"I'm the Oldest Person I Know."

I'm 95 years old, and you know what? That's old.

I'm the oldest person I know.

That's Grandma. As a kid, I can't say we got along. There were some strong opinions involved, some -- shall we say -- incidents. Like the time she called my mother from 100 miles away insisting that we wear sweaters "because it's cold over here." Or the time she entered my room while I was away and straightened it up "just a bit." I wanted to kill her.

Grandma has always held strong opinions about everything. She was into raw foods and organic produce long before the rest of California discovered them. She firmly believed, and continues to believe, that fluoridated water is evil reincarnate, and that women who do not make efforts to "look smart," (that is, dress well and apply make-up) are doing humanity some sort of general disservice.

Through the years, her letter-writing has had me in stitches. There's the time I wrote her from summer camp to report on my recent swimming lessons, and received a reply that she, too, was learning to swim. At age 70. "But," she confided, "I don't like to put my face in the water." (I could relate to that).

And not one of my fellow campmates received, as I did, letters signed with the valuable but ill-timed advice, "Remember to eat lots of organic lettuce!" I neglected to return her counsel with the sad but true reality that at camp we were lucky to get some limp iceberg with our suspiciously-tinted beef patties and soggy fries.

This year, my grandmother is, as she puts it, "really feeling my age." Everything is a process; getting dressed, preparing meals, even -- I assume -- going to the bathroom, although this has yet to come up in conversation. A couple of months back she fell down in her kitchen and, in typical Grandma style, refused to tell anyone about it for fear she'd be dragged to the hospital for endless tests (eventually that is exactly what happened). She's okay now, having rested at home for a short time, after which she systematically rejected the help of every home care nurse and social worker available.

During her recuperation she refused to go outside, for fear she would be spotted using a walker by one of her fellow retirement community-neighbors in her, and subsequently be labeled an old lady.

* * * * *

The other day I asked Grandma for her insights about aging.

Grandma: I don't like old people. Even myself....I have to listen to myself all the time, and I get tired of it. I'm always trying to change things.

Me: What do you mean by that?

G: I would realized what I'm doing, and change what I'm thinking, and reject it.

Me: Like what?

G: Like walking like a duck. I reject it. Like being critical about people. Things really aren't that important, you know? I'm trying to resist some of the earmarks of old people.

I once read in an old copy of New Scientist, a British popular science weekly, that neurological imaging at different stages of life has shown that older people have a tendency to "mellow out" over time, not getting as worked up neurologically about those little things that get under the skin of most the rest of us. In other words, over time, older people gain perspective, at the most basic neurological level.

Sometimes, after a frustrating conversation with Grandma, my family will say, "Oh, she's acting like an stubborn old person again." But I'm not so convinced. No question, she's still stubborn, way beyond the rest of us, but she's always been like that. If anything, she's calmed down a bit over the years.

She's not acting old -- she's acting Grandma.

If you'd asked me as a child whether my grandmother would ever mellow out, I wouldn't have answered positively. I wouldn't describe her as mellow now. Despite her refusal to receive help, for the most part her obstinate behavior benefits her. She's already lost some of her mobility, much of her eyesight, and most of her friends to old age. But when she tells me she's gained a new perspective on herself and others, I believe her. She just wants her body, and her life, to stay just the way they are. Don't we all?

(Get to know Grandma a bit better in Imagine the Alternatives and At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

The Challenge:  Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read.  And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it:  Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?"  It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind.  Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change. 

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted.  We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done.  Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp:  Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself.  But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me:  [Which Left Field did that one come out of?  Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why?  Do you want me to die soon?

Always:  Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski:  Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house.  I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).   

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself.  What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying?   I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones.  I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front.  I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind --  sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.  

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living;  Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.  

The thing is, kids know about death.  They think about death.  They wonder about it, and they have questions.  At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.   

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly.  Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects.  For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans and a String

This morning on the way to work I called my grandmother.  (I know, I know - chastise me later.  For the record, I used an earphone and dialed before pulling out of the driveway).   

