Excitement in San Marcos

Excitement in San Marcos 12/27/14 Last Tuesday night, I think I have that correct, I looked at my home alarm panel and thought of how lax I have been regarding my security. Considering that I was planning a short trip when I would feel compelled to turn on the alarm, I decided to test it. I did not have to think about the “on” button or the one that allowed me to walk around when the alarm was set. They were both clearly spelled out on the panel. I hit those buttons. Instead of the usual flashing light, I heard a loud unfamiliar beep that kept repeating itself. Suddenly I was helpless. I had no idea how to stop it. The constant beeping was shattering my calm. My neighbor was quick to respond; within minutes I saw him at the window with flashlight, I beckoned him in. The beep continued its whale. I called the alarm company; “just enter your code and press cancel”. I had no idea what my code was, no clue. Quickly my house seemed to fill up with supporters: firefighters, local security representatives, my neighbor’s wife. With all that help, I ran around with phone in hand, trying to figure out what to do, “yes I knew the password to my system, no I never had a code” I said. Slowly the person on the other end of the phone began to make sense to me: “Can you recall the numbers you use to shut off the alarm?” Without hesitation I entered the correct code and the beeping stopped. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. That senior moment cost me momentary peace of mind. My neighbor, the wife understood that the tension had taken its toll. “I will go get my kettle and some tea, you just sit down.” I did what I was told; she returned with kettle and tea. I had enough presence of mind to provide mugs. We sat together in my kitchen and chatted about the evening and other things as well. I settled down. Finally, I forgave myself for creating such a stir; reminded myself of Robert Frost’s poem that states, “something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” I am so very grateful to my neighbors, to the firemen who came quickly, the security patrol who walked in when I was not looking. Together they saw me through my difficulty giving me gifts of calm, support and thoughtfulness. Frost also said, “good fences make good neighbors”, not last Tuesday night.

Something to Remember

Something to Remember When the Great Depression hit, it affected my family seriously. We had been living a life of “luxury”. A large and spacious apartment in NYC and a home on Long Island, kept my brother and me beach happy in the summers and walking distance from school in the winters. We never shoveled snow until the Depression caused us to abandon the apartment and move “to the country” all year around. From my seven year-old perch, this is what transpired. One morning in October 1929, my Mother explained that she would not be home when I came from school for lunch. “Why not?” I asked, “I have to go to the bank to get my money,” Mother explained. I had no idea that her simple answer was about to change our lifestyle, habits and schools. My friends would not follow me to the country, nor would my teachers. Nevertheless, I was unmoved. At seven I went with the flow, my parents were in charge At seventeen it would have been a different matter. When Mother was home at three o ‘clock that day, I asked, “Did you get your money?” Her simple “no” gave me no clue of what was to follow. For some months we continued to live according to habit, I wondered that there was no change. Soon I began to hear a new phrase, “we need to tighten our belts”, I did not understand at first. Then plans for winterizing the house “in the country” became a reality. At the end of the school year we were told that we would not return to the city for the winter. I was to go to a different school, the little six-room schoolhouse about a half a mile from our “country” home. That year when I needed new shoes for the new school, Mother bought two pair, one black and one brown. She would not have to buy shoes for me, she hoped, for another year and she could take advantage of a sale. The Depression changed our way of life, but it never really hurt. Mother was a great manager. I can truly say that despite the fact that our income (as I later learned) was cut in half, my brother and I never knew hardship in the real sense of the word. We had three nutritious meals a day. Mother was also a good cook; she did tricks with leftovers. We had everything that we needed for school we were able to participate thoroughly in school activities. I never felt deprived. My belt never got tight. We did not have a car, but I knew how to ride the bus. We did not take exotic summer vacations there was always the beach. I went to the movies once a week and when I went with Dad, he treated me to a sweet afterwards. When Mom took me to the dentist in the city on a Saturday, we lunched at the automat. I did learn a lot without a college course in economics. I learned to understand and even practice Mother’s brand of economy and good sense. Every time the economy slid, I panicked from that time to this day. Yes, I was ready for our Great Recession when it came.

