Working at 70

My Mom had applied for, interviewed, and received a teaching position in west somewhere ... either Arizona or New Mexico. This was last summer, and this was before my Dad had to have surgery on his neck. My Dad had just lost his position at the real estate company, and he was rather down about the whole thing. He had to turn in his company car, and then Mom decided that she would look for a job herself. At the time, she was 69. 69 always sounds alot younger than 70 to me. I don't know why.

So she applies for a position on a Native American reservation... I think it was Arizona because she was going to be an hour or so from the Grand Canyon. To say that I was nervous about the thought of my mother and father picking up EVERYthing and moving was an understatement. But I have never been one to put limits on anyone (except myself), and my Mom knew that about me, so she confided a lot in me during that time. Knowing how my sister would react (and the comments she had already been making), my Mom didn't talk to her much about the whole thing. I had even gotten the kids excited about Nana and PawPaw's new adventure. Sure, they were sad, but they thought it was pretty cool.

We had everything planned out: we would move into my Mom and Dad's and see about selling our house or renting it. The kids would be able to be bussed to school now, and we were kind of excited about the prospect. Dad's surgeon, on the other hand, had a totally different idea of what Dad would be doing in September. It certainly did not include a move across the country.

It has been a dream of my Mom's to teach on a reservation. I have no idea where she decided on this, and if you knew my Mom, you would know that she does not travel much away from her own home, let alone making a trek like this. She had even contemplated leaving Dad behind and going out on her own. But she knew herself, and she knew that would be a large stretch for her.

Dad's surgery is what stopped the whole thing, dead in its tracks. There was no way Mom would leave him to take care of himself. She was afraid that if she wasn't there, Dad wouldn't listen to his doctor and rest the way he needed to.

Since that time, I have to say that Dad has pretty much gone into some form of depression, and I am glad that my Mom made the decision that she did. But the dream didn't die; she informed me two days ago that she had a phone interview with another school system. This one, however, is on the US/Mexico border. I'm not too hip on that one, and to be honest, I am not sure how hip I am about the move.

69 was ok. 70 going on 71 ... not so much. But they didn't call. Don't know why. Mom has her guess, which has something to do with them finding out how old she is. And I think: what in the world does she have on her resume?

Saving for Retirement

As I sat and sewed this morning, I was listening to our local AM radio station. There was a representative from ING being interviewed, and she was discussing the options when we reach the age of retirement. One of those options is to not start taking Social Security at 62, but to put off receipt of those payments until one reaches 67. Another option, she stated, was to take a part-time job during retirement.

And it scared me because, to be blatantly honest, I have not thought one bit about what my husband and I will do when we reach that "golden age". We live paycheck to paycheck, hand-to-mouth, right now ... we have NO savings account, I am afraid to even admit. What our kids are going to do when they want to go to college is beyond me because we have dealt with a number of blows to our finances, including lost jobs and a terrible economy.

What has happened? Where has the time gone? I keep thinking "shoot you are just 41. There's no need to get all bunged up about it now." We have always said "live for the moment" because we never know when those moments will be taken away from us. However, those "live for the moment" moments ... they are getting closer and closer to 50. And then 60.

My parents ... they live on a fixed income ... my Dad's Social Security. And it pales in comparison to what he was receiving when he was a broker for a real estate agency. I have witnessed things that my Mom has had to do in order to make payments. I have watched her scrimp a few dollars here to add it to the measly amount of money they receive each month.

So that prolonging until I am 67 ... really? Is it going to be there, and is it going to be enough? I hate to watch my parents struggle as they do. Medications, doctor's visits, mortgages... all to be paid with a small amount of money each month.

Word has been going around between my sister and I of who will "take" my parents when they can't make the mortgage anymore, or Dad can't keep up the property the way he needs to. My sister has offered because she does have a 2000 square foot home and it is just she and my brother-in-law. Of course, that will enter them into another realm, and she will truly be the epitome of the sandwich generation. But I know my parents: they won't do it.

