A Hard Rain

Just now, as I was sprinkling sea salt on the three eggs I’m frying in the slope-sided, cast-iron pan for my son, it occurred to me that maybe something has shifted in the universe. Maybe the stars are out of alignment.

I thought of Trump, “the Trump-era,” as it’s being called, and what it might mean for all of the people in all of the nations, and for earth herself. The insane notion occurred to me that maybe this man getting elected as president of the U.S. actually loosed some pernicious force in the universe.

I know I should stop reading the paper. The editorial in the New York Times today about “secret arrests” that have been going on in Louisiana “as long as anyone can remember” depressed me. The terrible thing is, it should do more than depress me. It should enrage me, galvanize me. I should be shaking, flashy-eyed.

Instead, I chalk it up as one more thing. One more symptom of man’s inhumanity to man, of the giant shrug we seem to be making en masse to all of the injustices that continue to rain down, or seep up, or happen to us, to those we love, to populations and cultures around the globe.

Is it just me? Am I getting more sensitive, or is the news worse than usual these days? Maybe I’m just a little more thin-skinned.

I had not one but two gin cocktails last night, something I should never do. Which is probably why I pressed the snooze button twice and then actually turned the alarm clock off when it rang this morning. By a stroke of good fortune I roused myself at 7:55 a.m. and shot out of bed — due at Piedmont Gardens at 8:15 to accompany my dad to the orthopedic surgeon.

I tore out of the house after donning the nearest wool skirt I could find and pulling on my boots. The front windshield of the car was covered by a thin, hard shell of hoarfrost. I jumped out of the car and hosed it down. The car thermometer read 37 degrees Fahrenheit.

The streets were quiet, blessedly and unusually so. In a rare sign of civility, it looks like people are actually taking (being given?) a break this week between Christmas and New Year’s.

I got to Piedmont Gardens at 8:19 a.m. — four minutes late — to see a transport van beginning to pull out of the lot. I parked at the green curb and jumped out, bounding around to the driver’s window.

“Hello? Do you have Gordon White?” I asked.

The driver rolled down his window. “Yes. You daughter?” he said.

I nodded my ascent and jumped in the side door. My dad was seated in a wheelchair in the back of the van, attached by lines on all four corners to the floor of the van. I’m sorry to say the vision reminded me of an electric chair in a death chamber, with the prisoner strapped down.

He looked grey and vulnerable. Wan morning light trickled in through dusty windows. He wore a thin plaid summer shirt and pajama bottoms. A cotton blanket covered his lap.

“Jesus, Dad, aren’t you cold?” I asked as I began shrugging off my coat and scarf.

“It is a bit nippy,” he said.

Rage boiled in my chest. I took a deep breath. I tucked my wool coat in around him and pulled my grey infinity scarf around his neck. With big loops, it’s a bit feminine. He looked like one of those French presidents of yore with the big frilly collars.

We made our way through the empty streets of Oakland. I kept a hand on his shoulder. We chatted a bit, but little of what he said made sense. He was talking about the car again. He thinks his car was left somewhere, and that it’s accruing daily fines. I reminded him we sold the car long ago.

When we neared the doctor’s office, the map application told the driver we were close. He pulled up in front of an architect’s office. I said, “Mmm, I don’t think this is it…”

He pressed the accelerator. I pointed and said, “That’s probably it.”

He seemed confused by the parking lot. I said, “This looks right. Why don’t you park here.” He did.

I jumped out of the van and met the driver at the back who I could now see was Asian, maybe Chinese, maybe central Asian. It was hard to tell. His accent was thick, his English so-so. I should have asked him.

I always like to know where people are from. It tells me so much about them and gives us a point of familiarity. Usually, either I’ve been to that country, or my dad has.

This time, I didn’t ask, because my son and his girlfriend (and maybe my daughter too, I can’t remember) have instructed me that it’s somehow rude and alienating to ask people where they’re from. I guess some believe it implies I’m saying they’re not from here, not of us, not included, that they are “other.”

