The kids are alright...I hope.

Look at them. They're younger than my kids are now. They have no idea what's in store for them. An entire lifetime of joy, excitement, wonder, discovery, heartbreak, trials, sadness and sometimes, quiet moments of contentedness.

Today, they start the next chapter in their book of life. Sometimes I realize that I think of them as simply a conglomeration of medical issues. They're macular degeneration and dementia. They're osteo-arthritis and vascular Parkinsonism. They're hypertension and diabetes.

Today, the day that they move into their new assisted living apartment, their new "forever home," I want to think about the people inside those withered and beaten-down bodies. Here is who these two people became:

They raised four children as best they could. They lost one of them, a four-year old daughter, to leukemia in 1968. It was a heartbreak so painful, it forever changed them and the family. And yet they moved on. They fulfilled their promise to do something they never did - they gave their kids college educations. 


He was a commercial artist. He was talented and ambitious and built his own company that thrived through many years and finally crumbled for too many reasons. And yet, he pulled himself up and managed to survive. 


She stayed at home and raised the kids. She cooked, she cleaned...she took care of everyone...except herself. 


He used to own horses and then his obsession turned to race cars. That hobby would be the backdrop of their family life. Fun, danger, excitement - a team effort that made him the star. 


She learned to cook and sew and garden and consumed books with a passion until her eyes gave out. Her Polish heritage never really left her. She often translated for her neighbors and their cleaning ladies. But mostly, when we all left, she took care of him. 

Today, they will no longer live in my house. They'll forever be in my care, but now they'll have at least an approximation of their former independence. Funny, but they started out in an apartment and now they are back in one. It may seem like a step back, but I'm hoping they'll find it to be a step forward. I'm praying that they find the peace, safety, stability, comfort and joy that they deserve.

God bless, Mom and Dad.

A wink and a prayer

IT'S MOVING DAY!!! 

I should clarify. It's FURNITURE moving day. But seriously, this is a HUGE step. It puts a big, fat exclamation point on a process that has been nothing short of stressful, terrifying, trying, scary, fingers-crossing...hopeful.

Yesterday, Mom and Dad signed all of their admissions documents and Dad said it best: "Those numbers scare me. I don't know where this is all coming from."

Amen, Dad. This costs a LOT of money. There are a lot of moving pieces that need to fall into place in order for this to happen. A lottery win would help everyone immensely. But the odds of that happening are between none and none. So we're going on a wink, a prayer and a plan.

The interesting thing is that along the way, this changed from something we want/desperately need to something my parents' want/desperately need. They can taste their independence and I want SO badly to make it happen for them.

If you're the praying type, please say one or two that this all can happen...without strained backs, pulled muscles or herniated discs. Also say another one that somehow, some way, we can pull together enough resources to keep my parents in a happy place.

Here we go....

The parents move but the worry stays

Things are still progressing forward toward the big move. I'd like to say it's all good, but that would be a lie. I'm just a mixed up jumble of nerves and concern and worry and stress.


My sister is down in Illinois, sorting through furniture to move to my parents' new apartment and making a valiant attempt to clean up their house so that she and her family can finally move in. She arranged for carpet cleaners to come on Monday. Several years ago, my parents recarpeted the living room. In that living room, was a large armoire. When the carpet cleaner moved it away from the wall, she discovered that THEY HAD CARPETED AROUND THE ARMOIRE. That's right. Under the armoire is old carpet. Who does that?! I told my sister: "I think we've discovered the beginning of the dementia."

In the meantime, I've turned into the Water Nazi with Dad. Since he was found to have too low of a blood pressure, we were told that he needed to hydrate more. And so I follow him around telling him to drink water. In response, he nods in agreement and promptly ignores me. Yesterday, he pretended that his Fresca was a glass of water. If I hadn't picked up his glass and noticed that it was cloudy, he would have gotten away with it.

Seriously, he doesn't care at all to listen to anyone. Doesn't matter if we warn him that he needs to do something in order to stay healthy, get stronger, improve the quality of his life. He does not care. He's using the logic of a toddler. I'm not being mean. I'm being truthful.

