assistedlivingconcerns

Of the untold number of mysteries of life how more fascinating can any of them be than the journey of the Monarch Butterfly? Even when armed with the latest map, the average human adult has trouble finding a destination. But the Monarch Butterfly can travel thousands of miles to a place it has never been and find it, a place high up in the Sierra Madre in Mexico. More incredibly, that same creature never makes it back to its home but lays eggs along the way and then dies, but its heirs do. Then the new butterfly makes that same journey to that same spot in the Sierra Madre to begin the cycle over again. Biologists the world over have long sought the answer to this enigma of life without resolution. One possible aspect of life that might explain the circumstances of this mysterious conduct in migrating butterflies is the inexplicable notion that all life has a yearning to return to its ancestral roots. It is most evident in immigrants who wax with heartfelt desire to be reunited with their family back home. Consider the holiday season when millions, often at great expense, flock to grandma’s place, regardless of the distance, to enjoy the warmth of being where they belong among loved ones. Yearning, a powerful force lurks forever in our hearts, giving all life a feeling of purpose. Although the life span of butterflies is less than a year, at best, like all beings, no matter how long they exist; the allotted time is mainly spent with efforts to continue the species. The haunts of our past endures as a basic part of our nature. Along the journey of a life we seek comfort and joy as well as security, so with the butterfly happy to alight on a flower full of nectar, but always determined to find security at home to ensure the continuation of its kind.

Oh how we love to hear those great lyrics from the standards about how “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” and “Tea for Two,” a boy for you a girl for me that gave us the feel-good outlook on our future. Then those wakeup lyrics like “Say it isn’t So” that brought us back to earth or those songs about unrequited love, including “Begin the Beguine,” whose message we ignored as something that happens to others. Remember those tender lyrics of “What’s New,” awakening our hopes for a start-over? Then there were those songs that gave us a slap on the back promising us sunny skies in spite of stormy weather that we found in songs like, “Side by Side” and also in “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” And how I hoped for the day that came true when “My Heart Stood Still,” because I had spotted a “Stranger across the Crowded Room,” and a voice cried out urging me to never let her go. Cornball? Imagine life without music, especially those songs that stirred our spirits in “All the Way” or “I did it my Way.” Who could forget Sinatra singing “Fly Me to the Moon?” Do you recall how you reacted to Peggy Lee singing, “Fever” or “Is That All There Is?” What about those lyrics of devotion to love in spite of daunting prospects such as “My Man, ” or “Come Rain or Come Shine?” Those of us old enough to remember the Big Band days of the late thirties and early forties find comfort in the songs of that time, many of which have become standards and continue to warm our hearts. Are those lyrics cornball? Or was it an art form that helped America get through the dark days of the Great Depression and WW II? It’s your call. For me, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” was a true-life experience resulting in an everlasting romance. I’ve got nothing against the new music, but I am prejudicial believing that those beloved lyrics of yore were the pinnacle of music that healed and gave us dreams. The so-called “Oldies” makes us oldies feel young again with memories as pure as love in the Spring.

The use of euphemisms is most convenient when this subject is addressed. One might refer to a death as a passing. It is more direct to say so and so died. Some say. “Joe crossed the River Jordan last night.” Or that he met his maker. The word demise, expiration, cessation or termination is seldom used with reference to death even though those words are quite factual. At funeral parlors they refer to the customer as the departed or the deceased one. At the Oscars they use the phrase: “In Memoriam,” when recording the members that had passed since the last Oscars. Some used the term, “He (or she) is no longer with us.” One lady told me when I inquired about a friend that, “ He has exited this world.” In plays, novels and movies they use the expression, “Angel of Death,” or “Grim Reaper.” My mother used to say, “He has gone to Heaven.” Of course many poems have use the subject as its theme, such as: Homer’s “Thanatos,” the Greek God of death, with a heart of iron and as pitiless as bronze. When people hear of the death of someone, inevitably they want to know of what cause, how it happened, how old, when, and the circumstances regarding the family. In Greek mythology, human fate is decided by three sisters: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos. Lachesis sings of things that were, Clotho about things that are and Atropus about things that will be. They rule over birth, while Lachesis, the spinner, determines the length of the thread of life and it’s Atropus who cuts the thread, ending life with her dreaded shears. The three sisters determine our fate, that inescapable destiny, that all humans and the Gods meet. Perhaps this accounts for the expression, “cut short,” referring to the death of someone young. We all face the unavoidable departure from this world, while many believe that the spirit lives on for an eternity, some don’t. Some have an obsession about the subject, checking the obituaries daily, usually a housewife, greeting family members returning from work or play with the news, “Guess who died?” I live in an Old Folk’s Home where the passing of residents is an ongoing reality. The incident is announced by posting a photo of the departed in an alcove near the elevators. I’ve yet to see a tear shed among the residents at the news. Expressions of remorse by those close to the deceased are the standard acknowledgement. Mankind has a way of ignoring the fate we all await, trying to enjoy each day, one at a time. Eleanor Roosevelt said: “Yesterday is history. Today is here, and tomorrow is mystery.”