My morning commute is one of the only times I can call her.  I'm usually on the road by quarter to seven in the morning  -- that's 8:45 pm Pacific, a relatively lively hour for her -- and none of my kids are around to do that thing kids are known to do as soon as Mommy gets on the phone, which is to appear out of nowhere with some sudden and exceedingly urgent concern in need of your immediate and total attention.

Grandma:  So, what did you think of the speech?  

Me:  (Speech. Speech?  What speech?...  Oh, THAT speech.)  Actually, Grandma, I had to miss the speech.  I have to be at work for a 7:30 meeting.  I'll catch it later, on the internet.  (to self:  Oops.  That last comment was completely useless).

G:  People are saying he sounded, well, very presidential.

Me:  Yeah, that would make sense, under the circumstances.

* * * *

Later I was reminded of a question I'd been meaning to ask Grandma during our mutual visit in Southern California;  namely, would she be interested in receiving a digital picture frame so she could receive updated pictures of the kids on a more regular basis.  Only I had no idea how to phrase the question.  I made a mental note of a couple of previous Grandma conversations my younger brother had recounted.

Grandma:  Did you also get copies of those photos that your Mom sent of [ALN] and the kids?

Younger Bro:  Yah, Grandma, she sent them directly to me by email.

G:  So you already hung them on your fridge?

YB:  No, Grandma, they're digital.  They're still on my computer, I haven't gotten them printed, so I can't hang them.

Grandma:  But I thought you just said she already sent them to you?

YB:  No, Grandma, they're --  (Never mind).  Yeah, I put them on my fridge.

* * * *

And that conversation doesn't begin to compete with this one, between Grandma, Younger Bro, and Sister-in-Law, while the latter two were showing Grandma some pictures on their laptop.

Younger Bro:  So, Grandma, what do you think?

G:  Yeah, that's nice.  Uh, what did you say this was called?

YB:  This is a photo browser.  It allows you to view photos, edit them, add text, run a slide show, or publish to the web.  (Grandma looks puzzled).

Sis-in-Law: (shaking her head at YB)  Grandma, this is a computer.

G:  (Face lights up)  Oh...  A computer.

Retrospectively, maybe the two of them should have borrowed my college roommate L's one-size-fits-all explanation of how these things work:  Magic.  Except that Engineer Bro and I grew up with Engineer Dad, who used to made us solve math problems by drawing on the napkins at the dinner table, and who's always insisted on understanding how things really work, by researching and preparing explanatory articles complete with illustrative diagrams.  So while "magic" sounds good, we know better than to buy that one.

* * * *

I remember hearing a Lubavitch concept: "If you know aleph, teach aleph,"  (i.e. teach as much as you know, and don't worry about the rest for now).  So here I was, driving the car, talking on the phone to the other side of the world (another nice piece of magic, wouldn't you say?), while my left- and right- brains were making a united attempt to translate into Grandma-ese an explanation of digital photography, the internet, and wi-fi technology, none of which (let's be honest) I really understand myself.  But I tried anyway.  I figure, at least she'll understand that I respect her enough to assume she might follow.

Our review of digital picture frames eventually came to a close with her concluding that it would be nice to have such a thing, but actually using it would be completely beyond her.  

I'll look into it anyway.  If it does work out and we end up buying her one, I only hope she won't try to hang it on her fridge.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Imagine the Alternatives

When I was only 75, it didn't occur to me to think of myself as old... 

But I'm 94 years old and you know, I'm starting to feel my age.

For the past few days my grandmother has been staying here at my parents' house, to see her great-grandchildren and to check out potential "retirement homes."  (Ahh, what a nice euphemism.  My grandmother has been retired from her career as a school speech therapist for what, thirty-five years?)  For the past 24 of of them she's lived completely on her own in a beautiful "retirement community" -- there's that word again -- in the rolling hills of Northern California, where all residents are over 50, most own their homes, many drive,* and more than a few continue to lead active lives into their eighties and nineties.

Residents keep busy, with social and political groups, hobbies and parties.  The community hosts a variety of clubs and resident boards, so even the most mobility-challenged can find a way to participate. As they progress in age, their world narrows geographically like a target, until, like my grandmother, they find themselves living closer to the bulls-eye, and dependent on other, younger residents -- or the local dial-a-bus -- to transport them to the supermarket, the hair salon, the dentist.  

