Grandma's Old Dishes: It's Party-time

One day cousin joe decided he didn't want to store the boxes of dishes that his mom had asked him to hold onto after she moved into assisted living. She had told me many years earlier she wanted me to have them -- but she would balk at the price of shipping them to me, 150 miles away. And then she would never allow me to stop by her home and get them, while I was on the road. Then one day they showed up on my doorstep. Three huge boxes too heavy for me to carry by myself.

My grandmother, my father's mother, had died almost a century ago, in the hospital, shortly after childbirth. There was no photo of grandmother passed down to his children or grandchildren (though I spent years doing family research trying to find even just one), no stories about her, what she was like. Just the pain of two young children left motherless. I grew up listening to my dad's pain.

So now I have grandmother's dishes. When I opened the boxes I expected fireworks, a flash in the sky, the rumbling of wind through the trees, or at least some trembling of my hands. None of those occurred. The dishes were a full set but plain. This was in contrast to the decorative hand painted dishes and cups from all over Europe I had received from my maternal grandmother, who had owned a bonafide antique shop. 

I thought "They're plain to me, but they were special to her, to my grandparents, to their family."

We didn't need another set of dishes. We don't need more things to store in our garage. But this is the only physical thing in the world have that connects me to her. Did I just want to put them up on Craig'sList? Try to get a few bucks out of them and ensure that somebody who needs has use out of them? Maybe but not now...

More than a year has passed since the dishes arrived, a year in which they've been in the original three boxes in our garage. Both my dad and my mom has passed on.  Then yesterday we brought up the extra leaf, set it in the dining room table, set out the white table cloth, and set the main dining room table with all the dishes, service for 12. And we had a party. Tuna fish salad, with sliced tomatoes, and pomegranate seeds garnishing on the side. Milk was served in the tea cups.

"To you, Grandma," we toasted. "May your soul be ever joyful in heaven."

I'm not sure what next.

Based on the designer stamp on the back signaling the dishes were Japanese and actually made in Japan, it's possible the dish set was a wedding present to the newlyweds. With barely a scratch, they look barely used! I feel I know even less about my grandma now than I did before. The dishes are beautiful to hold, the cups beautiful to the touch. What did she cook and place in those grand serving dishes? A roast? Did the two children laugh at the dinner table? Did she allow them to laugh, and join in? Did my grandfather, with his dour-looking face, who later gave the children away to an orphanage and foster parents?

Even the delicate sound of that teacup being replaced in its saucer was a connection. My grandmother - for a few years - listened to that sound.

Many people inherit dishes from their grandparents. Some are worth something, some are "worth" nothing. Do you make a crafts project out of them? Or sell them on Craig's List? Do you take out a photo of your grandparents while you sit and eat on those dishes?

My grandparents did not have creamed cheese and jelly on a rice cake, with cherries, and Activia with blueberries. And what's next will probably be more cold lunches like this, til we work our way through each dish and teacup.

But that's okay. And we never really do know "what's next."

REITS: The Truth about Your Elderly Parent's Montlhy Service Fees

Creative Commons License; Brett VA

You know that monthly service fee for the grandiose residents where your senior mom is living? Or how the monthly fee doubles when you or your elderly parent moves from independent living into assisted living - even though his or her bedroom/living room space is half the size? You may think that increase is going to increase services, which your elderly parents increasingly need. Then how come it doesn't? And how come you're so frustrated?

Where do you think the funds that your parents - or you, if you're supporting them - are paying are going to?

My mom lives in senior housing that began as senior housing run by Quakers and that is now one site owned by a national corporation. I used to think her service fee is split between her specific location, and the national corporation, each getting a piece. I thought I was so brilliant for figuring out that not all the money goes to getting her good care, but rather also to "the corporation."

Now even that turns out to be naive.

Have you ever heard of a REIT? You may not have but plenty of investors in it for the long haul have.  It stands for Real Estate Investment Trusts and this category of investment fund was created in 1960 by Congress. One type of REIT is Healthcare. We start with the fact that the land and physical facility on which you or your elderly parent live, or will live, is owned not by the senior services company but by the Real Estate Investment Trust.

Almost immediately after this type of stock portfolio was created, investors loved REITS. 

