 Far right: my father
In the advanced stages of my father's Parkinson's disease, he was bedridden. He was also admitted to the hospital more than 50 (not an exaggeration) times in five years. It was a rough go for all involved. To witness this lion of industry, a business magnate who built a grocery empire, sidelined and vulnerable wasn't easy. For him, it was far worse, but he would never have let you know that. In his final years, he had caregivers 24/7. Their chief task was to roll him over on a regular basis to ameliorate his pain and discomfort. Blind from diabetes, he enjoyed listening to talk radio. Unable to eat solid food, he sucked on popsicles before enduring the indignity of a feeding tube. Despite his circumscribed circumstances, he didn't want to die. Always strident and of a stubborn sort, he was committed to finding joy in life until the very end. He died alone in his hospital bed. Pneumonia. I visited him periodically and knew the ravages of Parkinson’s. What I didn't know then is that it was my future foretold. Six years before my diagnosis, my right index finger began to twitch. I told no one. Not my cat or my caregivers. This was my secret. I can live this with this, no problem, I thought. When it became difficult to write because my hand was tensing up and shaking, I shrugged it off, still telling no one. When my balance started to go and it was dangerous for me to live alone, I hired up. Just like my dad. 24/7 care. I got a chariot. Some people would call it a walker which I find pedestrian—mine is regal. As fate would dictate, I am my mother's daughter in some ways. Fortunately, I am able to keep some of my symptoms in abeyance with medications. Others have presented that are not easy to manage. Parkinson's, I'm learning the hard way, is not just about tremors. If you've seen Harrison Ford in Shrinking, you know this. It's a lot more. It robs you of you. The Parkinson's menu is surprising and unwelcome. I have (thankfully mild) auditory and visual hallucinations. I have nausea on a daily basis with an ever-present side of reflux. I experience severe depression and chronic insomnia, a cocktail recipe for energy depletion. The kicker? I have I have a chronic UTI which can put me six feet under. Recently these symptoms landed me in the hospital and led to sepsis. Like my father, I wake up each day not knowing what symptoms will limit and govern me. The difference between us is that he wanted to tap into and feel happiness however he could until the bitter end. Me? Some days, yes. Other days, I'm more resigned and accepting of my fate, not unlike my mother dearest. The life I have lived, between birth and death, was uniquely my own. The beginning and end have brought my back to them.
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 My mother’s end of life was precipitated by a fall. She barely made a sound when she hit the gold-flecked linoleum, what with her frail 86-year-old frame of skin, bones and determination.
Always the sartorial perfectionist, she regarded her cane as a festive, holiday ornament, rather than something one would use to prevent a catastrophic tumble. It was adorned with bells and silver, and it lit up when the sun went down. She held it like a baton as though she were a cheerleader. There was no cheering the day she fell, though she did scream in agony in the aftermath—a portent of the beginning of the end. For my part and being the good daughter, I immediately called her doctor who refused to prescribe medication for her excruciating back pain; he was concerned she would become addicted. I protested to no avail. (Granted, her doc may have sensed the desperation in my voice. That or she tipped him off about her wayward daughter.) Undeterred, I called a different, more pliable doctor who promptly obliged "my mother's" request, giving her (us) 100 Vicodin. My kind of man. My mother took (most of) the pills as prescribed and never got addicted. Six months after that fateful fall—we still don't know if she tripped over something or just collapsed—she was diagnosed with lung cancer, which she beat, and then lymphoma, which eventually took her out. At that point, she considered her life over. She sat alone in her luxurious condo, adrift without my father, crossing the days off the calendar like a prisoner on death row. I visited when I could. She pleaded with me, even then, to stay out of her kitchen. I was 58 years old and detested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so that wasn't a problem. Her new doctor coerced her into having lung surgery, threatening to fire her if she didn't acquiesce. Just another wonderful, compassionate medical professional—I’ve known a few. She got through that surgery—as an official cancer survivor—only to discover she had lymphoma. When told she needed chemotherapy, she asked, “What’s that?” She thought it was a card game like Canasta. I had to explain this was no card game. It was more of an end game. She leaned into me and whispered, “I want to die.” I encouraged her to share her wishes with the friendly doctor. She was in hospice the next day. She didn’t know what hospice was either, but she was thrilled that the Depends were free. Eleven days later, she was gone. Before she passed, she asked, "Was I a good mother?" "The best," I lied. As a recovering addict, her Ativan and morphine were admittedly tempting, but recovery taught me to flush the contraband down the toilet and eat a doughnut instead. So that’s what I did. I was not a perfect daughter by any means, as demonstrated by the fact that I did, in fact, help myself to two bottles of her Le Mer creme de Le Mer moisturizer after lovingly applying it to her face just before she took her last breath. A special sendoff to the afterlife. If she could have, she would have approved, thanked me. Because...priorities, hers.  Photo by White.Rainforest ™︎ ∙ 易雨白林. on Unsplash