I disagree. I think it’s alienating not to ask, not to show interest in someone’s identity, roots, language, and culture. And food. :)

If he’d said for example that he was Khmer, I could have told him about the enchanting Khmer picnic I encountered in Redwood Park a few years ago, where the family was barbecuing a whole sheep’s head. I can guess my kids wouldn’t like that though.

He was relatively gentle with my dad and relatively aware, but I couldn’t help but wonder how he would have been if I hadn’t been there. He would have had to wheel my dad into his appointment, ask for the doctor, accompany him to the appointment, answer questions as best he could. I wonder what he would have thought of my dad’s family.

Yesterday, in Chinatown, as I see every time I’m in Chinatown, I saw an ancient, wizened woman surrounded by her loving family, a man who seemed to be her son — an old man himself — seated on a small stool by her side. We were at Legendary Palace for dim sum.

I saw many of these elders on the streets, in various states of decrepitude, many bent over at impossible angles, but all surrounded by family members of all ages — what seemed to be four generations in some cases.

Once he had my dad off the hydraulic lift (which he pumped with a lever by hand to raise and lower), the man gave me the wheelchair, and I rolled my dad in. It was around 8:35. My cell phone took that opportunity to die. I hadn’t juiced it the night before.

We found the door. The office was dark. We settled in to wait in the lobby. My dad was still bundled up in my coat and scarf. I left it that way. It was still a bit chilly inside, and he’s on heart meds that draw the blood away from his extremities so the heart doesn’t have to work so hard. But, it makes him colder.

We waited till close to 9, I sensed, but I didn’t know for sure since my phone was dead, and there wasn’t a clock to be found on any wall. There was no coffee either, and the aloof receptionist of the neighboring doctor’s office said there was none nearby. She also said it was ten minutes to 9.

I tried to engage my dad in conversation. He mumbled a lot. He said non-sensical things. He mused, wondered, worried. He’d start sentences pretty well, “You know, I was thinking…” and then devolve to garble.

Twice, though, he brightened, focused, and became intelligible.

I said, “I think I may have had a date last night.”

That got his attention.

“Oh yeah?” he said. He leaned forward. He looked at me, and his gaze didn’t waver. His green eyes are the same color as my own.

“Well. Maybe. I met him last year. We stayed in touch, and he asked me out to a holiday dinner.”

“Where’d he take you?”

“An Asian-fusion restaurant called Osmanthus, on College Ave. We got smoked trout fried rice. It was good. Magda said he’s an 11 out of 10.”

“Oh yeah? He’s good-looking?”

I said he was.

The other time he perked up was when I told him about a mentally ill relative we’re worried about.

“Terrible. Maybe we can help him somehow?” he asked. He looked right at me, totally alert. This brought tears to my eyes.

He also said, “When’s your birthday?” I reminded him it was in April. He said, “Good, still have time.” He means there’s still time to get me a gift.

He was using my coat to wipe his nose, so I went to the restroom to get some kleenex. I found toilet paper and unrolled a handful of that. I gave it to him. I did a forward bend to stretch my back. When I stood up, my dad was chewing, and I could see he’d nibbled off the entire edge of the toilet paper.

I said, “Dad, that’s not food. That’s toilet paper. How does it taste?”

“Awful!” he said.

“Here spit it out.” He obeyed. I wrapped it up and threw it away.

I went back to the other doctor’s receptionist and asked her the time again.

“9:15,” she said. I looked at the paperwork in my hand. The appointment card said clear as day “9 a.m.”

I asked the receptionist if I could use her office phone. She pretended not to hear me. I pretended not to notice that she pretended not to hear me. I waited. I counseled myself to be skillful and not alienate her. I took a breath and let it out slowly.

I said again, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a phone. Is it possible to call Dr. Jaison using yours?”

