 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.
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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, 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!  After being discharged to the street from the ER, I joined the ranks of the lost, the adrift, the unhoused. My fall from promising was nothing if not definitive. I had called the manager of the SLE from the ER. She was was unequivocal: I was not welcome to return. The lawyers had weighed in. I was a liability. Not alone anyway. I would need sober companions 24/7. My next call was to an AA friend who sprang into action. Within the hour, Jack and Dave, two dudes from AA central casting, pulled into the tree-lined circular drive of the toney hospital. They surely knew I was their gal when they marked me as pallid, empty-handed and sleep-deprived. As it turns out, drugged-induced unconsciousness doesn't replenish the soul. The risk of addicts, especially suicidal addicts, taking missteps or trying to self-harm after relapse, is acute. The first 30 days are crucial. I was no exception. Jack and Dave, it was explained to me, would be my sober bodyguards for the next month. I would be surveilled around the clock per protocol other than, thankfully, quick trips to the bathroom during which one of them would stand sentinel outside the door. One would think having zero time alone would have been a monumental imposition. Au contraire! I never had so much fun! Also bodyguards! I didn't get this kind of attention in LA—or ever. We went sightseeing, drove through the countryside and ate our way through Marin County. It was fun. I had forgotten fun. Dave was an ex-con who finally got sober and wanted to help others, especially himself. How much money can I make off these drunken slobs? was his motto. I adored him and his candor. He did the 13th step* of AA by getting somebody pregnant. He never married her and was always thinking of himself first and foremost. Jack's main love, though, was food. Morning noon and night—he never met a food he didn’t like. He must have weighed 500 pounds. I later tried to introduce him to Overeaters Anonymous, but he didn’t want anything to do with it. His other motto was food is my medicine. I couldn't argue with that. Dave was a little softer and kinder than Jack. He was a follower, a silent supporter and someone for whom I am eternally grateful. After my time at the SLE—and with Jack and Dave—came to an end (read: I needed a "higher level of care"), it was back to rehab again. For this stint, I ventured to Petaluma, California, "the egg basket of the world," where not just chickens but pigs, cows and horses reside. Those animals, it turns out, were much cleaner than my co-residents. Just before I was discharged from the SLE, I was informed I had a suspicious lump in my breast. I went in for a biopsy and awaited my results. The nurse shared the news on speaker phone in the car as Jack and Dave were driving me to Petaluma: Negative. They clapped and cheered as I exhaled. I was given yet another pass in life. A lucky break. Or so I thought, until the doors of that rehab center swung open and I walked in... . * The 13th step of AA refers to a (prohibited, unethical) situation where a person who is new to AA is targeted for a romantic or sexual relationship by a more experienced member. The term was coined because it occurs informally after the 12-step program and often leads to negative fallout for both would-be romantics. Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
When the door to the rehab in Petaluma, California swung open, I knew it was not going to be a good fit. The residents were younger, for starters. Much younger. Also, a bit of a discrepency in hygiene standards became evident right away. Showers eluded my co-junkies. Many didn't bother to flush. God forbid they clean their hair out of the drain. I'm not a neat-freak, but being there sure pushed me in that direction. I missed my maid. There, I said it. If only Rosa were with me, everything would have been alright. As an elder, surely I deserved a perk here and there. I made an appointment with the director. "Thanks for taking the time," I tried to tread lightly. "While I appreciate everything you are doing here, I'm afraid I'm not suitable. I'm a tad high maintenance and unmoored without my support system." "There is always an adjustment period," she started, donning invisible kid gloves. "How about I schedule a meeting with your care-team therapist tomorrow 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, so I stayed. By the end of a grueling ten weeks, my blood pressure had shot up to 200/135. I was repeatedly carted to and from the ER. One day, a most unwelcome ER doc told me I was experiencing garden-variety anxiety and to please not return. I talked to the kind therapist about my dilemma; 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 Full Circle SLE, I had a plan. I refused to make my bed, fold my clothes or vacuum. A committee agreed to meet with me. I explained Rosa's essential role and offered to pay double. They made an exception. She arrived the next day. I was on the road to paradise. Or so I thought.  Photo cred: Austin Chan on Unsplash