While Parkinson's has made me acutely aware of daily minor miracles, it's the people in my life for whom I am deeply grateful. I am thankful, every damn day, for this: I have caregivers. Warren, who hails from Brazil, has become my right-hand man. No facet of my life would be complete or possible without him. Jules, a lovable perfectionist who eats one piece of lettuce at a time, claims to be a vegetarian, but we know better. Leah is under the impression that she knows everything about me including when I should go to bed or the bathroom—adorable. She also makes the best oatmeal in the county, and I'm forever grateful for her support. And who can forget the exceptional Susan, a caregiver par excellence? She rubs my back, hugs me and tells me how to live my life. Could a gal ask for anything more? Alia, a hard worker, folds my clothes like a pro and holds my hand when I need to feel loved. And then there's the essential Lexi, my gifted, superlative therapist and her little sister Eden. Eden is savvy when it comes to all-things social media and technology. My hope for her is that she, like me, someday realizes her worth. This crew is my chosen family of origin. Perfectly imperfect, I love every one of them.  Photo by Lina Trochez for Unsplash
Some people, myself included, just need a lift. When pills, puppies* and Waterford Crystal stopped elevating my soul, I tried something new: giving. I started by trying to put a smile on the face of everyone I encountered. This was harder than it sounds, as some folks are determined to be sour and dour. I should know—I was one of them. I persisted nonetheless, taking it a step further. I worked on putting the needs of others above my own. This trick, it turns out, was not just effective in helping me forget my glum default. It also allowed me make lasting, genuine connections with others. This was liberating and it filled my proverbial cup. People replaced things. Emotions replaced repression. Generosity of spirit supplanted petty wants and "needs." You first replaced me first. To this day, I try to lead with my giving lens, asking What can I do for others today? By doing for others, I truly found myself. I’ve come to believe that the person I have (finally) grown into is pretty damned good. Not because of my Prada shoes or Gucci purses but because I have a good heart that is filled with gratitude. *Lucky the wonder-dog notably excepted.  Far right: my father
In the advanced stages of my father's Parkinson's disease, he was bedridden. He was also admitted to the hospital more than 50 (not an exaggeration) times in five years. It was a rough go for all involved. To witness this lion of industry, a business magnate who built a grocery empire, sidelined and vulnerable wasn't easy. For him, it was far worse but he would never have let you know that. In his final years, he had caregivers 24/7. Their chief task was to roll him over on a regular basis to ameliorate his pain and discomfort. Blind from diabetes, he enjoyed listening to talk radio. Unable to eat solid food, he sucked on popsicles before enduring the indignity of a feeding tube. Despite his circumscribed circumstances, he didn't want to die. Always strident and of a stubborn sort, he was committed to finding joy in life until the very end. He died alone in his hospital bed. Pneumonia. I visited him periodically and knew the ravages of Parkinson’s. What I didn't know then is that it was my future foretold. Six years before my diagnosis, my right index finger began to twitch. I told no one. Not my cat or my caregivers. This was my secret. I can live this with this, no problem, I thought. When it became difficult to write because my hand was tensing up and shaking, I shrugged it off, still telling no one. When my balance started to go and it was dangerous for me to live alone, I hired up. Just like my dad. 24/7 care. I got a chariot. Some people would call it a walker which I find pedestrian—mine is regal. As fate would dictate, I am my mother's daughter in some ways. Fortunately, I am able to keep some of my symptoms in abeyance with medications. Others have presented that are not easy to manage. Parkinson's, I'm learning the hard way, is not just about tremors. If you've seen Harrison Ford in Shrinking, you know this. It's a lot more. It robs you of you. The Parkinson's menu is surprising and unwelcome. I have (thankfully mild) auditory and visual hallucinations. I have nausea on a daily basis with an ever-present side of reflux. I experience severe depression and chronic insomnia, a cocktail recipe for energy depletion. The kicker? I have I have a chronic UTI which can put me six feet under. Recently these symptoms landed me in the hospital and led to sepsis. Like my father, I wake up each day not knowing what symptoms will limit and govern me. the difference between us, I suppose, is that he wanted to live each and every day of his life; he wanted to extend his bitter end. Me? Some days, yes. Other days, I'm more resigned and accepting of my fate. Like my mother. The life I have lived, between birth and death, was uniquely my own. The beginning and end have brought my back to them.  My mother’s end of life was precipitated by a fall. She barely made a sound when she hit the gold-flecked linoleum, what with her frail 86-year-old frame of skin, bones and determination.
