Category Archives: Aging & dementia

Another year goes by, and another year closer to the “old old”

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Reading Susan Jacoby’s Op-Ed in the New York Times this week probably wasn’t the best way to see out the old year (“Real Life Among the Old Old“).

“Old old” refers in this case to those over age 85. It still sounds so far away, but perhaps I’m one of those Jacoby writes about who simply deny the realities of aging.

Her lede:

I RECENTLY turned 65, just ahead of the millions in the baby boom generation who will begin to cross the same symbolically fraught threshold in the new year to a chorus of well-intended assurances that “age is just a number.” But my family album tells a different story. I am descended from a long line of women who lived into their 90s, and their last years suggest that my generation’s vision of an ageless old age bears about as much resemblance to real old age as our earlier idealization of painless childbirth without drugs did to real labor.

Jacoby’s attempt to look ahead with clarity rather than denial is pretty tough to read, as we’re not too far behind her on the baby boomer calendar.

My parents were both relatively active and clear thinking until about age 90, although my dad lost abilities quickly from then on, and my mother, nearing 97, is now showing many more signs of her age. But, with luck, from today’s vantage point, aspiring to 90 pretty good years sounds pretty good.

What happens then? Our situation appears complicated because we don’t have children to step in at some future point. Then you hear the horror stories of what happens in families where children arrive on the scene with their own less-than-generous motives, whether greed or anger, and you realize that families can be either a treasure or a curse. Luck of the draw, it seems.

I have to think that the baby boomer voting block is going to demand political attention to end-of-life issues. The right to die on your own terms is certainly one of those that legislatures are going to have to deal with. Decades ago, I thought Hawaii had a chance to be a leader in this policy area, but that seems only a remote possibility now. I hope I’m wrong.

What’s left–Subtle signs

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empty bedMy sister and I returned to my father’s nursing home later in the day of his death. Their staff had already taken down the photos of each of our cats that had been on the bulletin board, and put magazines and books, stacked up over the past two years, into a box on the floor under the window. We stuffed most of his clothes into clean garbage bags, and decided to donate them to the facility, where they will be reused by other men. His shoes, some with lots more wear in them, would go to Goodwill.

We carried out a small chest of drawers Bonnie had put together for him, and his walker, two photographs taken on May Day 2009, and just a few odds and ends. The rest stayed behind as we walked, for the last time, back down the hall to the nursing station, past the common room that his mind often transformed into the 1940’s Commercial Club on Bethel Street, and to the elevator, down to the small lobby, and into the cramped parking lot.

There just wasn’t much left.

A friend from Austin, Texas left a response to my comment about my dad not returning in my dreams. She wrote:

My father and I have a deal: when he crosses over, if it’s at all possible, he’ll get back in touch to tell me what’s up. That said, I’ve had subtle signs from those that have passed that all is well.

You’ve had a long good bye with your dad, so watch for those subtle signs – it could be documents you stumble across that make a mental connection, a ringing phone, a person who comes into your life with a message, or even an emotion/vision that comes over you that you know is from him – you never know. It’s mysterious and wonderful, this continuum of life.

Subtle signs?

I got up at just about my normal time Monday morning, 4:45 a.m.

I made my way to the dining table, trying my best not to trip over the cats that were lobbying hard for breakfast.

I turned on an overhead light, then dimmed it down.

My laptop was waiting, and I still had to complete the little photo gallery of the weekend’s dogs. There was a stack of several portable hard drives next to the computer because I spent some time Sunday afternoon looking for “the” photo to accompany my dad’s obituary.

I grabbed the top one, which I thought had the latest photos.

As I lifted it, I turned it over to read my handwritten label. It was upside down, but I read: “Photos John Lind”. That was a surprise, both because I thought the latest drive had been on the top of the stack, and because I didn’t recall labeling a “John Lind” drive. But, I thought, let’s see what’s on it.