I support our seniors because I am elderly and I have learned over the years that being informed is a step in the caring process that reaches everyone. I share information that will help us help each other. On January 29th, Palomar Health’s San Marcos Community Action Council will sponsor its Seventh Annual Training and Tool Box of Resources in support of our community seniors. We call it the SOCS Box Training. Everyone is welcome to attend; it is not limited to San Marcos. There is no charge; registration for the day runs from 9:30 am to 10 am on the 29th, see below for early registration to save your seat. The day is oriented to visitors, visitors who drop by to chat with an elderly friend or family member; it is also extremely helpful for caregivers of the elderly. Anyone who has time can participate, those who volunteer at a service organization, faith-based care teams, volunteers who reach out with meals-on-wheels, the Senior volunteer Patrol/YANA (means “you are not alone”). Why is it important to be trained in visiting seniors? Not all of us are forthcoming about things that are hard to do, about the many things we worry about or forget: taking meds regularly, paying bills appropriately. Many of us will only complain to a best friend about loneliness and sadness. My friend lives across the country She does not sound comfortable and normal on the phone. Loneliness is catching up to her as her contemporaries are dying. I would love to have help with talking to her on the telephone. Is there more to say than, “How are you?” At the SOCS BOX training we will learn about the signals of a problem, possible meaning of a sudden change in behavior or voice, we will learn to ask questions that ordinarily might not occur to us. To back up the questions and observations we are taught and informed at training about the variety of resources that are available. Our San Diego community has the resources to help one maintain a safe and active life. Visitors will learn how to identify what might be a mental health issue in a friend, what to do about hunger, where to find someone to help with minor home repairs. It’s training to observe, not offer therapy, but to learn when to make a suggestion, a referral, what to do when it is clear that something has gone wrong for the senior. We learn to understand the warning signs of trouble. A woman who has already registered for training said that she had attended last year, she learned so much that she is coming again. She believes there is much more to learn. She is correct. There will be the opportunity to hear a discussion concerning the interaction of our meds. Emphasis during the training will include words about discarded meds and their possible danger to our water system, advice concerning keeping our meds away from our young people. Suicide prevention, called “Question, Persuade, Refer (QPR) will be offered after lunch, from 1:15 to 2:15. I went recently, it was extremely helpful. During the year I had to use what I had learned in a real situation when a close friend was talking suicide. My young friend paid attention. Suicide prevention is a significant agenda item. I think I may have saved a friend’s life. Register for SOCS BOX by January 23rd for the January 29th sessions to insure your place. They will be held at the San Marcos Community Center, 9:30 am to 1:10 or 2:20. Call 858 628-2880 or online click www.PalomarHealth.org/classes, for further information. Register early, space is limited, with our growing senior community, folks understand there is vital information to be gleaned from SOCS BOX Training.

Memories often Hurt........................................................................December 2, 1014 When my beautiful son, Jeff died on December 11, 1992, I discovered that the pictures on the wall were great solace. I felt surrounded with his warmth, love and so many memories. They were still pictures and somehow they were the past, never forgotten but also, no longer painful. Recently Judi stumbled on old family movies. With much excitement she transferred those old movies onto a DVD and brought them to me, a wonderful gift. I want to share my reaction without seeming ungrateful, unaware of Judi’s good intentions. Everyone has his/her own take on life’s ups and downs. I hope that Judi understands mine. Live pictures of my lost husband, my borrowed son and my grandson-in-limbo suddenly entered my reality, the pain was intense, The difference between the flat stills and the moving pictures was, for me somewhat shattering. As memories that I savor every day, my men have a specific place in my heart, my day and my being. I have said that Erv and Jeff are residing in my heart and Matt is always in my prayers for his future. Their pictures hang on my wall and I have a word for each almost everyday. The home movies suddenly brought them out of hiding. There stood Jeff, tall and straight, there was Matt bubbling with the joy of living at age three, happy and here was Erv warm, loving engrossed with his grandson. I had accepted the deaths of Erv and Jeff, the missteps, unhappiness of Matt and suddenly there they were, out of place and haunting my night. There is a good probability that Matt will straighten out his life, learn a new reality. But Erv and Jeff will never be lively and enthusiastic about life again. I love them still, they dance in my dreams, but seeing them move around as they used to, to hear their voices as I did so often in the past was very unsettling. Yes, everyone is different.

Thanksgiving, 2014

     I have much to be grateful for. Starting with myself, I am grateful to be alive and well, happy that I am not dependent on anyone, that I can still get up and make my breakfast without burning the house down, without sitting and holding my head unable to decide what I want to eat. Everyone has choices, I am thankful that I still know how to implement that ability.

     I am thankful that my daughter Judi is close by, in good health and enjoying her independence.  Also she helps me, I see her at least once a week and speak with her every day.  I need to take moments, more frequently, to be thankful that we chose Judi years ago and that she is a vital presence in my life, helpful and affectionate as well.  When she pats the top of my head, she says that she is covering my bald spot; I believe that there is affection accompanying those pats.

     I thank the good Lord that I have a grandson.  At the moment he is in trouble, many grandsons put their parents and grandparents through a lot of growing, maturing pains.  This too will pass and we will be able to pick up our connection.  It will be strengthened  and valued, even more tomorrow, than it is today.  I am happy that he is alive and well and eager to show his caring heart.

     I am grateful that I have a hatful of memories, mostly happy ones.  My parents loved me and did their very best to load me with the very best.  I had wonderful guidance and just enough leeway to allow me to grow.  Sure we had our disagreements but I do not believe that we ever carried them through the night.  How good it was that when we discovered we could not have children with our biology, we were smart enough to adopt Judi and her brother Jeff.  Apparently we only borrowed Jeff. He left us after his 43^rd birthday, but has left behind wonderful memories of a dedicated and loving son.  I have great memories of my brother, who died the year before my beloved.. Once we outgrew the pain, the little sister/the big brother know it all stage, we became friends.  As adults we not only loved each other we also shared respect and understanding.