The French playwright, Moliere, wrote a comic play exposing the way doctors take advantage of hypochondriacs. The main character, who is very rich, believes he is a sick man and wallows in his self-imposed plight. His doctor prescribes medicine for the many health problems that he doesn’t have, much to the delight of the local apothecary. The patient wants his daughter to marry his doctor’s son who is soon to become a doctor, thinking the marriage would result in free care for him. The intended fiancé is dull-witted, and besides, the daughter wants to marry someone else. The plot is wonderfully complicated and in the end the patient is made to realize that his second wife is a conniving “gold digger,” sends her off and reconciles with his daughter, allows her to marry the one she loves, and finally admits he is truly a healthy person.
Quackery has been a plague on the human species since man first began to sneeze. Doctors take credit for their work, but the real reason people are living longer is the introduction of modern plumbing, clean water and the simple practice of washing one’s hands. Billions of dollars are spent annually on research to the point the research organization takes on an identity of it’s own. In the decades that research has been conducted, on diabetes for example, as each year passes, the number of diabetics has increased by the millions. During The Great Depression, when people couldn’t afford to buy food and the food they ate was natural, diabetes was rare. Now that we gorge ourselves on food, which is mostly manufactured, diabetes is ravaging the population. The fatter people get, the less they exercise and the more they eat. Recently, I saw a movie called FOOD, INC., which revealed how food is manufactured by Corporate America. Rather than spoil your appetite, take a look for yourself. For a healthy life, eat locally grown food, exercise and thank God for modern plumbing.

Imagine a world where everybody stops sticking their noses into everyone else’s dirty laundry, where nations and their organizations would keep accurate records, where nations would cease selling weapons to others in the name of Democracy and freedom, and where people would follow the eleventh commandment, “Mind Your Own Business.”
How hard would it be to stop considering people as types rather than a member of the human race? “He white, she black.” He Jew, she Christian.” He Italian, she Polish,” ad infinitum. Are we being honest when we use socially accepted sobriquets like Afro-American, Latino, Muslim, etc.? People have names, so why not use them? It’s hard to erase those labels that we grew up with, such as: Sneaky Polacks, Mafia wops, Jew-bastards, niggers, dirty spics, Sunday Christians, and an endless torrent of those used in every land about all those others. National pride, jingoism, flag waving, national anthems and the honor of dying for one’s country. It’s in our blood, inherited from traditions countless centuries old.
All of which is the basis of discrimination confounded by myths, religious beliefs, scores to be settled, defense of honor, political rhetoric, the Bible, the Koran, laws, traditions, our ego, what we call our core values, our traditions, history, rumors, our frailties and the overwhelming presence of ignorance and stupidity. Einstein said it best, “The difference between Genius and stupidity is that genius has limits.”
A good start in the quest for a perfect world would be to universally outlaw discrimination against women. It all started with the story of Adam and Eve, which is used to this very day to keep women down, denying the world their contributions to make a better world. It all starts with you.