Yesterday, Dad had his appointment with the neuro PT. We were sitting in the waiting room prior to the appointment. He looked at me and said: "Karen, what am I complaining about?" Geez, Dad. That's a loaded question. What AREN'T you complaining about? But what he meant was to ask why he was there. I explained that the PT will address his poor/wonky gait. And she did...and he was fine...while under her watch...and then went back to his old habits the minute we left that office.

I'm terrified what will happen when I can't see what Dad is doing all the time. Yesterday, after breakfast, he started walking toward the bathroom with his bowl full of leftover milk and the few Cheerios that were floating in it. I stopped him and asked what he was doing. "What do you think? I'm dumping this down the toilet so it doesn't clog the sink." I said: "Dad, we don't do that." He replied: "What are you talking about? We do that all the time. I thought it was a nice gesture." Huh, what? I told Mom about this exchange and she was equally mystified, but she actually doesn't notice these things like I do. What if he starts doing odd things like this in assisted living? What if he starts doing them so often that they question his safety?

These are the things that keep me up at night. These are the things that make me think that we're headed for trouble. God, I hope I'm wrong, but this is what I worry about....constantly.

Here's a peek inside my brain right now: "What if they don't like it? What if they don't find nice people there?  What if the staff isn't kind/nice/helpful to them? What if the food isn't good? What if Dad gets all crazy there? What if they get lost going to the dining hall? What if assisted living facilities are cliquey? What if Dad gets lost IN the apartment and falls? What if I lose my mind driving down there constantly? What if they call me all the time because they're confused or worried about something? What if they can't figure out how to work the remote for the TV? What if the finances fall through? What if one or both of them becomes seriously ill? What if they/we just can't make it all work?"

This feels just like sending my kids off to college...only worse.

Cautiously optimistic

It's been a while. Yeah, not much has been happening.

WHAT?! WHO AM I KIDDING?!

Here's a clue.

Look at this photo.

Yep, that's what you think it is. Keys....on a stretchy wrist keychain thingy. A symbol of the senior lifestyle.

This can only mean one thing.

MOM AND DAD MIGHT BE MOVING INTO THEIR OWN ASSISTED LIVING APARTMENT.

Wait, why did I say "might?" Why? Well, because I don't trust life and fate and circumstances and health and government. Yes, we need all those things to work together in order that this might happen.

Oh and in case you think my parents might be ambivalent or unhappy about this move, think again. Last night this exchange happened:

Me: "Next week - Olympics!!!" *claps hands in joy*
Mom: "Next week - Moving!!!" *claps hands in joy*

So, now this is important not only for our/my sanity, it's really important for my parents' happiness too! We've been to the apartment multiple times now and both of them are very excited....or as excited as two old, frail people can be.

But a lot of stuff has to fall into place....in a ridiculously short time-span. I need my brother and my sister to help a LOT on their end with moving some of Mom and Dad's stuff up here to Wisconsin. That's going to be Herculean....and awful...but hopefully a pain that is short-lived. I'm hoping we can make this happen without strained backs or hurt feelings. I just need to pray...a lot.

In the meantime, Dad goes up and down in terms of lucidity and health. Some days, he's bopping around the house, stealing candy from the freezer, giggling like a kid. Other days, he can't remember where he lives or who I'm married to or he's putting his adding machine into paper bags from Chinese takeout orders. Sigh.

Today, Hubby and I are going rummaging to see if we can pick up a small kitchen table and perhaps a few other things that Mom and Dad might need. I'm not a rummage sale person, but we can't afford to go high end on any of this stuff. And Mom and Dad are perfectly fine with that.

If you're one of the 2 or 3 people that read this, say a prayer...or ten...that somehow, some way, we can work this out. If this is going to happen, Mom and Dad are going to leave our house in the same way that they arrived - on a wing and a prayer.

Ode to the Sweatshirt

Dad wears a sweatshirt every day.

Every. Single. Day.