     I am grateful, thankful for my friends who are supportive, loyal, forgiving and loving.  Old people can be cantankerous; I am no exception.  My friends (of a variety of ages) keep me steady, challenged and able to wake up to face the day.  Always & foremost, I am grateful for the wonderful life I enjoyed with Erv, my mate of sixty-two plus years!!!

 

 

I Stumbled Again!                                                                                 November 17, 2014

   When I broke my hand, I did not fall, I broke my hand by hitting a wooden stool with my very own fist.

   Last Sunday I gathered myself to walk around the neighborhood.  I try to do this daily.  It is about a twenty-minute safari, considerably longer when I stop and chat with a neighbor.  I enjoy the exercise and the chats as well.  When my day is empty, the exercise and over the fence conversations keep my spirit light.

   As I sit to write I recall, I put on the proper shoes, fixed the brace on my hand, put keys and Kleenex in my pocket and I headed out.  My walker was in place outside my door, I reached for it and I went down.  I have no idea what happened, no one was there to trip or impede me.  Later I found a small rock that may have been the tripping stone.  I landed squarely on my back…ouch that hurt.  Because I suffer no severe pain, my friend Karen and I decided that I did not need the doctor.  She, who is seriously tuned to Eastern medicine, suggested some herbal meds that she could supply.  I have tried them and they do take the edge off the aches.  One more day before I turn to aspirin or its substitute.

   Falling at my age is a double-whammy.  In the first place, I do not want to fall and incapacitate myself secondly, it seems weird that I am so very careful about a fall, I write and caution everyone else about falling then out of the blue I went down.  Did I lose my concentration, was my mind wandering, did I take a step without thinking?  A friend said, “Get over it, it happens.”

   I have not time to be incapacitated. I still have much to do.  I also must not be afraid to move, lest I fall.  It is just another catch-22 or damned if you do and damned if you do not.  It is a an insult to me when I fall, I act and write as if I know exactly how NOT to fall, yet every couple of years I take a spill, despite my “good intentions”. 

   I am not afraid of death; I am also not ready, yet!

Smoking    November 1, 2014

     I remember like it was yesterday.  I was getting dressed to meet my husband in the city for dinner.  At the time we lived in suburban New York.  My 14 year-old son Jeff burst into the room, breathless, full of questions, important questions.  “Mom, how long have you been smoking, how much do you smoke, when did you start?”  I slowed him down a bit and promised to answer his questions.  I did slowly, attaching a family story to each one: my Mother was a smoker, she wanted the “privilege” of giving me my first cigarette, my Dad objected to our smoking.  As I spoke I noted that Jeff was no longer looking at me, with his eyes on the floor, he sadly said, “Oh Mom, you probably have cancer already!”

     Jeff had just come in from his last class of the day: Hygiene.  It was 1963 they had been discussing the surgeon general’s report on smoking.  I did not know how to reassure my son and I was not prepared to make promises at the moment.  We left my room together; we parted with few words.  I had no idea that that conversation would have great impact on me.  There were three cigarettes left in my open pack.  I smoked the three and have never smoked again. 

     Jeff had gotten to me, to my mind, my heart.  I did not process that conversation; I never deliberately made a decision, did not say to myself, “I owe it to my children…my boy is correct, this dangerous,”  I never thought it through.  I just followed Jeff’s instinct. I quit.

     But the story is not ended.  No, it was not easy to quit.  When the children came home from school, I met them with anger, I was angry at everything and everyone in my path.  When I became tired of hearing myself yell, I consulted the doctor.  My husband Erv had told me that this was something I had to do myself, he could not help.  My doctor came to the rescue; a small dose of Phenobarbital at 2 o’clock in the afternoon enabled me to face the children’s homecoming with a smile. Quitting the sedative was easy when our family came down to normal. I believed we were smoke-free.

     I was wrong, the saga, however, is not finished.  I was shocked to find that my kids smelled of smoke when they came home from school, no one is more sensitive to that smell than a recovering smoker.  “Oh the kids in the back of the bus are always smoking, that is what you smell, Mom”, Judi and Jeff agreed.  For a time, I bought in until I challenged them both.  The years  passed, they went off on their own,  I had failed.  Two weeks before Jeff died at age 43 he stopped smoking because the doctor told him he was smoking up his own oxygen.  Paralyzed and ill, he quit cold turkey.