The other day while rooting through book reviews, I came across an author who writes light fiction about ghosts. The subject of ghosts seems to be of universal interest dating back as far as history permits us to believe in such matters. I once knew a lady of means who lost a dear child of a young age and tried to cope with the trauma by hiring people who claimed to have the power to contact the spirit of a particular deceased person. Some of us thought her attempts were foolhardy, but those close to her said that the séances brought solace to the grief stricken mother.
Residing in an old folks home as I do, the subject always sparks interest when raised at the dinner table, for example. Irene, normally one not to engage her fellow residents, piped up with the opinion that everyone believes in ghosts. The others at the table all nodded affirmatively at the response, but none cited a personal incident. When I was young, one of my aunts was forever dwelling on the subject of spirits and their powers. It had a lasting affect on me when in one story she declared that her neighbor heard three distinct knocks on the floor above her, which caused my aunt to predict that a death in the building was about to happen. Sure enough, she recalled, that Mrs. Mc Ginty, a resident, was found dead in her apartment a short time later. Using logic, it’s plausible that with any passing of a person, one can recall something that could be used as a foreboding sign connecting the two events.. But from a realistic point of view, the telling could stir lasting doubt in one’s mind in spite of the logical explanation of the claim.
In the review of the book I had discovered, “People I Wanted to Be,” by Gina Ochsner, the plot centers on an unhappy married couple who desperately wanted children but could not, and who believed that the ghosts of three children lived in the area and came to love them as their own. We all wish for happiness, which often comes to us in strange ways. Their belief that the ghosts were real brought them a taste of joy in an unhappy marriage. The lady of means found solace through her séances trying to reach the spirit of her departed child. I still remember my aunt’s account of those three knocks on the floor even though I never knew the people involved. “Yes,” said Irene, “everyone believes in ghosts,” and the others all agreed. I wonder what stories they held to their hearts? I have few of my own.

Yesterday, (2/19/10). I was the guest of the Kira Reginato radio show on KRSO. The subject related to the experience of moving from one’s home into a care facility for seniors.
Kira is a geriatric care manager who owns and operates Living Ideas For Elders. On Fridays at 12:30 PM she holds court to discuss issues confronting elders and how that impacts on the lives of the senior’s family and friends.
My role was discussed with Kira on why and how I made the move from our home in San Francisco to the nearby Vintage Golden Gate senior care facility. After contemplating the move for years because of a deteriorating, painful knee and the obvious slide in my dear wife’s memory, it took a near tragedy to wake me up to the danger of putting off the necessity of moving to a place where we could get the care and services we were no longer able to provide for ourselves.
One day when my wife and I were at home alone, I fell and couldn’t get up (you know like those TV ads). I called my son who was at work on the cell phone. While waiting for him, I had my wife put a heat pack into the microwave to ease the pain that was killing me. Instead of setting it at 3 minutes, she typed in 33 minutes, resulting in a meltdown of both the heat pack and the microwave, creating a plume of foul smelling smoke. It was at that point I knew we were ready for the move.
Our grand daughter, Greta, knew Kira and recommended her for advice. Kira interviewed us and recommended several facilities she felt would be appropriate for our needs. After visits to all of these places, we chose the Vintage Golden Gate care facility for seniors, probably because we were impressed with the ambience of the facility and the size of the apartment, plus it had several layers of amenities. The apartment was ideal for an independent. In addition there was a section of the facility for residents in need of memory care.
The upside of that combination saw my wife spending her days in the memory area, which gave me the opportunity to pursue my interests with the breathing room the arrangement afforded. We have breakfast and dinner together as well as our evenings and nights, but we are apart during the interim between 10 am and 4 pm.
What to do with the home we loved for so many years? In the end we hired a real estate man to handle the sale. Downsizing is a challenge you can’t win, but you do what’s possible. Aside from a few reference books, I donated the lot to the public library. We designated what was manageable for use in our new quarters, which consisted of a living room, a kitchenette, a bedroom and a modern bathroom. The kids divided among themselves what was left, the remainder was sold at garage sales or taken to the dump. Treasures all!
The move itself went well. The children packed us off to the Cache Creek Casino for a few days accompanied by one our daughters. While we were away, they hired a mover, took care of arranging the furniture, did the decorating and presto, when we came back we walked into a fully organized apartment done to our complete satisfaction.
Once aboard, the task of adjusting to life in a senior facility is a story unto itself, an ongoing saga that deserves a new chapter.