Every sweatshirt Dad wears looks exactly like the one you see here. And Dad has a sweatshirt in every color imaginable....including day-glo orange...which he wears...in public.

Oh and you need to know something else: We are currently in the middle of a drought caused by a heat wave. Today it will be 102 degrees. It's been this way for WEEKS.

And yet, Dad still wears a sweatshirt.

Every. Single. Day.

A few weeks ago, Hubby took Dad for a haircut. The stylist said to him: "How are you liking this heat and how's the sweatshirt?"

Mom and I have tried to convince Dad to wear something cooler. He also owns a large collection of Polo shirts which sit in a dresser drawer, unworn.

Truth be told, he wears a sweatshirt every day because I am blessed to have air conditioning and I am ballsy enough to keep it on every single day during this heat wave. So, it's almost a little chilly in our house, even though I have the downstairs air conditioning set to 80 degrees. Compared to what's happening outside, it's kinda cool. And I love it.

Do you remember back in April, when Mom and Dad first moved in with us and Dad was cold and this happened? Well, that's why I have no problem with Dad wearing a sweatshirt. It's his way of surviving my need to have air conditioning. It's also one of the few clothing items he can put on with little help.

There's another side to the sweatshirt - the fashion side, or lack thereof. I'm used to sweatshirts because Dad has worn them forever. When I was growing up, he wore them in the garage while working on his race car. They're sort of his thing. Dad without a sweatshirt just seems wrong. And yet some people might think Dad seems wrong IN the sweatshirt.

Yesterday, we went to my brother's house for my nephew's birthday party. My sister-in-law's family is kinda swanky. They dress well. REALLY well. So well that Mom came up to me last night after we got home and said: "Do I look like a dork?" We then had a conversation about how well that family dresses and then I had to remind her that they are not better than us because their clothes cost more.

Anyway, Dad was there in a bright yellow sweatshirt...and I could see the looks. And you know what? F*** 'em. All of 'em. I kinda liked that they were there, all designer-ed up and I was there, dressed head to toe in Target and Dad was there in his crewneck glory.

Because here's what living in the Senior Sauna has finally taught me: The little things don't matter. And Dad dressed in a sweatshirt doesn't matter. He can no longer embarrass me with his odd and weather-inappropriate clothing choice. It's such a small thing. The comfort and functionality of the sweatshirt - the fact that it's stable and something upon which Dad can depend every day - is perfect.

I realized yesterday that I used to look at people that were caring for and transporting old people around and think: "Poor bastards. That must really suck." Now I see us, with our Old People Train walking verrrrrrrryyyyyy slowwwwwllllyy in and out of places, and I realized that I've finally relaxed. I finally have learned to just chill. Not about everything, but about a lot of things. And all it took was two old people invading my life. All it took was putting my life on hold and creating a new home for people that gave me my first home.

All it took was the sweatshirt.

God bless that damn sweatshirt.

Familiarity breeds contempt

I'll start with the good news: I'M LEAVING TOMORROW FOR GIRLS' WEEKEND!!!!

This is my annual trip - 7 women, 1 cottage, 1 lake. We've been doing this for about 22 years and it's nothing short of amazing. In the past, I've been whiny about the fact that there's no air conditioning. This year, I'd almost sleep in a tent. I need this weekend SO BADLY. I need girl talk and book reading and NO PILL-SORTING. I'm going despite living with the guilt of saddling my Hubby with my parents for 2-1/2 days. I really do feel bad about this, but I'm afraid if I don't go, I might kill my Dad.

Yeah, it's getting bad.

Here's the bad news: Caring for your parents might make you feel differently about them...not in a good way. Allow me to explain.

I always worshiped my Dad. Despite his flaws, I looked up to him. I loved his sense of humor and his work ethic. I liked the way his mind worked. I was always so proud of the life that he built without a college education. And then when life beat him down and he lost his business, I loved how he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and never whined. His beautiful home was taken away and he and Mom had to move multiple times and he had to drive halfway across Chicago to work for someone else.