     When Judi had a serious illness before she hit 60, the hospital would not permit her to go outside to smoke. A month in the hospital enabled her to quit smoking.  I do not know that smoking was a major cause of my adult children’s illnesses, probably not.  I know that my Mother who smoked all her life died at 67, too young, that my brother died of lung cancer after 50 years of second hand smoke, he never smoked.  I am so grateful for my teenager’s courage to confront his Mom’s problem.  He saved my life, I am sure!

    

 

 

Disability!                                                                         October 14 2014

   I am learning what it is like to live with a disability.  My broken hand is no big deal; certainly not compared to a broken leg or hip or back.  It is, however, teaching me  lessons.  I am learning how to accept the fact that my left hand is now my working hand.

   I sat for an hour today filling in the small circles on my mail-in ballot.  Now that is a simple no brainer task.  So long as I had decided whom to vote for, filling in the ovals with my left hand was no biggie. Three fingers on my casted hand are free, they can type but writing, using a pen is a challenge because the bulky cast gets in the way or hits any key it chooses..  So, I tried my left hand.  It was like learning to write all over again.

   I understand that five weeks of pampering my right hand is simply a huge inconvenience.  Small matter though it is, it requires learning, patience and hope.  For active folks who are trying to maintain independence in the face of some functional loss, the immediate challenge is substituting an action for the disabled one.  First issue that popped into my head was “What about my signature?”  I asked the bank and received an interesting response: ”Don’t worry about it, however you sign, we will know, we will accept it.”  I fiddled with the idea of just signing my initials.  My son always signed checks that way.  Finally I found that my right hand had deeply grooved habits, it automatically signed a reasonable facsimile of my signature as long as I worked very slo…..wly.

     What about eating?  Again, habit overcame disability.  I automatically pick up my fork with that right hand.  It is clumsy and I have found out a knife is useless.  Those three working fingers are doing quite a job, again slowly.  Finally following nutritionists’ advice, slow down eating. But my left hand is also learning to take over and work. That is where patience is important.  Picking up a fork, buttoning a shirt or un-buttoning it requires a great deal of patience.  Until now I have had a short supply, but I am learning to take it easy, to wait for me and my left hand to learn and catch up.  Washing my face is something I never did with my left hand, but we are learning.

     Patience is hard, I got into trouble by not having enough that moment in the middle of the night when I stubbed my toe. Hope is easy,  I know my hand will heal, I hope the healing is perfect.  If it is not, I know perfection in every aspect of life is hard to achieve.  The doctor has already told me my pinky finger might be a bit funny.  I did not ask him to define funny.  I can wait to be surprised.

 

One Woman’s Opinion……………………..October 7, 2014

  

     I am uncomfortable with the expressions “passed away” or “passed on” or simply “passed”.  It is school days lingo; I have not taken any exams recently.  I wish people would confront the truth about death it is a piece of life.  Just as every one of us emerged from mother’s womb, so each of us will sigh that last sigh, and die. One unnamed writer claims that using the phrase “has died”, is rude.  That boggles my mind. When someone dies, that is a truth, not to be celebrated but to be honored, accepted and respected.   Of course it is rude if a death is reported excitedly with disrespectable relish.

     “Passed on” or any of its derivative phrases is harsh on my ears, they evade the reality of death.  Maybe for some it softens the blow.  The variety of issues includes specific religious beliefs.  Did my beloved husband pass on to a better life? Personally, I do not believe that, he loved life just as it was.  I do not believe in an after-life though I respect those who do.  I believe in the immortality of one’s spirit as long as someone remembers.  Did my darling son pass away?  Not at all, he did not go very far, he died and landed in my heart. As long as I live his memory will be lively, especially that his Dad is there to keep him company.

     Other issues with the use of “passing away” include: pass is an active verb.  When someone dies there is no action that takes place.  “Active” stops, the one who dies becomes less and less active until finally, he/she loses life and dies.

     I do not usually engage in the use of euphemisms.  It is in my nature to look truth directly in the eye.  Perhaps for that reason, when someone dies, I need to say it like it is. I think we agree, as noted, that death is part of living.  Everyone, as far as I know, does eventually die.  Just as we live our lives differently from one another, so we die each in our own manner.  You might say that your friend passed; I might say that my friend died.  I guess in the long run, we each understand the words; it is the loss, the sadness and compassion that matters.  “Pass” will never express for me, how I feel about my beloveds’ deaths.  I lost them, they did not pass by, their physical beings left me and became ashes, as they wished.  Their spirits will continue to live in my heart as long as it beats as I wish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

More than an injury …                                                                October 2, 2014

     As you know, my right hand is in a cast, I broke it!  There are three useful fingers poking out of the eight-inch long cast that has almost immobilized my pinky and its ring finger partner.  What is my problem? I still have a good left hand and a working upper right arm and shoulder.  Women friends try closing or opening your bra with one hand.  And my men friends try signing your credit cards lefty or right-handed with a jutting cast trying to “help”. I have not decided yet whether I want to tame the cast and make it obey or just teach my left hand how to sign my name.