So while I am worried about our lives, I witness the lives of my Mom and Dad as they struggle along. I witness what is to come, what could possibly be us in 29 years. If I thought these 41 years went by in the blink of an eye, 29 seems like a heartbeat.

Motherly Advice

I don't know what I was thinking when I thought that, once I became a mother, my mother would stop mothering me. That is so far from the truth, and sometimes I think that, while she is sitting out at her house, puttering around and taking care of my Dad, my Mom comes up with new ways to torture me.

I keep trying to remind myself: she isn't going to be alive forever, so don't wish that she would shut her mouth.

But those little reminders that try to shout through to the surface always get stifled by the voice that keeps screaming "SHUT UP, MOTHER!!! You HAD your turn!!!"

Case in point: The day I decided to allow my oldest child to have her own Facebook account. We have been telling her no for a number of year because what does a pre-teen/teen need a FB account for anyway? I caved this weekend, and I wouldn't really call it "caving." I would call it "letting loose of my micromanagement skills".

Then my Mom gets the friend request from her granddaughter. And I received the phone call no more than 24 hours later.

"So ... I see that M has a Facebook account."

"Yes." Pregnant pause ... like, nine months pregnant and overdue.

"hmmmm". Her method of saying "I disapprove" without actually saying it. But I wasn't taking the bait. I just waited.

"Well, I hope you realize that when M is older and has children of her own, that you know you can say when you approve or don't approve of something. So I am going to say it: I think that is a terrible decision, Meredith."

I wasn't going to get into a debate with her. I wasn't going to argue with her because she has this way of getting terribly defensive, communication breaks down quickly, and then she is in a snit for days over it. I told her that I had everything under control, that I had M's password, and that I had already gone in and altered her privacy settings.

"Well, I am sure you have a handle on it right now, but BAD things can happen when she's on there". Needing a definition of "bad", I asked.

"Don't get all lawyer on me. I've said what I needed to say, I don't approve of it, and that is that. I am not going to argue about it with you." I told her I wasn't arguing, that I was merely asking for clarification on her definition of "bad".

"Well, you can have control of it now.... but wait until she becomes smarter than you at it, and you won't know what she's doing then." Nice.

Here's my advice to you, mother: If M goes "bad", it isn't going to be because she had her fall from humanity on Facebook. And I just listened to a voicemail left by my mother about five minutes ago, who wanted to know why she can't find M's friend request on Facebook anymore. She doesn't want to make M "feel bad" even if "she doesn't approve of the decision".

And I am not calling her back to let her know that the account has since been deactivated because the child has a C in math.

The Car That Broke Down

Another reason I chose to create this blog was because I received a phone call from my mother yesterday. She was stranded in the Kroger parking lot because her car won't start.

My parents have two cars: hers is a late 1990 model (maybe early 2000) of a Buick and a Ford truck. There used to be a company car, but that had to be returned when the company my Dad works for merged with another, and my Dad was lost in that shuffle (which is a story for another post, I suppose). There were a lot of casualities for my family in that merger as my sister voluntarily terminated her position as bookkeeper.

The Buick has seen its better days. It has dents and it runs ... when it feels like it. And yesterday, it didn't feel like it.

I was getting ready to teach my Psych of Aging class yesterday and I received the call from Mom. She needed to get AAA's phone number (thank goodness they have that service still) so she wanted me to look it up for her. After finding it on the computer, she said "Oh wait ... here it is. It is right here on the card." I had a feeling that would be where it was located, but I knew she was under some stress. She got off her cell phone to call them. She called me back. And called me back. And called me back. And I called her. Every time I asked her if she needed me to cancel my class and come out to get her. She said no.

All the while, I'm wondering what it is my Dad is doing that he can't come in and get her. Enter Selfish Meredith. Selfish Meredith has these thoughts. Unselfish Meredith struggled to come to the surface. Unselfish Meredith quenched the fire that Selfish Meredith started and I decided that there had to be a very good reason that she was calling me.