So I plugged it in, booted into Lightroom, my image library software. It immediately opened to the dogs playing on the beach, which meant that it was the latest drive after all.

Now I picked it up again, turned it over. This time the label was quite clear: “Photos June 2010.” That’s how I marked it, with the first month it sent into service.

Perhaps my eyes, stress, and the early hour, had simply played tricks the first time around. Just a silly little thing, perhaps.

But I thought of that comment about little signs.

Who knows?

My commentary broadcast yesterday on Hawaii Public Radio was on the issue of death with dignity. It’s available for listening on the HPR web site.

He was dying and I missed the bus

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On Friday morning, when my father’s nursing home called and advised that we come as soon as possible, I was at home in Kaaawa without a car. After dressing and walking quickly down to the bus stop on Kamehameha Highway near the post office, I was a minute too late. The 11:01 a.m. bus slid through Kaaawa and headed off towards Kaneohe while I was still a block away. It was a short block, but at that moment it seemed like the longest block in the world.

I was frantic. For nearly two years, we’ve known he could die at any time, but he didn’t. Then, when the day actually arrives, I wasn’t ready, and I wanted to kick myself for being caught unprepared.

Deep breath. A half-hour to go. You just have to wait. Calm down, I said to myself.

[text]So we crossed the street, myself and I, and sat on the seawall behind Swanzy Beach Park to watch the ocean at play. It was quiet, sunny, and clear. There were a few other people in the park, but I was alone with myself and the ocean. I thought about my father’s nearly 97 years, during most of which he swam, surfed, and fished in this same ocean. I let that connection wash over me, and willed it to wash over him as well, wherever he was or would be soon.

The ocean, the healer.

My father died about 12 hours after I finally arrived at his bedside. We were there with him for much of that awful time, but not, I have to say, at the very end.

For the record, my father did not appear in my dreams last night.

Perhaps the ocean did its magic.

Thinking about the right to die

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Watching my father dying in slow motion is agony.

I can’t believe that there is any human benefit in prolonging his current state of existence. I use that word, “existence”, because “life” isn’t what he has at this point. He has progressed beyond some tipping point, and no longer has those little moments of pleasure. Food, drink, people, touch, photos, and memories no longer have any meaning for him. If he’s not under the influence of strong drugs, agony is what is left.

He has been getting a couple of drops of morphine to control pain in recent weeks, but was left totally doped up. So the dose was stepped down at the beginning of this week, which in hindsight may not have been the best choice.

When I saw him on Tuesday, he was restless, unable to find any comfortable position in the bed, groaning in endless pain. He did have a couple of moments of some clarity.

I think I arrived just after one of the hospice staff had been there with him.

He opened his eyes, acknowledged my arrival. Then he spoke, with considerable difficulty, his words scraping out of his dry throat into the room.

“Now I know I’m a patient,” he said, then closed his eyes.

In that moment, he no longer thought he was in a fine hotel, as he has through much of the past two years.

Then he added: “I’m in bad shape.”

After that, it he drifted in and out of consciousness.

He knows what’s happening. He endures, so far, but there’s nothing ennobling about the experience, no saving grace for him or for those of us who will survive him.

I’m find myself angry at those who have wielded their particular religious beliefs as political weapons to block “right to die” or “death with dignity” legislation.

I had a haircut earlier this week, and unloaded on unsuspecting Leila, my barber, when she asked how I was doing. She responded with common sense.

“It’s torture, isn’t it?”

Yes, it is.

She pointed out that prisoners sentenced to death have a legal right to die with a minimum of pain and suffering.

Pets, the same. We have always been willing to pay for good veterinary care, but we recognize the point where there is no quality of life remaining and our pets deserve to be put out of their misery.

If my all-time favorite cat were in my father’s present condition, we would be making that last long drive to the vet’s office to say a tearful goodbye.

So pets and criminals have a right to die peacefully. Our parents, friends, and our selves deserve the same option.