     It has been rumored that I do not take my own advice.  When I was writing a column for the North County Times, I wrote often about falling.  Twice I have fallen and broken bones.  Accidents happen to us all, but long time tested advice about scatter rugs, caution, impediments, lighting etc is necessary to remind us that caution is always necessary as we age, as we slow down.  I did not place the rug I tripped on prior to my first fall; I did not tell my friend not to let me out on a slant, then I turned down her offer of help, the second time.  I broke my own hand this third time because I was expressing anger. I did not fall!

     I am also not infallible.  Accidents happen and anger can explode.  If one has a sound piece of advice that is worth sharing, it needs to be shared.  For those who criticize me for not taking my own words of advice and precaution, I have a few things to say. First, a fall is an unplanned event.  Words of caution simply add to the possibility that we will not have an accident or be seriously hurt if we do.  Second, taking precautions helps us to build wall against serious accidents.  Third, by being aware and careful, we protect our friends, family and visitors in our home.  Fourth, I always felt that perhaps my words would at least help one person avoid a bad spill.  Most of the stories I told and the words of warning I sounded were meant to be helpful to others.

     If it worries some that I did not heed my own advice, I am grateful for your concern and sorry for your disappointment.  It is like many old stories about the shoemaker’s barefoot kids or the psychiatrist’s acting out teenagers.  Accidents happen, bones break, hopefully, we survive to talk about it. But even at this ripe age, I do have to control my temper, should not have blasted that stool in anger; happy it was not a person.

 

Temper!                                                                                September 26, 2014    

     Lost my temper the other night.  Some folks said they did not know I had one, everybody does.  I, for example lose my temper or my head over small things.  When big issues show up, I am able to confront them squarely, head on.  The other night, it was a very small thing that evolved into a multi-sided nuisance.  I stubbed my littlest toe on the way to the bathroom, in the semi-dark, in the middle of the night.  The pain was momentarily bone crushing,  I reacted quickly, thoughtlessly, I hit the offensive wooden stool as hard as I could, I retaliated and broke my hand, dislocated my smallest finger.  It is a good thing that the person who moved the innocent stool into my path, was absent!  I will repent for five weeks while my hand recovers in its plaster cast, covered in fancy blue netting.

     I am grateful…I am learning, have learned, how kind people can be. The spirit in the doctor’s office was unbelievable.  I was afraid I might need surgery, Urgent Care warned me. Dr Patel made it very clear immediately, it was MY decision, there was an alternative.  His technician was kind and funny, Rafi helped neutralize my fears and raise my spirits.  It is hard to believe that I had a good time despite three shots in the hand and a lot of twisting and manipulating of my small finger.

     A friend said that he was glad that I did not fall, also happy that at my age, I could still demonstrate my ability to get angry.  I do not recommend fighting an offending piece of furniture as I did, next time I will use my voice instead of my fist!   Five weeks in a cast should teach me, once more, to repent and learn to use my left hand.

 

My friend came to call…                               September 17, 2014 

   Once a week in 1958 I found my living room filled with a half dozen energetic seven-year old boys. It was Cub Scout Wednesday and I was in charge. When the boots and snowsuits inundated me, I appealed to the other mothers for help. One special woman stepped up and joined the fun. From that day to this, we have been close friends. Our husbands enjoyed each other’s company and our children tolerated one another with respectful good manners. Fifty-six years of a friendship that has withstood the passage of time in good humor, much fun and occasional disagreements to spice things up…”Please do not smoke when you baby-sit with my kids!” she begged adding, “My house stinks when you leave.” “Is your husband always so pick-y about the proper champagne glass?” I asked impatiently. “You cut his hair while we were away, how dare you!”  
     Today we are both widows, she has been alone longer than I. There have been companions for her over the years, my husband and I enjoyed those men too; today as I grow into my widowhood, I thoroughly understand that the need for companionship is real, nagging, often debilitating. Vera and I respect and love each other as good friends do. So this year, like so many others, she visited her son, daughter-in-law and me.  They live in Northern California and I, down South. Coming from New York to California is a daunting prospect and reality, I can attest. Her devotion to her kids and to me, is embracing and remarkable, crisscrossing the country when one is past eighty is not so simple, takes courage, planning and helpful children.
     We had a good visit, Vera and I, believe it or not after all these years we have sustained one another, we still had stories to share. New stories! Mothers-in-law and sisters-in-law seem to provide the best humorous and horror tales. We apparently saved them just for such a time when we were stuck inside because of the awful heat outdoors. We laughed a lot; it was much too late to weep over any of it.
     Friendship is an important ingredient with which to nourish health and well-being. Our relationship is mellow and strong. Today when we said good-bye neither of us shed a tear or made a grandiose statement about our mortality. I fully expect Vera to return to chat and to gossip; I may even summon the courage to go East. We will see each other again and if it is not to be, we had a really good time during California’s latest intense hot spell.