She desultorily opened another window of her little cubicle and pushed the spare phone toward me. I had to ask her to look up the number because it wasn’t on the card Piedmont Gardens had given me. She sighed in exasperation, but did so. She handed it to me on a post-it. She did not look at me.

I called. No answer. I left a message.

At a loss, I grabbed the handles of my dad’s wheelchair, leaning over to tuck my coat around him more securely, and pushed him toward the doors. A couple was coming in. They opened the door for me. I accidentally banged the foot rest of the wheelchair against the doorjamb.

“Sorry, Dad.”

The couple looked consternated.

I said, “He doesn’t like it when I crash into things.”

The man said, dryly, “I can imagine.”

They said, “Can you put his feet on the foot rests?”

I explained that I try, but that my dad doesn’t seem to like them there, and when I try he takes them off. They seemed dubious.

When we got to the van, the receptionist ran out.

“Dr. Jaison on the phone!” she said.

I followed her back in, leaving my dad with the driver.

The receptionist tried to transfer the call to the other phone. She was unsuccessful. She pulled some sanitary wipes from a drawer and cleaned off her phone receiver front and back, then handed it to me.

A man on the other end of the line told me they’d tried to cancel my dad’s appointment, but didn’t have the right phone numbers and didn’t know where he was living. He apologized and said the doctor wasn’t coming in.

The driver strapped my dad back onto the hydraulic lift. He jumped in the side door and levered my dad up, up, up. My dad looked around, alarmed.

“I’m here, Dad.”

“Oh, good. Just checking.” He chuckled.

We made our way back to Piedmont Gardens. The streets were still empty. I kept my hand on my father’s knee.

When we got back, the driver followed me in with the bill. I think he was afraid he wouldn’t be paid since no one showed up. I brought my dad to the second floor first and left him with his nurse. The driver stuck by my side. We went up to the third floor to talk to Melissa, the social worker.

She apologized. She assured the driver he would be paid. She sounded slightly testy. He said, to my surprise, “This was the second time. This happened yesterday.”

She said, “I know.”

As I was leaving the office, Melissa said, “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

She joined me in the hall and then led me to a room at the end of it. “We’re thinking this would be a good room for your dad. That’s Bill. He has an attendant most days. He’s quiet. We think it’d be a good match.”

“Hi Bill!” she called. Bill didn’t move. His stolid back remained to us.

My dad can’t go back to The Grove, the dementia unit in the other tower, because he’s not “progressing.”

Melissa mentioned that Medicare was stopping payment today. If we don’t move him out of The Grove, we’ll be double-paying as of today — for both an “apartment” at The Grove and the room at skilled nursing.

I failed to hear her properly. I must have been distracted.

It was only when I got home that I thought, “What? I thought we appealed that decision with Medicare yesterday? Did she know something I didn’t?”

The truth is, everyone involved is clearly of the belief that we will not win the appeal. It’s just going to buy us a little more time — maybe a day. The Medicare person who called last night said they’d have a decision in 24 to 72 hours. It’s clear this is just a customary hoop to jump through. It’s clear none of the staff thinks I will win this appeal.

Then, my dad will be “private pay.” He’ll run out of money within a couple of months. Then, I need to apply for Medi-Cal for him. Or maybe I need to apply now. Yes, I think Melissa said I need to apply now. But to get Medi-Cal, he first has to prove he’s plumb out of money. He can’t have more than $2000 to his name, in any account.

What a brutal system.

When I got back to my dad, he was pulled up to a table in the dining room. Someone had removed my coat and tucked a napkin into his shirt. He was trying to eat scrambled eggs and french toast, but the plate was about three feet away from him. I pulled it close.

The floor nurse, a young Filipino man, approached me. He apologized graciously for the misunderstanding. He looked me in the eye. He felt sorry. I could see that. I thanked him. He apologized again. I thanked him again. He apologized again, using new words.

It became like a little game. For a second, I wondered if this was some kind of flirtation ritual. He seemed to enjoy engaging with me. We were warm with each other. I laughed at myself. He was at least fifteen years younger than me.