Read this from Forbes: 3 Recession-Proof REITs With Yields Up To 7.6%

or this from RealMoney:Top Healthcare REITs to Play an Aging Population

One reason why healthcare REITS are in demand is that they are required to distribute at least 90% of their income as shareholder dividends. In a normal company, profits would go back into the company in the form of better services, improved facilities, land maintenance and land improvement. Not so with REITS. 

AT LEAST 90% of their income is going to shareholder dividends!!!

Where my mom lives, the company advertises 74 acres that include 6-hole executive golf course,community garden plots, a greenhouse and hiking trails. But when you go there, the land is decrepit, the golf course overrun and uncared for. Bittersweet has overtaken acres and acres, shrouding out the tall trees that are probably hundreds of years old, squeezing the life out of them, now bare except for a few branches at the tippy top, and the REITS company does not cut the bittersweet down. Their way of dealing with it is to clear cut the trees and where they haven't clear cutted, the bittersweet just continues to overtake.

Once, I brought my golf clubs down. The land was soggy and pockmarked. The boundaries were overrun by bushes and invasive species that narrowed the fairways. To get from one green to the next hole, I had to wind my way through overgrown bamboo and bushes, often unsable to see to the next hole.  


This is not land stewardship. This is doing the least amount possible, to increase profits the most. There is no incentive to steward the land.

Every now and then an infrastructure improvement is made. But think about it: To get a physical structure improvement, the request has to go all the way from this individual facility to the REIT. 

I'll stop here for now, because I have a laundry list of improvements that could be made to the land and to the physical structure where my mom lives, and I have a laundry list of how services could be improved. But just start where it counts: 90% of the income of the assisted living facilities goes straight out to shareholder dividends.

the part of you that wants to sleep

When I called Mom's room at noon, I wasn't surprised that she was still in bed but I was surprised that none of the care aids had been in to get her up for lunch (or, in her case, the first meal of the day). Or at least that's what she said. If that's to be believed, given her current memory. But I said I'd call her back in 15 minutes, thinking that a care person would come in by then.

I was wrong.

I told her, "Mom, press the button on the thing around your neck." Sometimes I don't recall the name "pendant." It's no piece of jewelry, that I can tell you for sure.

Well, today she was able to press it and while it was blinking we had at least lots of time to talk. You know that having conversations with somebody with dementia can be challenging. 

"I'm tired," said she.

"I know," said I. 

"I just want to go back to sleep," said she.  

"Well, you can go back to sleep after lunch. It's not a very busy day. I don't have anything scheduled for you," said I. I know to say this, to promise her she can go back to sleep, which she can. I'd rather she do an activity, or sit outside in the sun, but I know to promise her the thing that will give her comfort. The thing she wants to hear. Then something surprising happened.

"I'm afraid," said she.  Now I start to think maybe I should have the facility psychiatrist come in and talk with her because she's talking about emotions! And she's in touch with them. This can be a good beginning.

"Afraid of what, Mom?"

"I just want to sleep." This is not such a stupid statement. This is a moment of self-awareness. For a person with dementia to be so self aware and to be able to share that, to bring me in to this thinking, is a moment I'm cherishing.  "I'm afraid that I"m going to be like this."

"Like what, Mom?"

"To be like this, and I'm not going to be more active." Suddenly we are in another zone of consciousness.  This word "active" is not a word I've heard her say in a long very long time.

"You me to be more active, and do things? Like what, Mom?" Am I pushing too much? Too fast? How far can I take this? Will I get another chance to have this conversation again?

She doesn't answer. The pendant is still blinking and the care person has not come in. I know that lunch will be over soon but I want this conversation to continue.

"So part of you wants to sleep and part of you wants to be active. Which one would you like to have right now?"

"I want to be active but the one that wants to sleep is stronger."

It is strong. And it's her biology at this moment. And while this moment is intimate, I think that after lunch the part of her that wants to sleep will win.

She may not remember this conversation but it made my day.

 

Today Is Not That Day

If you don't know what a rollator is, you are either not old enough yet or you're probably not a caretaker. I fit into the latter group. Those who are also caretakers understand just what a challenge it is.  In my case, we do it by phone. We live 300 miles apart.

 

I think I've got it down to a science now, even though all science pays big respect to the notion of randomness. And there are lots of things that even science cannot predict.

At least I know to phone my mom between noon and 12:30 every day- sometimes even in the middle of a doctor's appointment - because that's when she's waking up. Not from her nap but from her night's sleep. Getting her up and to eat is a delicate maneuver.