Now, after living with him for 3 months. I don't like him. I've forgotten what I ever liked about him. I'm just being honest. I now see what my Mom has put up with for 60 years. Her vigilant care of him masked his selfishness and his lack of any interest in anyone other than himself. Maybe he's not really like this and maybe age and poor health has simply stripped him down to only the negatives. I'm not sure, but I feel really sad about the fact that I don't like this person that is living in my house. How awful am I?

Here's the rub: I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Yesterday, I got on Dad's case about getting up and moving. I told him, in no uncertain terms that he needed to get up more and move around the house. It's starting to piss him off and, well, you already know how I feel about that. Well, he snapped at me again. And then I snapped back:

Dad: I moved, OK? You told me to move and I did. Where do you want me to go?
Me: Never mind. I give up. Do what you want.

*Cut to me walking away and Dad shuffling away in disgust.*

After that, he sort of stopped talking to me. And I was OK with that...but not really. (I'm a people-pleaser. Even people that I don't like. It's a horrible quality. I don't recommend it.) Suddenly, this silent pall fell over the house and it was icky and sad. I want to fix it all and I can't. I'm digging so freaking deep to find compassion and patience and kindness and the well has simply run dry.  This is why I need to go away...before the damage is so bad that my relationship with my Dad is beyond repair.

But let's be glass-half-full about this: I now adore my Mom. She's now my new hero. Life has consistently dished out lemons to her and yet, to this day, she continues to be optimistic, sweet and pleasant. My new fear is that I won't be like her when I'm old. Her simple kindness is nothing short of endearing.

While I spend my days fuming about Dad's general lack of interest in life, I also look for ways to tell my Mom that she's awesome...because I don't think that anybody has ever told her that. Despite all the sh*t that she dealt with during her 81 years on earth, she finds the grace to be amazing. I hope someday to be the same.

In the meantime, I'm off to the woods - drink in hand, book on lap, friends nearby. Sanctuary.

Stare down

It's the staring that gets to me.

If I think of all of the things that bother me about our new roomies, most of them are just me being the crabbiest and least flexible or kind person on earth. I like things a certain way and there's no way anybody, least of all two 81 year olds, will fit into my idea of the perfect roommate.

But the staring gets me every time. After 3 months, I can can tell you, definitively, OLD PEOPLE SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING.

It drives me mad. I sit next to my hubby on the couch, look out on the deck and see my Dad sitting, not reading or sleeping, but staring at NOTHING. Then here's the conversation that takes place:

Me: Look at him. How does he do that?
Hubby: Do what?
Me: SIT AND STARE AT NOTHING?
Hubby: It's his life, why does it matter?
Me: Because his life is now in MY house and it drives me CRAZY!

Sometimes my parents sit together and stare at nothing...together. They don't talk. They just sit and stare. Then my Mom will punctuate the silence with a question of my Dad. Typically an inane question that really requires no answer...and usually receives none.

But the worst...the ABSOLUTE WORST...is when I go in the library and Dad is sitting in there alone. The TV is on but muted. He's staring at the screen. And then this conversation takes place:

Me: Dad, what are you watching?
Dad: NCIS
Me: Why is it muted?
Dad: Because I've seen this one and I don't want to watch it.
Me: Then why don't you watch something else?
Dad: Because I don't want to. 


*Cut to me walking away, shaking head in disbelief.*

I know that while they are sitting and staring, they are sometimes thinking about things. I know this because sometimes, after a mini stare-fest, my Mom will make a beeline toward me and then ask some crazy question about the Assisted Living facility where they will, hopefully, move in a few weeks (more about this later.) Or, more typically, she will talk about her belongings and then simply say: "I need to sort through some things." I swear to God, she has said that sentence at least 50 times in the past week. For God's sake, Woman, SORT, SORT, SORT!!!

But I guess therein lies the mystery of old people. They have thoughts, but the execution of those thoughts and/or desires is simply beyond their abilities.

Or, as Little Feat said in the great song "Old Folks Boogie:

And you know that you're over the hill
When your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill