But She's Not There...

So I visited ancient Mom on Tuesday, and she reached another negative milestone: she couldn't walk back to my car after lunch.

Watching someone into extreme old age really is observing the down side of a hyperbola. I've observed my Ds' milestones as they grew, and my mother is doing it in reverse: each day losing some new measure of physical or mental function.

So I wheeled her in her walker, and got her back to her condo. Her spirits were pretty high, though, especially when I assured her that I continued to take care of all of her practical affairs. "Oh David, I'm such an idiot, that if you didn't --we'd both be bankrupt!"

And then Thursday am, my sister called me to tell me the latest adventure: she called Mom, and caught her entertaining some guests --2 young girls. They were lost, Mom said, and trying to get a ride home from their mother. My sister asked to speak to them, but Mom said they didn't want to talk on the phone.

My sister immediately became concerned. Were they criminals? Mom has little to steal, but still...So she called 911, and the Palm Beach Sheriff said they'd send someone over. My sister and brother in law headed to Mom's condo.

The cops were there, and pretty sure no visitors had come. Or, is somehow 2 young ladies found there way to my Mom's condo, past the guard gate, and picking my Mom's unit out of the nearly 8000 old people homes there, well, they did no harm.

Mom couldn't offer more details, except that they mentioned they were friends of my cousin Janet's daughters. A quick call to Janet confirmed that wasn't so.

I called Mom later that night, and she insisted she WAS visited, but was cloudy on details. And then, she launched her pre emptive strike about refusing to move to an ALF, or anywhere else, but maybe she SHOULD start locking her front door...

My California sister weighed in the next day --a nurse she knew figured it all out: my mother should be on NO medication. I politely explained to her that her friend is a moron --diagnosing a patient he's never seen from 3000 miles away.

No --medical advice isn't the problem. Mom's cared for by Dr. Eric - a Harvard trained interninst and cardiologist who's known her for 32 years...

I emailed Eric, and asked him to check for more dementia at her next appointment. Eric, of course, suggested a neurologist consult. But that's not going to happen --when someone is 91, we all know what's coming, and all more medical intervention will do is make things more complicated and uncomfortable.

I'm reading Russell Baker's autobiography, written in 1982. He went through the same issues with his aging mother. She began living in the past, mentally.

So I wish the same for my mother. The hallucination came on a day she had no visitors --Thursday --and I think she simply invented some to help pass the time.

Last night our neighbor and friend Diane came over, with her pretty friend Cindy. Cindy just turned 50, like me. She reported that she's been going to a bunch of funerals for 50 and 60 somethings lately. The last 2 were of defense lawyers I knew as well. Her theory is that our "sandwich generation" is under stress from worrying about our children as we also worry about declining parents, and the stress lets the cancers and heart diseases gain footholds...

She's probably right, of course. All I know, or knew as I drank my 3rd stiff Middleton, is that the end is bad: either too soon or too late.

Diane and Cindy left, and Wifey and I went swimming around midnight. It was exquisite. The recent USAF planes spraying for mosquitos had done the job, and we heard nary a buzz.

We floated together in the moonlight, laughing that if the Ds saw us it would lead to months of psychological therapy to get the vision out of their minds...

But we celebrated our relative youth. And life. And no hallucinations...

Dead Singer

D1 called from her restaurant job a few hours ago to tell me that my prophesy had come true: the singer Amy Winehouse was dead.

I rarely follow the personal travails of actors or singers, but I really dug Amy's music. The first time I heard her, I thought it might have been a newly discovered Bessie Smith record. Amy's voice is so smoky and sultry and throaty --the last thing I expected to learn is that she was a young, English Jewish girl.

Her songs were stirring. The arrangements were sparse and clear --like I was listening to a rehearsal in a small jazz club. She sang in a way that went right to my soul --you could hear the pain and suffering in her voice. I bought 2 of her CDs --and buying records is a rarity for me.

She seemed to cram too much living into her short life, and became addicted to a bunch of drugs. Her life story is cliched, of course. She died at 27, like Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin, and Cobain --the tortured artist --somehow too intense in her art to exist in this world.

I told Wifey and the D2 3 years ago that she'd be dead soon. Somehow, she eked out another 36 months or so of failed concert gigs and numerous domestic dramas, and failed rehabs.

The Facebook (tm) postings will be full of tales of the fallen diva. My friend Arnold, ultra conservative and strict Catholic, already commented showing this as a passion play in favor of tougher drug laws. Arnold's a terrific guy -- wonderful husband and father, true community leader. He's also a political retardate. As if tougher drug laws would have mattered.

Better to legalize and tax and spend more resources on treatment and drug abuse prevention.

But what do I know? All I know is that a talent is now silenced for the future. And when her hit song "Rehab" comes on, in which she sings about refusing to go, it will have a deep poignancy --deeper than it did before.

I'm so glad my family and close friends are mere mortals --no artistic geniuses among us. Our run of the mill demons are enough to battle, day by day, and night by sometimes sleepless night.

Take a Load off Fanny...

Today's Herald has an article about grown children and how they share the load of dealing with ancient parents. As next month is the one year anniversary of a crisis time for my ancient Mother, I read it closely.

We were all set to move D2 into her dorm for the start of college. That is an exquisite time for a parent and child, at least in my view. It's a mix of happiness, wistfulness, and reflection. Unfortunately, D2 got pushed off of center stage.

My mother had had a fall, and seemed in a death spiral. My local sister was in Tampa visiting her daughter and grandkids, and my California sister was a whole country away, and dealing with her manifold issues. So, in the middle of stuff, I had to go up to Delray, and fetch Mom, and then drive her back to Delray on our way to Gainesville, in our over packed and over stuffed SUV.

And then, as if in a sitcom, after we left Grandma in her condo, we got a flat tire, and had to spend some time at the tire store, again with the packed and college ready SUV.

D2 was a trooper about the whole thing. She showed a lot of maturity, and realized that, even though it was to be HER time, it didn't work out that way. Of course, we made it to Gainesville ok, moved her in, met the roommates, and did the classic Wal MArt and Target trips, where all of the other parents and undergrads jostled carts full of shelves, and chairs and toilet paper and all manner of supplies. And then we had our menancholy goodbyes...

And then stopped back to make sure Mom was alive. She was.

Now, a year later, Mom is actually doing better. My sister and I have settled into a happy cooperation about taking care of her. I really appreciate that --I no longer feel that I have the whole load myself. We coordinate with each other when we visit, and make sure there's coverage when one of us goes out of town.

The Herald article says that the task are never completely shared, and, in fact, our California sister, due to geography and economics, isn't much of a factor. But we've settled in with Mom, waiting for the inevitable other shoe to drop with her...

And in a few weeks, we move D2 again. She'll come home from summer session, spend a week, and then we drive up to Gainesville for what seems like the thousandth time (D1 started in '06, so by now I can recite from memory what each Turnpike rest stop offers).

D2 is moving into the sorority house, so there's no real furniture to buy, but there is still a trip to Target and Wal Mart for supplies and decorations. I get to schlep the heavy stuff up the stairs, Wifey (and presumably D2's roommate Ali's mother) get to make the crucial decisions about layout and colors and coordinating supplies...

So I'm looking for a happier move in this time. Mom is stable in her condo. Any reasonable evaluation of her would find it absurd that she lives alone, but that's the way she demands it.

My sister and I truly share the responsibility of her, and I'm grateful for that...it makes things much better all around.

Hello Gainesville. Here we come again...

Not Even a Wafer Thin Mint

So my birthday eating orgy is nearly over. I'm meeting my old friend Jeff in an hour at Lots O Lox for breakfast, but I'm already done. Maybe just a coffee and bowl of oatmeal...

Saturday I gorged on the gourmet offerings of Captain Russ, on his lovely sailboat. Sunday night the Ds, Wifey, and D1's boyfriend Joel ate steaks at Smith and Wollensky on South Beach. It was a great night --major thunderstorms gave us a show over Fisher Island while we ate and drank.

Yesterday, Wifey and I took D2 for a farewell breakfast before her flight back to UF. We went to Wagon's West, and I thought --why not --it's my birthday --I'll have pancakes. So I did, and they were delicious.

I headed to the office, and Stuart took us all out for sushi. I just had some soup, and thought that was it.

D1 and Wifey offered a final dinner, but I begged off. No more eating! And then...

Stuart, Brian, and I gathered in Stu's office for "one birthday toast." But then, while we were there, Brian got a call from a defense lawyer: a case we got referred to Brian, which we hoped he'd settle for nuisance value, got an offer of $800K! It was Brian's biggest settlement ever. So there was a second cocktail...

And then Barry called, having just left the hospital. I told him to circle back to my office for a celebratory toast, which he did. The 4 of us sons of the Ashkenazim laughed and talked. Brian left, and then, somehow, hunger set in.

So I picked Burger and Brew, which started in South Beach and opened its second location in Mary Brickell Village. We parked, and went in.

I ordered the appetizers: mini fried corn dogs, fried onion rings, and then Stuart added deep fried pickles. We each had a beer. We each had enormous burgers. Then came their signature dessert: deep fried twinkies with vanilla ice cream.