One of the major talking points made by the marketing people at assisted living facilities for seniors are all the wonderful activities that are planned for the resident’s benefit. Every day a schedule of activities is made available for the residents. Only a handful of the residents attend them, but, nevertheless, they all want a copy of the day’s activities. It’s tender to see them read the list even though the majority has no intention of attending any of them.
My favorite program is the Writer’s Club. We have a teacher whom we have christened King Nick. He’s a young man with a background in communications that helps engage us in a very pleasant but serious manner. We are a small group of devotees who really enjoy the class and who respect our mentor. At the start of the class, the King reads off a vocabulary consisting of five words, which we than incorporate into a five-minute writing exercise.
The students ranged in age from the low eighties to the high nineties, but the participation is at a high level irrespective of age. So far, the class has covered speeches, (all kinds), autobiography, debating, public speaking, the art of rhetoric, and opinions of current events, all of which require written homework assignments.
There is a display of good-natured groaning when the homework assignment is handed out. And when our group borders on heated differences of opinions, our leader always interjects with a reminder that we’re all friends here, which never fails to bring a chuckle and to restore civility to the assembled members.
It is claimed that Freud regarded the aged as uneducable. If he were to attend one of our classes today, he would have to eat those words. During the vocabulary session, it’s a joy to hear members of the class bark out the correct meaning of the words, which are often quite rare. Try: numinous, fractious or garrulous for starters. Hail to our mentor, bravados to our classmates and a big phooey to Freud!

Time to Go?
Suzie Klemperer was the grand dame of her family. Long a widow, she meant to spend her last days in her home. The kids were out and about with kids of their own who had kids of their own. Mrs. K was particularly fond of Jake, her oldest child’s son. In a moment of unguarded charity, she has promised to help send him to Harvard. It was a feeling that filled her heart with pride. Reviewing her circumstances, she was pleased to know that her future was secure. Tadd, her husband, had sold his business for a pretty profit enabling him to set up a trust fund that would ensure their retirement.
With happy days ahead, Mrs. K. invited the family for dinner, which turned out to be gala affair, topped off with news that her grandson had been accepted at Harvard. The announcement called for another toast. Mrs. K. got up to get some champagne, made an uncertain maneuver causing her to crash to the floor.
Outside the hospital room, the doctor told the family that Mrs. K. had broken her hip and a replacement has been installed. He noted that the patient would require several weeks of physical therapy. The doctor urged the family to pick an assisted living facility for seniors since she will need care and services during her recovery, which may take a year.
The family decided that Jim, the eldest should shoulder the task, which he agreed to do with obvious reluctance. His mother had never shared her finances with the family and Jim had heard that charges at those facilities cost an arm and a leg. He gingerly approached his mom with the news, recommending that he take over her finances. Jim got advice from his CPA and became her sole conservator. After examining her accounts, it totaled about $500,000.00.
Jim and his sister, Meg, who had come to an assisted living facility, were asked to wait while they located Mrs. Ryan, The receptionist, Nancy, escorted them to a private alcove where she offered to bring them some refreshments, which they declined. A tall, attractive young lady joined them, introducing herself as Kate, the marketing director. Again, the visitors were offered refreshments, which was countered with a no thank you. Kate acknowledged that her visitors had come for tour and information about costs and promptly asked them to follow her.
After the tour, they entered an office and were shown to seats across from the saleslady. Both Jim and Meg noted that the place is elegant, and thanked her for the tour. Kate assured them the pleasure was all hers. Noting that they were looking for a one bedroom apartment, Kate revealed that fortunately there was one available at a charge of $6,300 a month, adding that an additional cost of $800 has to be imposed since the resident will be wheel-chair bound. She explained further that once Mrs. K becomes ambulatory the additional charge will be removed.
Jim and Meg were caught off guard for not having apprised themselves of the rates at private places. Both tried not to gasp at the figures, but did. Jim spoke up, explaining that his mother had a fixed income, part of which has been promised to his grandson for college, He noted that $7,100 a month morphed into $85,000.00 per annum, barely enough to cover 6 years, and if the plan to send her grandson to Harvard occured, she could barely afford 3 years. They explained that her family is not in a position to give help in this matter. Kate, smiling broadly, suggested that they think it over with their mother and perhaps in the meantime another apartment might become available. Embarrassed, the siblings left, wondering how to explain to their mother what was up.
So, the message is to set up an account when you’re in your thirties. If you put aside $100 a week, when you’re in your eighties you can check into an assisted living facility for seniors where they will take care of you. It’s a great feeling to be independet. Or, you can continue to live in the now and hope for the best.