Always the sartorial perfectionist, she regarded her cane as a festive, holiday ornament, rather than something one would use to prevent a catastrophic tumble. It was adorned with bells and silver, and it lit up when the sun went down. She held it like a baton as though she were a cheerleader. There was no cheering the day she fell, though she did scream in agony in the aftermath—a portent of the beginning of the end. For my part and being the good daughter, I immediately called her doctor who refused to prescribe medication for her excruciating back pain; he was concerned she would become addicted. I protested to no avail. (Granted, her doc may have sensed the desperation in my voice. That or she tipped him off about her wayward daughter.) Undeterred, I called a different, more pliable doctor who promptly obliged "my mother's" request, giving her (us) 100 Vicodin. My kind of man. My mother took (most of) the pills as prescribed and never got addicted. Six months after that fateful fall—we still don't know if she tripped over something or just collapsed—she was diagnosed with lung cancer, which she beat, and then lymphoma, which eventually took her out. At that point, she considered her life over. She sat alone in her luxurious condo, crossing the days off the calendar, not unlike a prisoner on death row. I visited when I could. She pleaded with me, even then, to stay out of her kitchen. I was 58 years old and detested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so that wasn't a problem. Her new doctor coerced her into having lung surgery, threatening to fire her if she didn't acquiesce. Just another wonderful, compassionate medical professional—I’ve known a few. She got through that surgery—as an official cancer survivor—only to discover she had lymphoma. When told she needed chemotherapy, she asked, “What’s that?” She thought it was a card game like Canasta. I had to explain this was no card game. It was more of an end game. She leaned into me and whispered, “I want to die.” I encouraged her to share her wishes with the friendly doctor. She was in hospice the next day. She didn’t know what hospice was either, but she was thrilled that the Depends were free. Eleven days later, she was gone. Before she passed, she asked, "Was I a good mother?" "The best," I lied. As a recovering addict, her Ativan and morphine were admittedly tempting, but recovery taught me to flush the contraband down the toilet and eat a doughnut instead. So that’s what I did. I was not a perfect daughter by any means, as demonstrated by the fact that I did, in fact, take two bottles of her Le Mer creme de Le Mer moisturizer after lovingly applying it one last time to her face just before she took her last breath. A special sendoff to the afterlife. She would have approved. Thanked me even. Because...priorities, hers.  Photo cred: me for once
Like all good humans, I've had many pets. My history with them, though, is uneven at best. I probably got this trait from my mother, whose dogs didn't fare well under her callous, watchful eye and stone-cold heart-rock. Blinky was first. His head moved and his tail wagged. He barked and walked a short distance. But when I pulled him down the sidewalk by his leash, showing him off, he often tipped over. He didn't mind being dragged on his side for blocks at at time, but the dealbreaker was that his batteries never lasted more than a couple weeks. Defective and disappointing. I grieved for a day then demanded a real dog, like a normal seven-year-old girl. My mother said no. She would be the only one in the family with a dog of her own, (no) thank you very much. So naturally, the minute I moved out from under her roof and into a two-bedroom, pet-friendly apartment, I got my own damn dog, (yes) thank you very much. The dog would even have her own room! Her name was Daisy. Granted, I couldn't take care of myself, let alone an animal. But I didn't know that at the time and neither did Daisy. I did all the performative, good-dog-owner things. I even put pee pads in her bedroom. She didn't get the memo and relieved herself in all the other rooms. Day and night. For solace and support, I turned to my best friends: benzos. I had no shortage of prescription drugs, thanks to my easily-manipulated Dr. Kirkland. I own my choices but still wonder in hindsight if he knew exactly what he was doing. Yet the drugs, over time, failed to quell my anxiety. I decided I needed a distraction. I applied and was accepted to grad school in journalism at USC. Miracles happen. Being in active addiction, it turns out, didn't prevent me from doing well in my classes. I got Bs, but did so looking pretty cute in my shirt-dresses sans bra. 