The Spry Life

I've been listening to and reading about the latest ways to give seniors the confidence and tools they need to live independently on NPR and in the New York Times with much interest lately, as my family has been steeped in that discussion for the past few years. Because of Dad's illness, everything came to a head last year when my parents' home proved to be almost completely inaccessible for him as he became walker-bound and then wheelchair-bound. Basically, my Mom and Dad were relegated to living in an efficiency apartment--neither of them could or would go upstairs anymore, and the formal living and dining rooms weren't part of their daily route.

Both sources have featured interesting stories. I posted about one on our Facebook page last week, about the so-called "caregiver-next-door" phenomenon, where neighbors take care of elderly neighbors, doing their grocery shopping, cooking, errands, etc. I saw this at work years ago with my grandmother, who lived alone in an apartment in Philly while we were all in Texas. A pair of sisters generously "adopted" her, cooking her dinner every night, shopping for her particular types of foods (Nana was VERY picky about brands and such), being on-call for every little thing. Now, Nana was grateful--and so were we--to these women. But she was a tough customer. She was SUPER critical--and I'm not talking out of turn--anyone who knew her would say this. And this, I think, ended up sabotaging that wonderful relationship with these women. They simply couldn't take it any more. Nana was also fortunate that a daughter of an old friend and neighbor was there, along with her handyman husband, to pick up the slack. She even had the minimum-wage clerk at the Kmart down the street (where she used to shop regularly until she quit driving altogether) running over to help her when her radio shorted out (who knew Kmart made house calls?).

But her living alone, I know, placed a burden of worry on my Dad and Mom. She was in that apartment until she fell one night, broke a hip, and ended up in the hospital. In an all-too-familiar scenario, she died soon after, at age 96. 

My parents, although 20 years younger, have such a neighbor. Kathy enjoys cooking and my parents increasingly do not. Dad didn't even really like eating much the last several months, but if Kathy was cooking, chances were he would allow at least a bite, maybe even more. He loved her chicken noodle soup, and the last thing he ate was her super-thick milkshake (with a bit of protein powder). She was VERY proud of that. We knew, over the last several months, that Mom and Dad would have at least a few good meals a week with Kathy cooking.

Related to the idea of the caregiver-next door is the more formal "village" concept, where neighbors organize themselves into a group that serves as an on-call referral service for everything from dog-walkers and handymen to volunteer grocery shoppers and garden waterers. As a working mom who wants to help others but can't think about having yet ANOTHER person relying only on me, I love this concept. I could see signing up to pick up extra groceries for a neighbor who's ailing, or having my husband at-the-ready for heavy lifting or hauling (he has a trailer). Maybe I'll start one of these things!!

More troubling was another NPR story on high-tech monitoring devices that allow adult children a glimpse into the day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute activities of parents near or far. Minute sensors spew data on everything from what time Mom gets up in the morning, to how often she hits the fridge or flushes the toilet ... you get the drift. This data is transmitted in real time to the interested daughter or son or otherwise designated "mom monitor", with the idea that a deviation from routine could signal an impending disaster: illness, a fall, a lapse of lucidity, a wild hair to ... I don't know ... sleep in an extra hour in the a.m.? I don't mean to make light of this, but it seems to me that, however much I understand the driving force behind it, it's overkill. As a caregiver-from-afar myself, I can't imagine having THAT conversation with my mother. (It might be the LAST conversation I'd ever have with her!)

There's got to be a way to help aging parents stay in their homes without robbing them of their privacy (so easily lost when a person becomes elderly and ill, as I witnessed with my dad) and dignity. I think the "village" people (ha!) are on to something, although using that service requires a person to ASK for help, something my Mom, and I, and many others have trouble with. For now, I'll keep reading, thinking and processing what I find out ... the solution is probably different for every person, every situation, every relationship. I'll keep you in the loop as we travel this journey.

Lisa D 

I have been out of touch the last few weeks, and not for my usual reason (can you say, basic procrastination?). If you've been following the blog closely lately, you know that my dad has been sick. I have only mentioned his illness a few times, though I've been aching to write about it. Despite the fact that I have bared much in my career as a journalist and book author (revealing things my family never knew about me in my memoir, Secrets of a Former Fat Girl), I couldn't bring myself to expose the deeply personal experience of caring for my dad together with my mom, sister and brothers over the last year. Dad died on July 20, leaving me with enough material to last the rest of my life--and I'm not just referring to writing fodder. It's almost as if I just watched a movie on fast forward, and now I'm rewinding, watching, stopping, rewinding again to try to draw all the meaning and understanding and messages hidden within the storyline. 

Dad had cancer for almost 10 years, but it seemed to us that all of a sudden he was dying. That's the thing about some cancers, particularly prostate cancer. Even though his was so aggressive that when he was first diagnosed on his 67th birthday (I'll never complain about a getting a crappy Snuggie or Chia Pet as a gift again), surgery was already not an option. The ensuing radiation treatments and hormone shots made him tired and grouchy, less prone to laughter and even less inclined to venture out of "the radius" a kind of safe zone encircling my parents' Houston home beyond which they would rarely, if ever, stray. But Dad had always had his grouchy moments, was always fairly averse to traveling--whether to a new restaurant or across the country to my various homes in North Carolina, Alabama, and Tennessee—and was never what you'd think of as the adventurous type. I--along with my siblings, as I've recently discovered--saw his growing gruffness, his shrinking world, his dimming spark--as a personality issue, as his just being a jerk, plain and simple. We all had to tiptoe around him more often, never knowing what would set him off. Soon all we did was tiptoe. He was no longer unpredictable: We pretty much knew he'd snap at any disruption.