"Why is she sleeping so much?" people ask. The easy answer is "That's her disease." But I"m not sure really what disease she has, other than one symptom is she sleeps an awful lot. Whatever disease she has, this is what it does.

I'm not sure what disease she has because the doctors say it's one thing but none of us believe, even 4 years later, that that's what she really has.  Like Alzheimer's.  They don't really know if you have it until you die and they look at your brain and even the they don't really know because many people with a so-called "Alzheimer's Brain" are perfectly fine. But she does have a disease.

The other phone call is, on most days, between 3:30 and 4pm and that call also is a wake-up call, after she has gone back to sleep after lunch. This call is to get her to get up, stand up, walk down the hall.

"I'm comfortable here in bed," she says. "Why can't I just stay here under the covers?"

Then I have some sort of answer. I've been practicing this answer for a long time. "Well, you need to stand up straight, it's better for your back"

"I'm tired." I've practiced this too. "Then you need to walk some and get your blood circulating and get some oxygen to your brain." 

"But you told me I could sleep until dinner."

"No, Mom, I didn't. Somebody else might have said that but I didn't.  I said, "I'll phone you between three thirty and four and you'll take a walk and you said "okay."" They tell us to go along with people who don't remember things like that. I've found that telling her somebody else may have promised her that she could stay in bed until dinner works.

And back and forth we go.  Doing this for close to a year now, I know to say "Take the walk and then you can go back to sleep until dinner."  The promise of being able to go back to sleep is often enough to get her willing to walk down the hall and back.

Today we had version B of this. As she was getting up and out of bed and reaching for her rollator, she said, "I'd rather be dead than get up and walk down the hall." She wasn't kidding, either. We don't take this lightly. I know life is difficult for her.Wanting to live is difficult for her. But this is no time to focus on this truth.

"Well, Mom, I don't think today's going to be that day." She doesn't bite back.

 "Are you ready? Okay, let's go!" 
 
I've gotten out of that one, for now.

A Place for Mom? What the Pictures (and the Administration) Don't Tell You

The photos of the stately homes-turned-senior living look so nice you want to live there yourself. The lawn is green and plush. The dining room is so plush it looks like it could be in the Waldorf. Or Trump Tower. Or the Titanic.

Your grey-haired mother, or grandmother, is surrounded by and being hugged by care staff, and all are smiling profusely.

Don't fall to the advertising gimmick. Just think how great these photographers make your greasy Chinese food take-out orders look  But this is your mom, or your grandmom, or your dad, or your granddad. This is her life, and in many ways yours too. Or it will become yours.

They may show photos of the Independent Care on the Assisted Living page. 

You look at what's nearby, look at the websites, maybe A Place for Mom, but this is not like Amazon, where the information is readily available. You cannot see the reviews until you register. Worse, you cannot write a review until you register. 

You take a trip there, for the day. Looks nice enough. You may see a golf course. You may see tennis courts. They show you all the beautiful stuff.

Then the application. There's usually a lot of questions about finances, your elderly parent's, and maybe even yours. There's a nonrefundable deposit for the application. There's a Plan A and a Plan B and a Plan C, each one requiring a different amount up front and a different monthly fee. How do you choose? This is new stuff.

Because of the up front deposit, you really cannot be doing too many applications and you don't have time to really go and talk to residents. 

And when you or they have to make that decision, it may need to be rather quick.

I'm going to write a series about what to beware of. Believe me, you won't read this on the senior living websites, and you won't be told this stuff when you go check the places out.

But it's all very deliberate, and once your parents has made the decision, or you for your parent, you're pretty stuck, with the upfront money usually required. This is the rest of their lives.

Never forget that this place is in it for the money. They are in the business of helping senior, but they are in it for a profit and that profit motive will affect every aspect of your or your parents' lives. Smaller corporations become bigger, and pay dividends to shareholders. It's much more complicated than you realize, before you begin this journey to help yourself or your loved one.

Let's visit this. I'm happy to share what I've learned the hard way.

Truth or Mom?

As a college writing teacher, my students were required to write essays that would answer the question: Is it ever okay to lie?