THE Heat

THE Heat                                                                    September 14, 2014

     Please everyone, all my friends especially, watch out for that heat out there.  I found myself drooping and not knowing why; I was feeling low and depressed, wondered if I was getting sick.  Was I coming down with something terrible?  Then I went outside to empty the trash.  I figured it out.  It is oppressive and therefore depressing.  The air even smells bad, hard to take a deep breath.
     As a kid we summered near the beach where it was never really hot.  For us temperatures
in the eighties were unbearable, we usually enjoyed the low seventies most of the summer. When it hit the high seventies or low eighties, my parents would call us kids from our beds because it was cooler outdoors and we were complaining loudly  about our discomfort.  As I curled up in Dad's lap, on the front porch, he would put his fingers to his lips to shush us, "Look", he said, "There is not a leaf moving, see how still the trees are?"  To this day I watch the leaves on a hot day and invariably repeat Dad's words.
     In later years while I was at college, on the opposite side of that coin, when temperatures fell below freezing, the Dean of Women would get on the loud speakers and say, "Young women, today is bitter cold out there, you may wear trousers!"  I wonder if today, the Dean gets on the speaker and allows, "Today because of the extreme heat, ladies pull up those short shorts."
     When I grew up and went to work I remember that our office closed when the temperature went above 90 degrees.  We were permitted to go home at lunchtime.  For some of us that was a dilemma.  There was work to be done, appointments to be cancelled, but most of the time we enjoyed getting home early enough to go to the beach for a swim; it was always cooler. In this heat at this time, I have not heard of any offices closing when the temperature hit 90. Everything in San Diego would be shut down.
     Those folks who are on the energy saver program with SDG&E, please be aware that your a/c will not be working at the top of the days heat.  The last time I inquired they said that they did not turn it back on until 6:45 pm.  That can make for a long very hot afternoon/evening.  I cancelled the program for myself.
     Most important is to drink extra fluid during this period. I understand that our blood system is busy keeping us hot, flushed faces and raised body temperature, so it needs the extra fluid. I beg those who are my peers and younger, not to exercise outside during the day. Take that walk very early in the morning or evening. The assault of the extra high heat requires changes in our routines or habits and unfortunately we are not always prepared to make changes and are often unwilling to do so.
     Those who feel faint, nauseated, dizzy and/or are suffering from a headache, rapid pulse or fast breathing, should seek medical help.  Of course if someone's body temperature goes to 103, call the doctor.  By the way, anyone taking a diuretic should ask the doctor how much fluid to take daily.  The water pills make a difference. Appropriate beverages do not include alcohol.  Stay cool, friends, play indoors as much as possible.
    

To Go or To Stay                          September 10, 2014                  

     Every day counts.  Recently I wrote about mindfulness, the need to know that concentrating on now is urgent to our mental and physical health.  As we age and grow past 90, the now becomes ever more important.  We literally do not know what tomorrow is going to bring, so let’s make the most of today.  Mindfulness is that simple to understand.

     Contrary to that thought there are many who anguish and ride the roller coaster looking for an answer to the question: what’s next?  If we need to become involved with that thought, the larger question for many is, how do we solve the problem of loneliness? That brings us back to now.  A psychologist friend told me that loneliness is the single concern that most of his clients/patients consider a priority issue when they seek the help of a counselor.  Widows and widowers, who are lucky, yes lucky to find a companionable mate, the second or third time around, have no time for loneliness.

     The rest of us, some who have aged out of companionship, can be busy and happy all day, but when we shut the front door after dinner, we are alone! Alone and loneliness are different states. All day long I am frequently alone and I relish my independence.  Some nights, on the other hand, the loneliness is down right painful.  I continue to live in my home, surrounded and embraced by a lifetime of memories. My question has become, “would I be less lonely, more satisfied if I moved into a retirement facility?”  I vacillate with ambivalence. 

     The other day I decided to write it down, to look at it, I dug into my thinking.  I formed two lists on a single sheet of paper: one column included the assets that I would accrue if I moved; the other contained the liabilities I would suffer.  I share this because the idea worked and I was able to sit back and understand, I really do not want to move.  Despite the fact that a retirement facility would mean no more meal planning, informal companionship would always be available, many activities and special trips would be there for me, though independent I would know that I was being looked after, emergencies deftly handled.  I would not be alone.

     On the liability side, however I found an equal number of hesitations.  For example, I have trouble in crowds; I have seen the gathering of impatient folks waiting for the dining room to open.  The hubbub of a dining room could spoil my appetite, offend my failing ears. I would have to adhere to a meal schedule, which I do not bother with by myself.  Taking a few favorite pictures with me would not satisfy my feeling of being embraced by my memories.  Every picture and hanging in this little house is in place because Erv and I chose that space for it. I do not know if I am up to the effort of making and keeping new friends.  Lastly my homecare insurance does not cover a facility.

