Aging Parents

Sorry, everyone: my dad fell and broke the top vertebra in his neck. My sister and I spent some time at my parents’ house, figuring some things out. Or trying to.

The reason my dad is not paralyzed is arthritis. The vertebra snapped in two places, making a single piece surrounding his spinal cord and two side pieces–all held in place by the severe calcification of his bones due to advancing age.

My dad does not see this as lucky. He sees it as a minor inconvenience. My mom spends a lot of time trying to convince him he cannot mow the lawn. You should have seen the home health nurse’s face when he asked her the same question.

We like feisty old people on television. A certain amount of orneriness keeps the elders alive, makes life worth living for them, etc. But when someone who has spent his whole life being the decision maker is confronted with the fact that some decisions have been taken out of his hands because he is broken, he may not listen.

And family dynamics will rise to the surface, and that charming Golden Girls fighting spirit will turn into a family fight. Of course elders don’t want to leave their home. And if the home is safe, working hard to make sure they don’t is your best bet.

When the home is not safe, stubbornness becomes danger. It is a difficult transition for adult children to make; a geriatric physician friend says “it’s difficult raising parents.”

At some point the irony kicks. You find yourself saying “I have done the best I can for you and yet you continue to fight what is best for yourself by labeling it ‘you just don’t understand’.” And then you bust out laughing because you remember this conversation in reverse somewhere around your junior year of high school.

Humor might save your sanity, but it won’t save the situation. If a family has spent a lifetime building up a specific form of communication best labeled as ‘avoidance,’ that dynamic will continue into the final years. And perhaps make them the wee bit miserable.

So now you know.

Why I Love Truck Drivers

Everyone on the scene was frustrated. Those of us with enough local knowledge to get off the construction-clogged interstate escaped after enduring only two miles of the eight-mile tailback.

The guy behind me drove a macho white truck with one of those grills that moves cows and cop cars out of their way. He was NOT happy, but you couldn’t really call it tailgating when everyone is inching bumper to bumper along the two-lane local side road.

Finally we cleared the interstate snarl from the side road, crossed the overpass, and with a row of commercial semis, my new friend Mr. Grill-against-Mine and I began merging back onto the Interstate.

I could see it coming. Grill Guy planned to surge around me the moment he cleared the merge barrier. So I swept onto the interstate quickly, because if I hadn’t, I would have eliminated the possibility of the semi in front of me getting on at all. And the semis had been nice. They’d kept up their speed and they’d kept a few eejits from going up the shoulder to the exit back when we were all getting off.

Maybe that vibe was flowing from my wee white Prius, given what happened next.

As I took my rightful place on the highway and let the semi ahead of me in, Mr. Grill swerved back around me into the merge lane. Glory be, he was pulling a lawn mower trailer, and the thing swung erratically as he gunned it past me. Giving me a very deliberate and prolonged middle finger out the window.

Either homicidal rage blinded reason, or he flunked geometry in school. Grill Guy swung in front of me without leaving room for the trailer, so I slammed on my brakes.

Meanwhile, from those who had elected to wait patiently through the snarl some miles back, commercial trucks were still coming up the left lane. So when Mr. Grill-not-Geometry swung into the left lane to try and go around the truck I had let in, well, he almost got killed by the truck approaching at a good clip from the left.

This is where I consider him to have made his biggest mistake. He swerved back in front of me, and then, with a semi in front of him and a semi beside him, he flipped them both off.

You know, those guys have radios…..

Suddenly, from behind me a semi appeared. I got into the left lane, anticipating passing the guy Mr. Grill had tried to pass. But that truck driver had other plans. He stayed on Mr. Grill’s left flank, speed for speed. The truck driver ahead slowed down. Like a supporting ballet dancer in tight choreography, the truck behind me got up on the bumper of Grill Guy’s trailer. Mr. Grill was now completely boxed in by three trucks—sustaining an even and prolonged 60-per-hour.

It was like watching orcas hunt.

The road added a left lane after about two miles—something I suspect the truckers knew. They kept their finger-flipping-friend hemmed in while the rest of us passed their box trap.

I risked a peek at the driver boxing their quarry from the left as I passed. He was grinning.