'Twas the epoch. For those playing along at home, that's a B in school and an A in sartorial sexy, which is an A in my book! I stayed busy for a couple years, floating, doing, avoiding. Meanwhile, Daisy wasn't thriving. I didn't have time to walk her and was wracked with guilt which made me take more benzos. As graduation approached and the pressure to line up a job mounted, I coped by employing myriad life skills in my toolkit. Just kidding. I took more benzos. Now remember, I was the girl who was not allowed in the kitchen to make a fucking peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. So when the time came to get on a plane to a very important (life or death, clearly) job interview for an on-camera journalism job, I missed the flight. I had taken an unprecedented number of pills the night before, nailing my life-dismount and self-sabotage skills, courtesy of Dr. Kirkland (and me). Goodbye, Barbara Walters. Hello, Amy Winehouse. My promising career in journalism evaporated that day. I chose the path of least persistence. My parents looked the other way, continuing to send me money so long as I didn't disrupt their curated lives with inconvenient drama. I stayed in that apartment, curtains drawn, lights mostly off, with my not-housebroken dog for years. My primary exercise was lifting a hand to my mouth to take pills. I watched day-time TV. Years later, Daisy became blind, fell off a sidewalk and died ten feet from me. It wasn't my fault but I sure thought it was. I sobbed as I scooped her up, but this was LA so no one broke stride as they walked on by. I stayed Amy Winehouse for many years. I wasn’t dead but I wanted to be...albeit not until I got to my ideal weight of 120 pounds. I was always very practical. Flash forward many decades. I had tried pets again—Cookie, Mollie, Bruno, how I loved thee—all perfectly imperfect. As I approached my 80th birthday, though, I wanted a special dog with no batteries or puppy challenges. Sober and tapping into my heretofore untapped perfectionism, I perused 400 doggie magazines. When I saw THE ONE, his eyes bore directly into my soul. "Howie" was speaking to me, right off the page. Bow wow, Ruff, ruff. How much? I contacted the owner posthaste. The owner was adamant that Howie was not the right dog for me. I rebelled. "I’m never wrong about anything, especially animals! I want Howie!" Was my voice elevated and slightly panicked? Sure. Did he acquiesce, sensing my desperation. Absolutely. But not in the way I expected. "I have a better match for you. I'm certain of it. He's a flawless specimen: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel." "I doubt it." "Trust me," he said, smugly. He texted a photo. As a good Jew, I never surrender. But surrender I did. I melted. I named him Lucky. He would be my perfect dog, my sentient companion. To this day, his snoring soothes me. Perfection is overrated. Lucky finally taught me that invaluable lesson, allowing me to love my sad-ass, flawed self...because he sure does. And that's enough for me. At last.  Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
When the doors to the rehab center in Petaluma, California I knew I didn't belong. For starters, everyone was younger than me. Much younger. A discrepancy in hygiene standards became evident early on. Showers eluded my co-junkies. So did flushing the toilets. Cleaning their hair out of the drains did not occur to them. I was not a neat-freak, but living there certainly pushed me in that direction. I missed my maid, Rosa. There I said it. If only I had Rosa, everything would be alright. I decided to make an appointment with the director. "Thanks for making the time," I tried to tread lightly. "I appreciate everything you are doing here, but I'm afraid I'm not suitable. I am disoriented and unmoored without my support system." "There is always an adjustment period," she said, donning invisible kid gloves. "Why don't I make an appointment with your care-team therapist to discuss your concerns?" I agreed but was dubious. To my pleasant surprise, the therapist was gentle and competent. A winner in a long line of losers. I wanted to please him (having learned nothing over the years), so I agreed to stay. By the tenth grueling week, my blood pressure had shot up to 200/135, and I was being carted to and from the ER on the regular. One day, an ER doc stated bluntly that I had garden-variety anxiety and told me in no uncertain terms not to return. Well, deja vu to you too, doc. Dejected and cast out, I turned to my kind therapist. He agreed it was time for me to leave, emphasizing I was not to go back to LA. He knew of a place. Upon arrival to the Full Circle SLE, I had a strategy. I refused to make my bed, fold my clothes or vacuum. A meeting with the admissions committee was in order. My tactics were not sustainable, they told me. I need my maid, I told them. I will pay double. An exception was made. Rosa arrived the next day. I was on the road to paradise. Or so I thought. , Photo cred: me for once
