Entries from January 1, 2007 - January 31, 2007
La-la how the life goes on
"Happy ever after in the marketplace" always comes to mind when I am roaming the Red Hook Fairway, a stupendous food playground with a stunning view of New York harbor and the Statue of Liberty. It's the only supermarket I've ever felt drawn to for spiritual sustenance as well as groceries; after a pilgrimage through the cobblestoned streets of this strange big-sky neighborhood, one reaches the water's edge and, seemingly, every good thing to eat in the universe. Blessedly and uniquely Brooklyn.
My Uncle Don and Aunt Valeska, the almost-94-year-old twins who journeyed to eternity in close succession this past holiday season, seemed close at hand. Don would have been taking pictures of Miss Liberty and the boats plying the choppy waters; Valeska would have loved the endless bounty of whole-grain breads and granola and other healthy goodies (if not the citified prices). We celebrated their lives and their effervescent personalities--"like two peas in a pod," as one of us said--over the weekend, at a heartwrenching and wonderful family reunion/memorial in the little town of Yellow Springs, Ohio. Here Valeska flourished all her adult life and raised my clan of first cousins on a rambling homestead with my Uncle Lynton, a self-sufficiency farmer, skilled linotypist, and fellow eccentric. The Child and I brought stories and memories of Don to the gathering, and in return received boundless love, comfort, and homecooked food from our far-flung family.
My cousins' childhood home is a true CrazyStable in its own right--a tiny hand-built house in the woods on the edge of town, surrounded by fertile Ohio fields and a leafy footpath where the railroad used to run. Lined inside with worn beadboard, it was christened the "wrinkly tree-house" by the Child on her first visit years ago; its mossy tumbledown outbuildings and curious nooks and crannies are "peas in the pod" to the New Jersey country house where Don and my aunt Louie spent their weekends. Although filled with Valeska's children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren (and one grand-niece), it was strangely empty, without my aunt's musical voice and bubbly laughter. Stories were told, old pictures exchanged, many cookies and much ice cream consumed. I was given an amazing heirloom I didn't know existed--a bust of my uncle Don at age 14, an elfin youth with a grand head of nappy hair. It will take pride of place in our guest room, "his" room, where he'd spend the night after visits.
As our rental car bumped down the muddy road, I took a final look back at the Ohio CrazyStable, hardly more than a shack on a hill. I never saw it in its prime, when barefoot children fanned out in the summer to pick strawberries into buckets, or gaze at the lightning in the night sky. If I ached at leaving it behind, I can only imagine how my cousins must feel. The day was gloomy with persistent squalls of showers, but as we drove away the sun broke through for a few moments, dazzling the raindrops as they fell on the stubbly cornfields. A sunshower--what could be a more fitting end to this journey?
Time for good winter things now, I hope...cooking and baking, lusting over garden catalogs, picking up the pieces of house projects that have lain under the chaos for awhile. Time to take the Christmas tree down, and not a moment too soon to think of Spring.
Brenda from Brooklyn
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Hasta la vista, baby
What a week and what a Christmas it has been...friends and family basically closed around us like a strong pair of arms, with prayers, condolences, great home-cooked meals, great restaurant meals (how blessed is food in the shadow of death!) and gifts to remind us that yes, it was still Christmas. My thanks to all of you, and to all visitors to CrazyStable here who left me messages of warmth and encouragement; it meant a great deal to me, knowing you had shared our journey. Last Saturday, my Uncle Don was interred with U.S. Navy honors on the same day, and at the same age, as fellow South Pacific WWII veteran Gerald Ford; our ceremony was tiny, at Calverton Cemetery on Long Island's windswept east end, but no less heartfelt, as one of my cousins and I accepted the "flag of a grateful nation." This weekend, the Child and I head to Ohio to celebrate his twin sister's (and now, his) long and exuberant life at a family reunion and memorial. It is, as another of his nieces observed, a lot of closure in a very short time.
Real closure, of course, will take awhile...not coming to grips with his death, which was a timely gift to him, but with the brutal and disjointed system of "care" that made his final month undignified, depressing, and painful. So much stupidity, so little time: the discharge prescription for Lipitor and a low-fat diet (for an emaciated 94-year-old); the nursing-home aide who informed me "you're not allowed to eat with a patient" when I noted he had lost his appetite from boredom and isolation; the nurses who noted incorrectly on Don's intake sheet that he was incontinent and non-ambulatory and then proceeded over 3 weeks to make it so by effectively imprisoning him in his bed or chair most of the day; the discovery, when he was hospitalized for acute low blood pressure, that this chronically dehydrated patient had been on two antihypertensives (and hadn't eaten or drunk anything before they called 911 and shipped his frail frame to yet another ER). Aging fellow baby boomers, if this is the best we can do for a geriatric care model in the greatest city in the world, we are so in trouble.
Not all nursing homes leave their "low-functioning" patients sitting parked in wheelchairs staring at walls, however. There are some so-called "culture-change" nursing homes with colorful quilts and pets (sometimes little more than window-dressing, sometimes a genuine effort to build back in some sense of "home" in this hyper-regulated environment). And then there is Paro.
Paro is a "seal type mental commit robot for psychological enrichment," invented by Dr. Takanori Shibata for therapeutic action with patients. 
Spouse and Child met Paro at the Wired NextFest last year and were delighted by him, and he was featured on my go-to site for the blues, CuteOverload.com. Paro is, of course, very cute (and less spooky in robotic form than a more familiar companion animal like a dog or cat), and has shown a remarkable talent for perking up pediatric, disabled, and elderly patients. But there is something utterly heartbreaking about this video, in which Paro does his thing with elderly nursing-home residents of Japan, the once elder-revering country that Forgot to Have Children to revere them.
The first thing you notice is what a primal need it is to have an object for one's affections--find me somebody to love. But in scenes where the old ladies were eagerly grooming Paro, I was also struck powerfully by the vacuum left in the lives of these institutionized elders by the absence of work. We all lust after leisure, but imagine a life devoid of purposeful activity. It is a kind of death in life. No wonder my uncle rewired all his electrical fixtures. All our conversations began with his same declaration: "I'm very busy." Secret of life, anyone?
Me, I think the elderly need a different type of robot. Many of us have our Secret-of-Life contexts, our sacred scrolls, our explanatory or redemptive stories. Often, these are movies. I have friends who insist that the Answer to Everything can be found in, variously, The Godfather, The Wizard of Oz, It's a Wonderful Life, and To Kill a Mockingbird. For my dad, it was Lost Horizon. Me? My mystical fable is Terminator 2: Judgement Day. The T2 comes back in time to pluck one vulnerable and all-important soul from peril, and heads off Armageddon. There is collateral damage, lots of it, but they were nasty extras anyway. He cannot cry, but he finally understands why we do. And he can't change the programming of his prime directive anymore than can his even higher-tech, liquid-metal nemesis. 
Can't you just see T2 riding this baby down the hallway of a nursing home, grabbing a patient with one gentle glove, tucking him under one arm, and blasting his way out of the lobby while nurses and aides scream, "You can't do that! If he falls off, we could get sued!" Hey, we all get closure in our own little ways...