Paper after paper my students would write "Yes" and go on to support their answers. I knew many people who lied regularly. But it was unusual for me to listen to somebody defend their lying.
The situation was often this: The student would have an elderly parent or grandparent who lived far away. Very far away.  Say, for example, the student lived in New York and the elderly grandparent was living in China. The student's father was ill and nobody would tell the elderly grandparent back in the homeland. Their reasoning was this: That it would upset the grandparent so it was better to say nothing. I always just focused on the students' writing, their development of ideas, sentence structure and grammar, but inside I was kind of horrified. How could you not tell a grandparent that their son was sick? Or dying? Or dead?

Recently I've started lying to my mom. It just happens. She's elderly and has dementia. So when my husband came home from a business trip with a broken leg, did I tell her? Absolutely - NOT.
Last month I detected a large lump on the back of my head. To the doctor and hospital I went. Did I tell my mom? Absolutely - NOT. The lump thankfully turned out to be just a fatty deposit.
Sometimes I have to get my mom up and walking. She'll stay in bed all day until dinner unless somebody gets her up and walking. I'll call her around noon or 1pm and tell her it's time to take a walk down the hall. She'll ask, "Can I go back to bed after this?" I answer, "Absolutely!" Then in an hour I'll tell her that her aid is coming. I don't mention that her aid will be getting her onto the exercise bicycle.

Last week her home health aid texted me that my mom didn't want to do a certain activity. She texted me, "I hate to lie to her but sometimes I just have to, to get her there." To the home health aid I wrote, "You're not lying. You are honest when you say, "Yes, you can go back to sleep after this. You're just not telling her that she cannot go back to sleep right after this.""

It's disturbing to not tell the truth, or to withhold the truth. It's a line to be very very careful about. I have to decide in each and every case. But it does feel right to not worry somebody who, as part of her medical condition, lacks initiative and needs a little 'help' to get moving. I know what the consequences would be of my mom laying in bed all morning and afternoon. They would not be good.

With my husband's broken leg, what I don't want to have happen is for my mom to feel that she's burdening me with taking care of her, on top of taking care of my husband. That could really be bad.
Maybe there's somebody around and my mom will ask, "Have I ever met her (or him) before?" There was a time when  - without hesitation - I would say "Yes." But now I hedge. "I don't think so," and she'll feel better. It's hard enough for her - she knows, she really really knows, that her memory is failing. Badly. But I'm not going to rub it in and feel unnecessarily badly about her condition.
Okay, let's not call it a lie. Maybe let's call it less than truth.

The last time I drove home from visiting her, a 7-hour drive mostly in the dark, she wanted me to call her when I got home. It was getting really late. Really late. Like middle of the night late. There was no way I was going to phone her at 3am. I considered lying and telling her I had arrived home, safely. NO I couldn't do that. What if something actually happened to me on the road after I phoned her? Next idea: I might make her angry, but the call went something like this: "Mom, it's getting late and I'm not home yet but I'm only an hour away from home. I'm not going to call you again because it's just getting too late." And she said, "That's fine, dear. Thank you and drive safely."

My religious tradition says one may lie to preserve the cause of peace, not to hurt another person’s feelings, or to provide comfort. One may also lie in a situation where honesty might cause oneself or another person harm.

Honestly, it's not always so easy to tell what that line is. And dealing with aging parents is difficult enough. Maybe some of my students had this right all along.

Presidential Primaries Among the Amyloid Plaques and Tangles of Alzheimer's

 

In the tumult and the excitement of the decades of the '60s and the '70's, my dad insisted that I go to college, and ranted and raved if I indicated any level of disinterest or interest in attending a college that wasn't on his list. Although I would be the first child, and daughter, to attend college, the word "feminism" was never spoken in our home. I was expected to attend college but, ironically, the notion of women's rights was taboo.

My mom knew when to keep quiet so as not to raise her husband's hackles, and quiet she continued to keep for years when he had his temper tantrums -- even for years after he, the self-appointed chief of our family's Thought Police, walked out. It took another 45 years after Dad left home for my parents to be officially divorced, allowing Mom to finally sell the family home and discard as much of the old (emotional as well as physically moldy) baggage as possible, and move into the present. The hallelujah celebration was muted, however. Just a few months earlier, signs of Alzheimer's had appeared. Mom now finally free from one form of oppression, another toxic and unknown form took its place. I wondered about lots of things.