After two months at Bayside Rehab, I was released to an upscale sober living environment ("SLE") in the exclusive town of Tiburon, California. I had my own private room overlooking the bay, and I was sober. I was finally free, or so I thought. I ventured out to an AA meeting one night and met up with a guy from the Bayside cohort. We were having a nice evening until he turned and said: “If anyone relapses, it will be you.” I was devastated. Unmoored and pissed off, I stamped my frenemy's confrontational message onto my heart and carried it with me back to my room. The minute I was alone, I took a half bottle of pills and blacked out. I'd show him! Revenge-using? To hurt no one other than myself? No problem. Proving him right was yet another new nadir. In the morning, I was taken to the local hospital, with which I would become very familiar. When I woke up, I was strapped to a gurney gazing into the eyes of an RN. "You are okay, honey, and you are on suicide watch," she said. What? The words were not coming. I wanted to tell her I was frightened, but not crazy, and I wanted out of the restraints. Then it occurred to me, supine and strapped down, that maybe I was some kind of crazy. Surely, medical professionals thought so, which is why I was confined like a convict. Another nurse approached with a blood pressure cuff. I managed to turn my head to read the meter: 200/200. "You are high risk for having a stroke. I want you to breathe deeply with me," she said. I tried to breathe with her, but the vision in my head of her was that was a carny in front of a ride barking: Step right up, ladies and gentleman, and bring your popcorn! This woman is at risk of offing herself or stroking out! I lived through that part. I was floating outside and above, peering in and below. It seemed to be happening to someone else. This, my cadre of subsequent therapists would tell me, was disassociating, a coping mechanism. My sense of hearing on the gurney was intact. People were talking about me in the third person, like I wasn't present, prostrate before them, with my life in their hands. Should we send her to the ICU or the psych ward? Neither! I wanted to respond, but as in a dream, I had no words. While pondering my medical dilemma, a case manager sidled up to the gurney. She asked me myriad questions designed to ascertain whether I really was thinking about ending it all. "Nope, I'm good," I said, surprising myself (the naloxone injection, IV drip and assisted ventilation had worked apparently). After all my life was ostensibly perfect. I unspooled my uneven history for her, sharing that I had recently turned the corner, two months sober in rehab, after a three-year bout with opioids. This was a little setback because I was set off by some thoughtless, flippant "friend." "But me suicidal? Never." For some strange reason, she wasn’t buying my minimizing story. She stamped the very official forms and called for the weekend staffers to take me away. "To the psych ward." She didn't look over her shoulder as she strode out of the room. Away. “Look,” I implored, my desperate words coming fast now “no track marks on my arms: I'm just an ordinary pill popper.” And if you have access to any, I'm happy to take them. The two large men who spun the gurney one hundred and eighty degrees in a fraction of a second to wheel me, smooth sailing down the corridor, were well trained. They knew to avoid eye contact. Tears were streaming down my temples and into my hair when I heard: “KODIMER! YOU CAN GO HOME NOW!” To this day, I do not know how it happened. Maybe the nurse was trying to scare me—taking me right up the precipice. Perhaps a doctor read my history and decided I didn't meet 5150 criteria (or as we say in California, "short-term crazy"). I entered the hospital that night, assessed as a suicidal maniac. I walked out a run-of-the-mill drug addict. Free but alone. Again.  Everyone knows Oprah. Like Cher, Prince and Cleopatra, she just has the one name: Oprah. I have two names. Charlene and Kodimer. Yep, that’s two. How much more infamous can I be? Charlene Kodimer. I’ve never heard of me. I was invisible at birth. My mother was too busy preparing for her exit from the hospital. Her needs were eclipsed by those of her newborn first and only daughter. It was foreshadowing. She always took precedence over me. Fast forward 80 years later. I still have two names and I'm still not famous. The future is not bright, much less promising. I haven't given up, though. Short of legally deleting my last name (and disorienting everyone abruptly haha), I'm going to give reaching out to Oprah a shot. Why not? We all know Gayle (note well: no last name) is her best friend, but I was thinking maybe Oprah is lonely and she would like another friend. How gracious of me. I know I could use a friend. Why not Oprah? As I always say, start at the top! So Oprah, I’m reaching out to you and offering my friendship in case it's lonely up there in the stratosphere. I think we could have fun swapping stories, especially about people who live in LA. If you are too busy to answer this letter or have an abundance of friends (or if Gayle would have friendvy,* I will understand. Your new bestie, Charlene** *Friendvy = friend envy. Coinage my editor, Gina Raith. **If you've read this, O, I now just have the one name. And maybe you can aspire to just have the one letter? We can process over coffee. |
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