We laughed at our absurdity. What an orgy of unhealthiness. To make things better, the parking garage houses an LA Fitness, and a bunch of the gym goers got into the elevator with us, all slim and sweaty...

So I ended my celebration of becoming 50 much the same as I probably celebrated becoming 15.

Where are the salads?

Ahoy!

Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day...

So Wifey and I fetched D2 from MIA. D2 got into the car and was greeted with a turkey breast sandwich, black and white cookie, and an ecstatic little Spaniel who immediately took a lick of her sandwich...

And then last night Wifey and I drove over past the Seaquarium, and mustered with Eric, Dana, Barry, and Donna, and boarded the Captain Sir! for a sunset sail. Captain Russ and First mate Susan set out a lovely spread of cheese and fruit and crab cakes, and crusted sea bass and his award winning key lime pie. It's true - food tastes better on a luxury sailboat on a gorgeous, breeze filled Miami night.

Eric mixed martinis and cosmos, and even Wifey had a drink! She got nicely buzzed, she said, for the first time in awhile. We sat on the foredeck and drank and chatted, and laughed. Susan played 70s tunes on the sound system, and Dana and I showed our name that tune chops are still very sharp, though we needed help from Eric's shazam (tm) app on his I phone to identify the singer of "Show and Tell" (Al Wilson).

The lights came on in the city. An impossibly huge orange full moon rose over the Port. The beauty was almost absurd.

I've been everywhere, man, like Johnny Cash sings, and seen some gorgeous places. Miami, on a night like last, from Biscayne Bay, tops them all. It truly does. The evening light, the office and condos reflecting off the water, back lit by the orange moon --it was surreal. Like we were watching something created in an animator's studio.

I felt bad for anyone who has never seen it. I really did.

We headed for home. The enormous bottle of Stoli that Eric figured we'd use a fraction of, well, it was 3/4 empty. D2 smirked as she saw it and welcomed us back.

Eric and Dana made me a gorgeous photo mosaic of our families. Eric is truly a pro level photographer (and bartender). He only keeps his day job as cardiologist to pay the bills...

Barry and Donna gave me some fine single malt Scotch, and a Cole Haan Kindle cover. Barry and I have been talking about Kindles for years now --the Ds bought me one for Father's Day, and I suspect Barry will get his for HIS birthday, which is a week away.

Even sweeter --there were birthday cards from Barry's boys, to their terrific "Uncle." I'm so proud of them. Scott is a mini Barry (though mini isn't the right word for the 14 year old who is already 6'2"). He excells in school, and is loved by his classmates. Josh, the musician, marches to his own drummer, and confounds his parents constantly. But I have no doubt he'll soar as well...

So we're back on land for now, though headed back next to the ocean for dinner tonight, with both Ds, and D1's boyfriend Joel. D1 is working like a dog at her "part time" job --and working like a REAL dog, not her pampered Cavalier...Tonight she's taking a well deserved break.

This turning 50 thing doesn't really suck. As long as you don't go it alone...

The Last of the 40s

Hello Narcissus. Dave here. I'll be wallowing with you for awhile, as I reflect on a milestone in my life --I turn 50 two days from now.

I ran into an old aquaintance at the Trulucks bar the other night, Alan. Alan's an entertainment lawyer, and we used to play in a band together, back in the mid 80s. It's been so long since I even picked up my flute, I forgot I ever played. My friend Craig played drums, and had a foam coated, sound proofed room in his West Kendall townhouse. He had a CPA bud who played bass (I forget his name) and Alan played lead guitar and his wife Lisa sang lead.

I was the least talented of the group, which was saying something. We played covers of Springsteen and Neil Young. We met probably 20 times, and mercifully for the audiences of Miami, never made it out of Craig's room.

Years later, I learned that Alan returned home from a business trip, and went into his apartment to find it totally empty of all furniture and possessions, except for his clothes. He first thought it was a practical joke, but there was a "Dear Alan" letter telling him that Lisa had left him for a much richer and older lawyer. Oh well --when you marry a frustrated Chrissie Hynde, I guess that's a risk...

But anyway --back to Alan in the present (he remarried a far hotter South American lady and seems to be no worse for the wear): My friend at the bar mentioned I was turning 50. Alan's take: "That's the best age for a man. He knows who he is --good guy, asshole, or a bit of both. He realized not much more's going to change in his life --if he's a winner, he'll still win, and if he's a loser, he'll just find more creative and pathetic ways to lose. Dave --you're luckily a winner. Good for you."

I really enjoyed his complement, I must say.

And so I celebrate this weekend. I didn't want any big parties. I did that when I was 40 --had close to 100 people to Villa Wifey for a clambake. It rained, and my thoughts of DJ fueled dancing outside fizzled. There was a highlight, though --my secretaries and associate hired a plane pulling a banner to fly over and wish me a happy 40th. I stood on the balcony outside my bedroom as the plane flew over, and my family and friends gathered in the courtyard below and I felt completely and fully like Jay Gatsby.