Then Selfish Meredith said "what about your sister? What is SHE doing about this? Because Meredith has a very part-time teaching gig ... that is why she gets called and the sister has a full-time newish job and that is why she isn't called." Shut up, Selfish.

My class started and all I was doing was showing a video. On Parkinson's. Specifically a story about one man's struggle with the disease, and how his three children handled handling him. Specifically one sister was left to tend to their father pretty much all on her own because she lived only two minutes from him *until she finally moved in with him*. Specifically the brother and other sister lived thousands of miles from the father. Specifically the caretaker sister loathed her siblings, and told them so in the documentary. A number of times.

My phone rang a few more times during the movie and I had to excuse myself from the room. Two of those calls came from two totally different cell phone numbers. My mother's cell phone had died because she desperately needs to get a new battery for it.

She finally called me back and left me a voicemail. She finally reached my father on his phone (thank goodness for one reliable phone!), and he was on his way in in "Big Red" to pick her up, so I didn't have to worry about getting her. I was actually packing my things up to go get her. She thanked me for being able to call me (enter Guilty Meredith).

Guilty Meredith then felt bad for spouting off to my boss about not "wanting" to enter this phase with my parents. Selfish Meredith had even uttered the unthinkable... how life would be so much easier if ... and you can insert that if there. Guilty Meredith begged God for forgiveness for uttering those words.

The fact that they have cars that they can't rely on really bothers me. However, my husband and I are not in any position, credit or financially-wise, to be able to help them with a reliable vehicle.

Enter my brother ... which is another post for another day.

Where Do I Start?

I am an instructor at a local private university ... an instructor in Gerontology.

I have a law degree.

So how did I go from talking about personal jurisdiction and writs of habeas corpus to talking about coping mechanism and primary caregivers, advanced directives and Alzheimer's Disease?

Well, the short answer is: I was asked.

The long answer starts with my great Aunt Fern. I was raised in a family that was the primary caregiver of my Aunt Fern. My Dad was her POA and he was the son she never had. He meant the world to her, and it was always readily apparent that Aunt Fern preferred my Dad to anyone else in the world. She wouldn't listen to my Mom, or really anyone .... If it didn't come from Dad's mouth, it didn't mean anything to her.

I was young when I met her. She lived in a suburb of Cleveland, and we would drive over to visit with her and take her to her favorite restaurant. And there was one thing about Aunt Fern that everyone knew about her: she LOVED her dessert. It didn't matter that she left most of her meal on her plate. She went for dessert, each and every time. And it normally was pie. She loved pie. (Really, who doesn't love pie)?

Aunt Fern had a monkey. Yes, a monkey. Pedro was his name. I never knew him, but as he was described, I think I was one of the lucky ones. Pedro wore a diaper, and he was a mean old cuss.

Aunt Fern had taken pilot lessons. I don't think she ever completed those lessons as she had a disease called Wilson's Disease. I didn't know anything about except for the fact that Aunt Fern couldn't see or hear worth a hoot. That fact was either a source of frustration for her or of humor.

So as I grew older, I grew to appreciate Aunt Fern that much more. Eventually my Dad moved her to our hometown where she lived the rest of her days. She owned a condo, and lived across the street from a man who she secretly loved to death. She perked up every time Bob would bring her mail to her.

So .... fast forward some 10 odd years and here I am, teaching classes in Gerontology. I enjoy it. It is a subject that I fine insanely interesting, and one that is evolving on a daily basis.

It is also a subject in which I live .... with my parents now 70 years old, I am living the very things I am teaching. This blog is talk about it, to discuss it with myself (and any readers I might pick up along the way ... if I do). There are many stories, between my parents and Aunt Fern. These are stories that I want to tell so I have this electronic accounting of those memories before those memories fade into nothingness.

Hopefully it will be interesting and educational at times. If anything, there will be some laughs.

So... here I am ... living the world about which I am teaching young minds. I am what I teach.... and I teach what I am.

A little Popeye-ish, yes.