Over the last several months, though, I've started to see things more through his eyes. He never talked about himself, talked about how sick he was--one reason why I didn't get the connection between his behavior his cancer. Now I know: He was sick. He was in pain. He was scared. And, maybe, he was alone with his fear. That last thought hurts more than anything. But I think that's how he wanted it. In our family, we don't talk about feelings much. And when someone goes there, we deflect--we interrupt, change the subject, tell a joke. I have to think that if Dad wanted to talk about his life, his death, he knew he could.

Since mid-March, Dad declined pretty rapidly. When my son and I were in Houston for a spring-break visit, Dad was still walking, albeit with difficulty--he would get breathless after a few steps. He was also smoking, a lot, despite his COPD, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, a progressive lung disease that steals your breath away. It was because of the COPD, really, that he became too week to walk within weeks, even with a walker. I won't go into the details, but Dad was in and out of the hospital a couple of times until it was very clear he couldn't manage in his home--not in a wheelchair, with my mother and the sitters she'd hired to help.

He went to a nursing facility for rehab, with the express goal to get stronger so home life would be possible again. it was there that I saw things in him I hadn't seen in years--ever, even. At home, he could withdraw, retreat to his patio to smoke. But in rehab, there was no where to go. We talked like we hadn't in years. I learned that he spent a summer on a ship when he was in high school; that his favorite candy growing up was licorice; that he started smoking daily at age 16. He played Texas Hold'em with my brother and nephews, a throwback to the years when, as kids, we'd empty our piggy banks for family games of penny-ante poker. I heard him say "yes" to simple suggestions more than he had in years. I saw how hard he worked in physical therapy, how brave he was. I witnessed his connection with Sammy, his therapist, a real bright spot in a dark time for Dad. I know he was lonely. I know he wanted to go home. But the time I spent with him there was a real gift, for me--and I think for him as well. 

As hard as he worked and as much progress as he made, though, Dad repeatedly ended up in the hospital for transfusions, sedentary stays that undid much of the work he'd done to build his strength. During the last hospital stay, his doctors determined that the last-ditch treatment he was on in an attempt to contain the cancer wasn't working.

He got what he wanted: We brought him home. He died, as the cliche goes, surrounded by his loved ones. 

Those few words don't touch anything close to what those last days were like. I will write about them sometime, or maybe all the time, because this experience has changed me. My dad's death brought my family together in ways we hadn't experienced before, another gift from the universe, from him. All our usual defenses were set aside--we were able to talk about our feelings for him, pray with him, pray with each other (we are Catholic--we don't do that).

I said this at his visitation, where my sister and brothers and I all spoke: It was a privilege to be there for him when he needed me most, to be there for my mom and my family. This is what it's all about, why we're here, why we're family. Or at least that's what I believe. 

Now I'm left with this feeling of being untethered, like a hot-air balloon held to the ground by two anchor lines, one of which has been severed. I fight off feelings of regret and second-guessing: What has happened has happened, I tell my mom, my sister--we did our best for him. But, at the news of a colleague's father dying only several days later at age 90, I can't help doing the macabre math: 14 years, the difference between his father's age and mine. Fourteen years more and my son would be 23, out of college, maybe in love with the girl he would marry, a clearer path ahead of him.

I know: What has happened has happened.

I'll stop here--at least for now. I know I'm not the only one who has lost a parent, aware, as  never before, of how complex and emotional and piercing this experience is. I see my friends and coworkers who have lost parents in a different way now, knowing I didn't sufficiently understand their pain, that my superficial sympathy couldn't have penetrated it. I'll take this new knowing, and move forward.

Lisa D

Hi, all!

I wanted to share a note from a reader who responded to our call to take INDIVIDUAL action to improve the health of our country. 

I'm a strong believer in 'Prevention is better than Cure' and lead Yoga, Pilates and Zumba Fitness classes in the San Jose, Cupertino community. Give every day, get outside, make each day "healthy day," and walk whenever I can--those are exactly the kinds of things I try to inspire my class to do every day. You are right we can't fix the health care system.  But we DO have the power to make small changes to make America healthy and live our best life.
To our Health!--Polly Hu

Polly's note made me think about the role fitness instructors play in inspiring individuals to change. The BEST ones (like our Petra Kolber) don't just address the body, but the spirit and soul as well. When you sweat with them, you not only build muscle and burn calories, you bulk up your self-esteem and stoke the can-do fire inside. When you think about it, chances are you spend more time with your fitness instructor than you do at church--so those little encounters can do a whole lot to feed your soul and boost your emotional health. Cheers to all you women and men leading classes out there--thanks for inspiring us every day in so many ways!

Lisa D