This year, not so much. The mysterious sources of income are slowing, and I'm ratcheting down a bit.

Still, D2 is flying home this afternoon from Gainesville. I can't wait to pick her up and hug her and re live college life through her tales...

Tonight, Wifey, and Drs. Eric and Barry and Dana and Donna are taking a sunset sail out of Key Biscayne. The boat's captain, Russ Boley, is a gourmet cook, and will serve us sea bass as the sun goes down. Dr. Eric is bringing his handy martini making kit, and photo gear. We'll talk of the old times, and compare the manifold blessings of our children.

Tomorrow Wifey, the Ds, and one D boyfriend and I will go out to South Point for some steaks at Smith and Wollensky. I plan to toast them all.

It's no coincidence that my celebrations are near or on the ocean. I'm honoring my father, whose spirit is there. I try to be like him all the time. I hope I come close.

So hello 1/2 century mark. In so many ways, I still think I'm about 20 or so. Most of my friends are the same. Barry and Eric and I were all in college together then, trying to analyze and savor human nature. We still are, 3 decades later.

Although I'd like to recall a quote from a great writer or poet, somehow only Jimmy Buffet comes to mind, probably since I'm about to set sail tonight: " Good times and riches, and son of a bitches, I've seen more than I can recall."

Yahrzeit

So yesterday, July 14th was my friend Mike's 50th birthday, Bastille Day, and the 39th anniversary of my father's death.

I celebrated the first event the evening before, with some drinks at Trulucks, and Mike and I talked about the summer 25 years before when we went to Tampa to do battle with the Florida Bar Exam. We won. I don't really give Le Rat's Ass about the French (though I do dig Paris and want to return), and the third event was most poignant to me.

I visited ancient Mom. I asked her if she knew what the day meant. She looked at me blankly, and said "Is it your birthday already?" No, I told her, it was the anniversary of Dad's death. "Oh," she said, "I only remember happy dates, like our wedding aniversary." I guess that's a major reason she's lived past 91.

On the way back to the Turnpike, I passed the former Oriole Shopping Plaza where he died in my arms, in a barber's chair. I wonder whatever became of that poor young haircutter. She was about my age, and sort of punk looking (it was 1982). I wondered if she quit the business after the customer died while she was cutting his hair and chatting happily. Maybe she let the pink in her own hair grow out, and attended medical school.

Time truly does soften all blows. For the first year after Dad died, I sort of slept walked through my life. I later learned this was a psychological phenom called dissociative behavior. I remember the strange sense I had that I was sort of watching my life happen from an outside vantage point.

I still think of my father daily. I wonder what his take would be on the world "a black president? Really?" On his children, on his grandkids, on his wife.

I headed back home, as Wifey was spending the night at her friend's on Miami Beach, helping her recover from a secret surgery (facelift). I let the dogs out. My father loved dogs. He used to spend hours on a weekend getting our mutt Missy to howl along to his singing --it delighted him.

And then I went to the water. My Dad was cremated, and his ashes spread in the ocean off Pompano Beach. He wanted this done for two reasons. First, he ABHORED the funeral industry --he felt they preyed upon the vulnerable, and second, he wanted to be remembered whenever any of us was at the beach, instead of having to make a sad trip to a cemetary.

I drove to Matheson Hammock. As if it was scripted, there was an enormous, gorgeous, almost surreal full moon to the East. The lights of Downtown were coming up to the North. It was calm.

I told my father how much I still missed him. I told him about his grandkids. 3 were born while he was alive, the last three came along later (including my Ds).

I apologized for failing to light candles in synagogue, as I did for several years when I became friends with a rabbi. I told him I was his son, and he always taught me that organized religion was a load of horse shit, and I'm quickly coming around to the same conclusion, but if I was wrong, and he was spending eternity getting poked in the tuches by a devil with a pitchfork, well, my eternal fate would be the same...

I told him about the love I found in my life, and how joyful it was.

Isaac Singer wrote that as he grew older, he believed more in ghosts. I'm getting that more and more. When I fetch the newspaper in the pre dawn gloaming, sometimes I think I see things.

I drove home to my house, wondering. Did my father's premature death force me to become a man faster than I otherwise would have? Clearly. I didn't see it as much of a choice, as my mother, Edith Bunker as we called her, never paid a bill in her life, or balanced a check book.

Still, I miss him dearly, and every day. Unlike my mother, I remember even the unpleasant days. Sometimes I remember them more clearly than the happy ones.