     In sum, I faced the fact that I do not want to leave my comfort zone.  I will still have to close my front door at night, after dinner, I will be alone, loneliness will take over wherever I am.  There will not be someone with whom to talk about the day, to plan a bit of tomorrow, mindfulness aside, it is fun to plan together.  But my friends seem happy to listen.  Thank Heavens for my friends who live near and far.

     For those who are considering a change try the assets and liabilities lists, they might help clarify personal issues.  It would even work if there were perhaps, a child pushing one to make a change.                                                                                              

Letters to the Editor.                                    September 6, 2014

   I am still pleased to see my name in print.  The Los Angeles Times has seen fit to print two of my letters, one today and one in June.  Since I have stopped writing my weekly in the UT I have begun again to address the Times’ editor.  I also had a letter in a major Jewish magazine. Reform Judaism is circulated throughout the country to Jewish folks who are members of a reform (progressive) synagogue.

   The subject I addressed was tattoos!  That is an interesting non-religious issue, I was surprised to find it seriously discussed in Reform Judaism.  To begin, I have no tattoos, I  never was interested taking the plunge.  I argued with my husband when I decided to have my ears pierced and I won.  In those early days of our marriage ear piercing was still on the edge of a big taboo in Judaism.  Modern times and my argument overturned the remnants of tradition that did not fit our more progressive ideas. 

   Anything that might be construed as a desecration of the body is not permitted among many pious Jews. Tattoos never entered our discussion until our grandson, designed and paid for a tattoo on his shoulder. It is a great serpent, beautifully done.  At the time my only question was : “did it hurt?”  I did not discuss with Matt all the other concerns that I had regarding his inking his shoulder.  It was his shoulder and he was 21.

   I suggest that tattoos with a message are frequently a cop-out.  If we write it on our shoulders or across our chest, we never have to say it or act it out.  There are those who will say that they want the world to know what they believe or they wish to share their message of love or anger.  My issue with religious symbolism depicted in tattoos, is the same for all religions, though I only challenge my Jewish friends.  Those Jews who put a Mogen David (Star of David) or menorah (Judaism’s special candleabra) on their chests need also to act out their devotion to Judaism.  The wearing of one’s faith is not enough; we must live it to follow through properly.

   Judaism requires that we engage in tikkun olum, healing the world, that we live and respect the Ten Commandments.  In sum our Judaism requires us to try with our own lives to make the world a better place.  That is a big order that cannot be emphasized or explained by a Star upon the chest, it is too simplistic. Acts of faith are lifetime responsibilities.

   Though I truly enjoy seeing my name in print once in awhile, it pleases me more to know that my wee small voice is frequently heard.

The Sandwich Generation                                                 September 1, 2014

     What happened to the Sandwich Generation?  That is a concept from our very recent past.  During its heyday, it referred to those who were caring for their aging parents while, at the same time, raising children, a double whammy for those who were doing just that.  My Mom died at 67.  I remember leaving her hospital room on the run to pick up the children at school, cooking dinner for four and answering nurses’ questions, on the phone, at the same time.  Many of us involved in a career made the sandwich a triple-decker!

     Today there is no talk of the Sandwich Generation because we are living longer.  By living longer we have given our grandchildren time to grow up.  Now our children are coping with a different situation.  Just as science has made it possible for us to outlive our own parents, so it has made distances shorter, communication and transportation easier. Our kids wander the country seeking appropriate careers and we also wander seeking sunshine and easy living. So far, so good except when illness intervenes.

     I have friends who are coping with Moms who are alone with health problems.  It is no surprise that men seem to die more frequently than women. Studies have shown men at a higher risk of death.  According to the Census Bureau in the 85year old and older group, 43% of men have lost a spouse while 80% of women are widows.   As a result many friends are coping with “mom issues”.  When Mom lived on the other side of the country her day-to-day living was her own to enjoy or anguish.  Visits in between nourished the relationship.

     When illness intervenes, visits alone no longer meet the problem.  Our baby boomer generation is “stepping up to the plate”; their lives and those of their Moms are changing the geography, someone has to move.  It is not easy to tell Mother that she may no longer live alone so far away.  Some mothers are stubborn others are compliant.  Among my friends there are those who made the move from East to West because it made sense or it made her son happy, another is still arguing.  Moving an elderly person or even one not so elderly is a difficult maneuver for everyone.  Everyone’s life is interrupted.

     That is why there has to be a “talk”, the conversation about one’s wishes.  As well as we all think we know our mothers, there comes a time when we cannot outguess them.   As we, Moms continue to outlive everyone’s expectations we have to share our thoughts for the time when we cannot take adequate care of ourselves.  Our baby boomer children, on the other hand should think about “stepping up to the plate” or developing a contingency plan.  We simply have to discuss the subject of “what if…?”