Like all good humans, I've had many pets. My history with them, though, is uneven at best. I probably got this trait from my mother, whose dogs didn't fare well under her callous, watchful eye and stone-cold heart-rock. Blinky was first. His head moved and his tail wagged. He barked and walked a short distance. But when I pulled him down the sidewalk by his leash, showing him off, he often tipped over. He didn't mind being dragged on his side for blocks at at time, but the dealbreaker was that his batteries never lasted more than a couple weeks. Defective and disappointing. I grieved for a day then demanded a real dog, like a normal seven-year-old girl. My mother said no. She would be the only one in the family with a dog of her own, (no) thank you very much. So naturally, the minute I moved out from under her roof and into a two-bedroom, pet-friendly apartment, I got my own damn dog, (yes) thank you very much. The dog would even have her own room! Her name was Daisy. Granted, I couldn't take care of myself, let alone an animal. But I didn't know that at the time and neither did Daisy. I did all the performative, good-dog-owner things. I even put pee pads in her bedroom. She didn't get the memo and relieved herself in all the other rooms. Day and night. For solace and support, I turned to my best friends: benzos. I had no shortage of prescription drugs, thanks to my easily-manipulated Dr. Kirkland. I own my choices but still wonder in hindsight if he knew exactly what he was doing. Yet the drugs, over time, failed to quell my anxiety. I decided I needed a distraction. I applied and was accepted to grad school in journalism at USC. Miracles happen. Being in active addiction, it turns out, didn't prevent me from doing well in my classes. I got Bs, but did so looking pretty cute in my shirt-dresses sans bra. 'Twas the epoch. For those playing along at home, that's a B in school and an A in sartorial sexy, which is an A in my book! I stayed busy for a couple years, floating, doing, avoiding. Meanwhile, Daisy wasn't thriving. I didn't have time to walk her and was wracked with guilt which made me take more benzos. As graduation approached and the pressure to line up a job mounted, I coped by employing myriad life skills in my toolkit. Just kidding. I took more benzos. Now remember, I was the girl who was not allowed in the kitchen to make a fucking peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. So when the time came to get on a plane to a very important (life or death, clearly) job interview for an on-camera journalism job, I missed the flight. I had taken an unprecedented number of pills the night before, nailing my life-dismount and self-sabotage skills, courtesy of Dr. Kirkland (and me). Goodbye, Barbara Walters. Hello, Amy Winehouse. My promising career in journalism evaporated that day. I chose the path of least persistence. My parents looked the other way, continuing to send me money so long as I didn't disrupt their curated lives with inconvenient drama. I stayed in that apartment, curtains drawn, lights mostly off, with my not-housebroken dog for years. My primary exercise was lifting a hand to my mouth to take pills. I watched day-time TV. Years later, Daisy became blind, fell off a sidewalk and died ten feet from me. It wasn't my fault but I sure thought it was. I sobbed as I scooped her up, but this was LA so no one broke stride as they walked on by. I stayed Amy Winehouse for many years. I wasn’t dead but I wanted to be...albeit not until I got to my ideal weight of 120 pounds. I was always very practical. Flash forward many decades. I had tried pets again—Cookie, Mollie, Bruno, how I loved thee—all perfectly imperfect. As I approached my 80th birthday, though, I wanted a special dog with no batteries or puppy challenges. Sober and tapping into my heretofore untapped perfectionism, I perused 400 doggie magazines. When I saw THE ONE, his eyes bore directly into my soul. "Howie" was speaking to me, right off the page. Bow wow, Ruff, ruff. How much? I contacted the owner posthaste. The owner was adamant that Howie was not the right dog for me. I rebelled. "I’m never wrong about anything, especially animals! I want Howie!" Was my voice elevated and slightly panicked? Sure. Did he acquiesce, sensing my desperation. Absolutely. But not in the way I expected. "I have a better match for you. I'm certain of it. He's a flawless specimen: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel." "I doubt it." "Trust me," he said, smugly. He texted a photo. As a good Jew, I never surrender. But surrender I did. I melted. I named him Lucky. He would be my perfect dog, my sentient companion. To this day, his snoring soothes me. Perfection is overrated. Lucky finally taught me an invaluable lesson, allowing me to love my sad-ass, flawed self...because he sure does. And that's enough for me. At last.  Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash
Since relocating to Northern California, my previously hopeless mindset has shifted significantly. Having signed a new lease on life here, I finally gave myself permission to be happy. Also, I now buy large yams. I eat them skin and all. They are my favorite food (if we aren't counting the cookies and cupcakes I can no longer eat). When I pick one up at Mill Valley Market, I remember the restricted life of my poor mother who knew only small potatoes. I smile. No more small potatoes for this strong woman. For those of you who read this book and are guilty of small potatoes practices I say…RISE UP, throw those small potatoes away. Don't overwhelm yourself. Start with one large yam. Let it represent a new beginning and a new you. The only person standing between you and your freedom to choose the life you deserve (aka the big yam you really want) is not your mother, your enabler, your frenemy or your naysayer. It's you. Let you shine. POWER to you and your big yam too! |
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