Among all the millions of little details of moving an elderly parent from one home to another, and one year later to yet another, is the change of address for the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. And in that process is yet another question:

If you are a registered voter in PA and are changing your drivers license or photo ID address, would you like us to notify your county voter registration office of this change? Yes or No?

YES! Sometime later, she received her official new voter registration card, which I put in a safe place.

In a political vacuum, Mom and I would talk about whether she was registered as a Republican or as a Democrat. The ghost of the conversation was always about what party her ex-husband, my father, chief of the now former Thought Police, thought was best. Pennsylvania had a long history of being a Republican state. Meanwhile, her memory and cognitive functioning were in declinem as was her ease with walking.

And then came Hillary.

Primary after primary I heard my mom talk about Hillary. Mom wasn't interested in watching the debates on TV. If the content of the debates was lacking in substance or difficult to follow an argument or a position, the brain disease of Alzheimer's made it even more impossible for her to follow the candidates. No matter. My mom knew whom she wanted to vote for. Hillary. She also knew whom she hated. Trump.

"I want to throw things at the TV when I see him."

The Pennsylvania primary was months off but meanwhile we would just have to figure out how to get her to the polls. The senior community would be running buses to the polling site. My biggest fear was that I would determine she had registered as a Republican and would be unable to vote for Hillary in the primaries. When I had time one day, I checked that out... Nope, Democrat. My other fear was that when she got into the voting booth, she would forget whom she wanted to vote for, or wouldn't be able to figure out how to actually vote. Or maybe she just wouldn't want to get up and out of bed on that day.

The Pennsylvania primary was one of the last. THIS POST WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED on youreadermejane.com The afternoon before the primary, I phoned her to check in. "Hi, Mom."

In the most casual voice, she answered: "I'm sitting on the floor. I just fell. I used my cane to pull the phone toward me. My legs are off to one side. "

Okay, I remind myself to not panic. Among all the other thoughts encircling what remained of my brain was: Had she broken a bone? Had she fractured the hip that had been replaced years earlier? Did I need to figure out how to get her to the hospital for evaluation and x-rays?

"Mom, I'm going to call the front desk but they might want you to go to the hospital for x-rays. Would you be willing to go?"

"I'd rather not."

I phoned the front desk, who got security there right away and a nurse from the clinic to her apartment to assist. The nurse determined that it was most likely a groin pull. That was a relief! Still, the nurse asked me to make a judgement call on whether to get her to the hospital for x-rays, just to be certain. I hate making judgement calls like that. Just to be certain.

The rest of the evening, her aid made a special trip in offer assistance, as did my mom's sister, with ice, food, anti-inflammatories, over-the-counter painkillers, and love and comfort. Mom's sister brought the supplies of a democracy: a paper sample ballot for a serious training session. She had my mother practice picking the candidates of her choice. Also of concern was now getting my mom to the bus to the polls the next day. Mom already was walking slower than a sloth even with the assistance of her walker and making more and more stops along the way to catch her breath. How would she ever make it to the Main Building where the bus was picking everybody up?

The following day, my mom's aid showed up, got Mom dressed, and fed, iced her knees, groin area, and hip area, applied Voltaren Gel, and had her take more over-the-counter painkillers and anti-inflammatories. She stayed a little longer, long enough to get my mom into her car and drive her to where the bus would pick her up for the 4pm run to the polls.

At 3:35 I phoned my mom. "I'm sitting outside. The breeze is blowing and it's lovely here. I'd rather be here than inside." So far so good. Her sister would be along shortly and the two would take the bus ride together to the polls. Mom was relaxed and calm. I was not. "This is so exciting, Mom!"

"What's the big deal" my mom asked. "I've voted before."

Later that night I phoned my mom.

Through all the amyloid plaques and the tangles of the Alzheimer's brain, through the loss of memory and what they call cognitive functioning, through her depression and her desires to stop living, feminism - and Mom's voice - had finally broken through. Mom had voted for Hillary.

In the aftermath, I asked her what she liked about Hillary. Said she, after she'd had some rest, "She's a woman. I like the fact that's she's married to a president. I like her policies. Liberal woman. Aggressive. Conservative. I think she'll do what's good for women. Good for the country. Her husband was a good man and they can talk it over. I voted for a Republican candidate once but I can't remember who." 

Then she answered the question that hung in the air, which settled this question, "I wouldn't have voted for a woman if I didn't like her policies."

Nice going, Mom!