ALONE

ALONE     August 29, 2014

     Are “alone” and “lonely”, forever linked?  I can safely say that most lonely people are alone, but everyone who is lonely is not necessarily alone.  They are really two different states of being.   I am writing about both because of my need to share my thinking, a habit from my column writing days.  Perhaps my words can help clarify some one else’s thinking.

     When I am alone I find opportunities to untangle many of the knots of daily living that leave me anguished, feeling powerless even, incompetent.  Those feelings need assessment, thoughtful and direct confrontation.  The best time to work on them is when I am alone.  Delicious moments of silence are a treat. When I remove my hearing aids I am inspired to think, the experience of silence transports me to another world, a whisper world when I have me, myself and I to myself.  Being alone is a journey I frequently enjoy. I allow my thoughts to wander as I examine bumps in the road. I have learned how to enjoy my own company. 

     There are those who meditate when they are alone.  That is a comfort I am sure.  I prefer the word contemplate because that is the way I spend my alone time. I do more reflecting than meditating.  While I reflect on why I did or experienced this or that my best memories bubble up to meet me, to comfort me, to support me, to help me understand.

     Loneliness is completely different.  It is also a journey; its very nature has a negative connotation.  It is defined by its incompleteness.  We get lonely because we are missing companionship, frequently, specific companionship; my loneliness is accompanied by feelings of neglect, abandonment.  As time marches on lonely evolves into a helpless feeling that takes considerable motivation to dissipate.  We must work hard not to wallow in the feeling that it leads to self-pity, to “poor me”, the attitude that brings escalating sadness.  There are many ways to dissipate loneliness.  I take a walk spend time chatting with neighbors and friends.  I always stroll home feeling better.  Frequently I find that I am not alone with my loneliness, others have been there or are going through it.  It is good to share. Make a phone call to a long neglected friend.  Find an old movie on TV, ask a friend to join you.  Combating loneliness takes work.  Working for oneself, however can be satisfying.

     At times, I enjoy being alone, I can set my own time schedule, nap when I wish, eat when I am hungry, move when I am motivated.  I can even do the laundry at odd times, set the a/c to my body temperature or throw unmatched layers of clothing on my back.       Loneliness on the other hand brings tears to my eyes, I miss the warm touch of his hands, the gentle support he always offered and the love we shared.  The cure for loneliness at 90 is not readily available.  Wherever one lives, at home or in a comfortable retirement facility, at the end of the day, the front door closes and we are alone and in the evening, loneliness is waiting.   I have accepted those lonely moments as just one of the things I have learned to live with like the drought!

Lost My Old Blog Location

I lost my old blog address and can't seem to get it back.  I am moving my scribbling to this new location.

Death is a Fact of Life

Death is a Fact of Life!………………………August 25, 2014

     I have a friend to whom I have been close for the past three/four years.  We enjoy a regular lunch date because between bites, we consistently have much to share.  We are able to settle the world’s problems over and over again.  Our conversations are oriented specifically to family and to our other lives.  In her other life, she was a physician as well as a wife and mom.  In my other life I was a social worker as well as a wife and mom.  I was also a clergyman’s wife, a rabbi’s wife.  As anyone might imagine we have lots to talk about!  To her credit my friend has never tried to doctor me, I would guess she learned long ago that mixing medicine with one’s social life frequently spells disaster to a friendship.  We rarely speak of religion or politics for the same reason.

     Now my friend is not well, she remains in her apartment in an independent living establishment.  Until now it has met her needs, she has enjoyed a comfortable and independent life.  She drove her car until three weeks ago, now there is oxygen.  My friend accepts that, but is having great difficulty in facing the reality that her independence is fading.  After 89 years of establishing that independence, it is not easy to think about giving it up.  This is hard for our younger family members and friends to understand and it is difficult for us to explain.  When I asked my friend, “How will you manage if you need to get up to use the bathroom during the night?”  “I will just go!” she retorted while looking at me as if I had lost my mind.  I hesitated to point out to her that she is unsteady; she could fall and get hurt.  Her doctor does not want her alone at night.  You see, she does not care she really does not care if she dies tomorrow.  I fully understand.

     I do not know when it happened; I do not recall when I made peace with death, when I realized that death is part of life.  I do remember that my Mother, before she died said to me, “I am sorry to leave you,“ Dad had died two months earlier.  “You and your brother have fine spouses, wonderful children and good lives.  I am satisfied, you are well taken care of, but he needs me!”  She died within two days.  I have found in my own thinking when I face the future, I am not afraid as I used to be when I was young.  I tell my pillow as I lay my head down each night, “it is ok if I die tonight while I sleep!”

     My friend and I have discussed this and have tacitly agreed that there is no reason to hurry along the process, it is urgent to remember that each day continues to count.  We are practitioners of mindfulness; we live in today and make the most of each one.  According to Cicely Saunders, doctor/social worker involved with the development of the Hospice movement, ”You matter because you are, you matter to the last moment of your life.”  We hang on to that truth and keep on trucking.