A couple days ago, I asked my grandmother how she sees the whole thing.  Could she imagine herself picking up her whole life, leaving her community and all her friends, to move into a "retirement complex" where she would live in a much smaller apartment (more of a deluxe hotel room, really, albeit with half- or full-size kitchen)?

She isn't sure.  Retirement homes are for old people, she tells me, completely serious.  I'm not old.

That sounds strange coming from a woman halfway into her hundredth decade.  Unless you know my grandmother.  

She lived through the Depression, got a scholarship to college, and graduated with a teaching degree, at a time when few women -- or men, for that matter -- had a chance at higher education.  She persevered through the kind of marriage later generations of women would have ditched, and loyally took care of her husband through a serious, drawn-out illness.  She was (and remains) an advocate of non-fluoridated water, vegetarian eating, and healthy living, during an era when that kind of lifestyle was commonly derided.  When her husband died, she didn't miss a beat, traveling the world while she was young and healthy enough to do so.  She purchased her own home, collected art and music to fill it, and continued her travels well into her eighties.

During our conversation, my grandmother described in detail all of her current available human resources, (and which she had called into action two days before her trip, when she leaned down, thought she cracked a rib, and finally agreed for her friend drive her to the emergency room.  Only a dislocation, it turns out: You know, something just snapped out of place.  This morning I pushed it back in, and now it's fine. 

I asked what she thought about the potential benefits of transitioning to this type of living arrangement, and she mentioned her difficulties fixing herself dinner every evening.  Breakfast and lunch, you know, they're small meals, I can handle that.  But dinner is another story.  She still does her own weekly grocery shopping;   her friend and neighbor, 82-years-old, drives her every week.  But not all of her neighbors are feeling capable any more.  Some of my friends, they're getting older.  Not old, you know -- only eighty, eighty-five -- but they're starting to feel older, and wonder where to put themselves, what to do with their bodies.

And the drawbacks?  For one, the price.  Places like these cost about $4000 a month, not including the phone bill.  Currently, she pays $250 a month in fees for some utilities and upkeep of the grounds, a few hundred for additional utilities, and about $400 a month for food. She now owns her house and so does not pay a mortgage.  My grandmother has savings in the bank and budgets carefully.  She allows herself some luxuries (she is a very stylish dresser), and can't help but worry, with good reason, over the financial commitment this move would entail.  Her unspoken worry:   What will happen if the money runs out before I do? 

Another drawback?  The feeling of losing her independence, feeling isolated, starting all over in an unfamiliar place.  She stated some of these factors out loud while implying others.

Today we joined my grandmother for lunch in one facility, run by and for Jewish people, and located about 20 minutes from my parents' house.  The grounds were well groomed, the living units hospitable but small.  The day's activities were posted on all the bulletin boards.  (This got me hoping these types of place adapt with the times.  If not, I'd better learn to play mahjong and Bridge).  They have a computer room and offer lessons in e-mail and Websurfing.  Residents are served three meals a day in the dining room, but may order room service, or cook for themselves in their apartments.  As we approached the dining hall, I noticed tens of walkers parked hodge-podge outside.  Inside, the hall was calm as a hundred older people chatted quietly while eating a four-course lunch.

Toward the end of lunch I asked my grandmother what she thought.  She said she hasn't decided anything, she'll have to think about it.

In a few minutes, my grandmother will board a plan taking her back to her town, where a social worker will pick her up and drive her home to continue the independent life of a ninety-four-year-old woman.  My parents have given her a kind of ultimatum:  If you choose not to move to one of the retirement residences we visited this week, that's you're choice, but then you must hire someone to help you around the house.   

For my grandmother, the latter option is actually worse of the two.  Having help in the house would mean she's old, when in fact, she's only ninety-four.

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

* All of us were exceedingly relieved when my grandmother finally gave up her car, at the age of 85.  I tried to identify with the symbolic and physical loss of independence this step would bring her, but having ridden with her over the last decade prior, I was scared to death for her and every driver and pedestrian around her.

(And thanks to Me-ander for a beautiful visual reminder of the limitations of old age).