Here at our Old Timers home, it’s common trade jokes about memory problems endured by seniors. While I have never personally witnessed any spoken complaints about the propriety of telling these stories, my children (who are in and around their fifties) suggested that such tales are tasteless and should be put on the shelf somewhere and forgotten.
So, just today one of my fellow residents here told a story about an elderly couple with short-term memory loss. The wife decided that whenever they asked the other to do something that the request should be written down. The husband wanted to know if his wife wanted anything; She replied, “Yes, I would like some ice cream.” So, he moved onto the kitchen, but his wife reminded him that he should write it down, which he refused to do claiming that he would remember. “And,” she said, “ add some strawberries, and write it down.” But once again he balked. “And dear, don’t forget to put whipped cream on the ice cream,” she pleaded., “and write it down.” The husband insisted that he would remember. Awhile later, the husband returned from the kitchen and placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of his wife. She looked at the offering and then at him, saying, “But, dear, where’s the toast.”
Another story I heard recently had to do with three ladies well up in age that shared and apartment. They were sitting at the table playing pinochle. Martha noted that she was worried that her memory was fading, offering as an example the fact that yesterday, she was standing in front of the refrigerator holding a jar of mayonnaise trying to recall whether she had just gotten it out to use it, or rather had she used it and was about to put back. Susan shook her head n acknowledgement, adding her own story claiming that recently she found herself standing on the landing between floors and was at a loss to remember whether she was on her way up or was she on her way down. The third member, Julia, scoffed at her companions alleged problems, claiming that her memory was just fine, then soundly knocked hard on the wooden table, at which point she shouted, “It must be someone at the door, I’ll get it.”
Then there are car jokes, like the lady who decided to go shopping and got into her car only to find that the steering wheel, radio and accelerator pedal were missing. She got out her cell phone and dialed 911 to report the thefts. The operator determined her whereabouts and sent a patrol car to investigate. When the unit arrived the officer found the lady sitting in the back seat of her car.
Not funny? Then there were two friends driving on their way to go shopping. The one in the passenger seat noticed that the driver had just passed a red light, then a second and a third one. The passenger shouted, “Mabel, you just went through three red lights.” Shocked, Mabel responded “Oh! Am I driving???”
In each of the above instances, it was the surprise ending that made it funny, or at least caused an emotional response. Plato called humor the essence of the ridiculous. Aristotle said it was the ugliness that does not offend. Sanskrit writings revealed a strong sense of imitating actors as reaching out to the spectators as a way to emotions. Kant indicated that humor is expectation that leads to nothing. One the current comics, Jerry Seinfeld uses that technique in his episodes. E. B. White said you couldn’t dissect humor without killing it. It is simply a surprise that causes laughter.
Living among seniors, telling jokes might include double entendres, but never blatant bad or dirty words. In fact, I have never heard a curse word at this facility, not even once, although I, personally, have a “foul mouth” when within the confines of my private life. It’s strange how the environment of this community has controlled my public conduct. I remember my life at the office where jokes were passed around just about every day, really raw ones. Repeating those jokes at home was not acceptable, and when I crossed the line, the joke fell like a punctured balloon, even though my co-workers had doubled over with laughter at that same joke. In a civilized society, it is well to consider the setting before unloading something on your audience that you might consider funny.
Remember Henny Youngman who used to begin his routine with, “Take My Wife,” with a straight face. It would be hard to resist laughing at that one-liner. Even though his wife was the butt of his jokes, they had a happy marriage that lasted 60 years. And that relationship endured despite the fact he worked without a vacation for 45 years. If all that means anything, it certainly indicates that humor is good for marriage. Keep laughing!