we are bombarded by multicultural interaction. This in turn broadens our dome of reality and henceforth rounds us out as not just Americans, but New Yorkers. My grocer is Korean. Cab driver, Pakistani. Masseuse, Japanese. I buy my jeans from a Namibian and tailor them by a Russian. My favorite mexican joint is run by Chinese. My hairdresser hails from Barcelona and accountant, German. And since we last parted seven years prior, I have fallen in love with an Israeli, South African, and an Australian.
Yes it may seem intimidating to one who has yet to allow New York to seep into their soul, but once you do…there is no other place in the world to live.
Up in the heights of the evening skies
I see my City float in sunset’s golden and crimson dyes:
I look and a great joy clutches my throat.
Plateau of roofs by canyons crossed:
windows by thousands fire-furled–gazing,
how the heart is lost
in the Deepest City in the World.
–Oppenheim
Dec
17
Tainted Halos
December 17, 2005 | | 12 Comments
I’ve always equated my dealings with Kevin to brushes with white-magic.
He had this quiet way of conjuring the angel out of me. He emanated this welcoming glow which in turn, made me feel more ethereal in his presence. And for that reason alone, I missed him.
So it was no surprise upon reuniting in Michigan, amongst the averageness of the Marriott, he shined even brighter than I remembered. It was of even less surprise when he referred to the irony of my room number 527, that 5 plus 2 equalled 7, that it had snowed 7 inches on his way over, and 7 years had passed since we last spoke…
Seeing him again was so bittersweet. Like cracking open a dusty journal packed with tales of the real me. A story I was scared to re-visit. I knew this meeting would be as difficult as it was welcomed–Anxious and worried as I was. Worried his vision of a younger, more innocent Midwestern girl with stars in her eyes and a far more open heart had since turned a deeper shade of grey. Stone-like and rigid, and honed by the struggles that the citylife demands.
I feared I had lost my virginity to Manhattan. And Kevin would no longer identify that embedded angel. Folded wings now coated by layers of subway dust. The one who couldn’t be held down by the confines of our home town.Who unravelled herself from the city limits of East Lansing Michigan on a quest for greener pastures…
I pictured how his life might be. It was in the cards that he would do nothing ordinary. And to hear that he remained a Michigan local, wether a resident medical practitioner or not, I found oddly comforting.
In my latest fantasy of him I pictured a wife, a home fashioned by Frank Lloyd Wright and a newborn, maybe two–As his life stabilized and his roots twisted deeper into the earth of our secure midwestern upbringing.
But to ease my own discontent, deep down I wished he harbored a dark secret for me, a ravenous desire to break free and explore the world as I had. Maybe we could share that selfish little commonality…
Maybe it would have been different had I been joined him inside the Sparrow Hospital waiting room as he flitted between patients, serious and sobered in hospital blues. Maybe I would have felt my life had even less purpose to share. After all, Kevin was saving lives and I was merely spending cash.
The fact that I had purchased my 1st condo and made a killing on Philip Morris before it split seemed so unimportant. My rent stabilized gem in The Village with the million dollar view of a tree branch and semi scaffolded cathedral suddenly seemed so–not a steal. The idea that I lived in new York and lived my life like a Sex in the City episode suddenly felt so cliche.
But I did have the luxury of freedom unlike my friends, baggy-eyed and saddled with kids. And that,
to me, was priceless.
But when he arrived at my door, alarmingly unchanged from that boyish blue eyed pre med student that I so respected, I was relieved to find the pedestal leveling between us.
Thank God he hadn’t changed, at least not physically. And he lingered in the doorway sheepishly,
head cocked to the left with genuine blushed happiness. Not unlike so many eves before outside dormroom 505 of blessed Campbell hall. I smiled as I most likely would have back when we were sophomores. Genuine…Hopeful….
Happy.
Thankfully, 7 years passed between us and he still seemed that impossibly idealistic boy.
Thankfully, we reunited with the same issues we’d harbored and relied upon as marijuana philosophy, back in those hopeful pre-graduate haze. Back when we had excuses to slack. When we had he luxury of time and excuse of youth, and the post graduate world ahead of us to conquer…
Back in the day Kevin claimed to held some sort of candle for me. And flattered as I was,
I never crossed the line to allow for any disenchanting letdown. Had I compromised our bond for some basic beer clouded rationale for “having a good time,” I was certain regret would clobber me once the morninglight piercing reality crept through my Bay Windows. It wasn’t worth it. I liked Kevin too much to take so him so lightly. More importantly, I was too scared he would see my faults and find me just an ordinary girl.
So I never indulged him as more than a friend confidant and guru. And looking back , maybe the pedestal building was mutual. Enabling us to harbor impossibly idealistic visions of one another.
Less magical truths left safely undiscovered. I held him in high regard because of this.
Maintaining an intimate friendship to a brilliant boy harboring no greater sexual intention was the ultimate compliment. Naively I carried on believing this to be true, until one day, when he grew tired of playing angel to me and gave into more earthly desires with my younger sister.
That was the day Kevin became human.
When a friend oversteps there bounds with a sibling, it’s nothing short of taboo. A violation.
A reaffirmation of the male over-sexed who sees no boundaries. So with this dalliance involving Jenny, a slightly less inhibited and more naive version of me, I considered it a twisted compliment and moved on. And over seven years time, the effect of this violation wore thin to the point of forgetting.
At least in my mind.
But Kevin had other ideas.
And somewhere between the welcome back embrace and the celebratory Pinot Noir toast
he unleashed this all consuming desire to revisit his err and somehow make it right.
As if it made a difference now. Truth be told his indecency hadn’t crossed my mind in years.
But my guardian Angel insisted on going there. Claiming that this grave mistake was a heavy cross to bare, and after 7 years, his conscience was getting tired.
Strange to me, how one instance in time could carve such remorse in someone’s psyche.
And although I assured and reassured him the past was of no consequence, he refuted my plea.
And stuck me right back on that pedestal where I didn’t belong. Maybe it was his way of maintaining that impossible ethereal quality that I was sure I had lost. Maybe he needed something to pine for…
“Well, well, well….my Guardian Angel has arrived.” I announced as we embraced hello.
“You always used to say that.” He reminded me.
“I did?”
“Yes–Everytime you were about to leave….”
(To Be Continued)