While I was talking with him, one of the Ethiopian aids, an older woman, maybe in her early 60s, began feeding my dad. She rushed him a little, but she was mostly attentive. I appreciated it.

I relieved her and began feeding my dad. A man in a kind of stretcher on wheels was parked beside a neighboring table. Intermittently he moaned, “Help. Somebody. Help me.”

I asked the Ethiopian nurse if he was in pain. She said, maybe he was.

I checked in with the jazz pianist who also lived on the floor. He was cutting flowers at another table with five or six others who were doing the same. A clutch of blue vases awaited in the center of the table. He peered at me through his Coke-bottle lenses. How are you? he asked.

I said fine and returned the question. He said he keeps busy. He said the music keeps him sharp. I said, “I didn’t know you lived on this floor. I thought you were on the other side” (in independent living, the tower across the courtyard).

“Nope. This is home,” he said, with no apparent irony.

I returned to my dad and took my leave. I knew I should next go to his room at The Grove, talk to staff there, begin to shut down his apartment, get some sweaters… but I was tired. I wanted a cup of coffee. I wanted to go home.

When I got home, I began frying the eggs for my kids’ breakfast. I thought about resilience. I called our relative who’s fighting mental illness. Or not fighting it, as it seems. Everyone else seems to be fighting harder than he is. Which is frustrating. I called him and reminded him to call Dr. Beckerman. He said he would. I said, “Call me back after.” He said he would.

A long time passed. I called again, maybe two hours later. “I didn’t call Dr. Beckerman.”

WHY NOT

I asked him to call Dr. Beckerman again.

Of course, it didn’t happen.

I called Dr. Beckerman. He sounds very nice. He’s going on vacation until January 10th. He said extreme ambivalence is part of the illness. We will try again on January 10th.

My possible date last night said we need to take this very seriously. That the most dangerous thing for a man is apathy. I’m torn. I don’t know if I’m under-engaged or over-engaged. If we need to bring him under our wing full-court press, or what. I know it would help. I know he would feel better. He would be warm here. He would be fed well. He would have structure.

Weeks ago, the doctor said, “He needs to be some place with regular meals and bedtimes.”

I can provide that. We can provide that. Today, I began calling therapists for my kids to help deal with all of this. My possible date recommended this.

Resilience. That’s what I was thinking about. I read a good New Yorker article about resilience last night, about how it can be learned, about how important it is that we retain, maintain, attain — agency. The sense that we have power and control in our lives. That we get to decide how to respond, how to think or feel or believe, about a situation.

It was a good reminder. Sometimes, I feel overwhelmed and a little isolated. Yet, the truth is, I’m blessed. That’s clear. It should be obvious to me how blessed I am. All around us people — our loved ones and those further afield — are under intense, soul-crushing pressures. It’s an honor and a blessing to be the port in the storm rather than the storm-tossed vessel.

It’s not me at the moment strapped down on all four corners of my wheelchair so I don’t slip and slide while freezing in the back of a transport van piloted by a confused driver who means nothing to me. It’s not me drifting about in a stupor of confusion and ambivalence caused by a terrifying mental break.

I still get to have my life.

I was standing in the shade of a magnolia tree as my dad was being removed from the van upon our return. I was able to discern a bright patch of morning sunshine on the pavement. I moved toward it. Immediately, I felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.

I have free will, cognizance, independence, the powers of observation, sensation, the ability to enjoy the lush feeling of the sun’s warmth when one is cold.

No one can take that away. Not Trump, not fatigue, not poverty, not stress. Our trusty sun will continue to rise and grant her life-giving warmth to any and all who can get to her rays.

Resilience. Gratitude. Reframing. As the article asked, when times are hard, do you “succumb or do you surmount… Do you conceptualize an event as traumatic, or as an opportunity to learn and grow?”

Here’s to learning and growing.