INTERSECTIONS

PART6

No, I Didn’t Have Favorites, but . . .

 👬👪👫👶🐈

The Family Meeting

By the time a person needs hospice care, it’s more than likely his family has been in crisis for a long time. Often, the main caregiver is bone weary and nervous about handling things at home. It’s not unusual for an out-of-town family member to arrive, not having seen the ill person for a long time. She may be shocked at his appearance, might even start questioning the difficult decisions that have been made. It’s unlikely everyone in a family is on the same page about moving to hospice care. There may be many opinions on where the person reside, who should be caregiver, whether to hire help, and so forth. It’s all perfectly normal. Different ideas and approaches can be magnified in stressful times.

One afternoon, a hospice social worker and I were on our way to an initial visit. We were to explain our services and, if the family so chose, admit them. The first visit almost always is challenging. Many families never talk openly about what is happening; that makes discussing hospice services a bit like tap dancing across a mine field blindfolded. This particular family had a terminally-ill dad in his sixties, his wife, and eight (count ‘em­–eight) adult children plus a stadium full of grand kids. We were a titch trepidatious after being told they would all be present for this visit.

The front door opened to a sea of welcoming faces. The dining room table had been pushed aside and folding chairs were set up in rows all the way back into the living room. Dad was lying on the couch and waved at us. We were given two chairs up front facing the family. One son introduced everyone in the group and explained each person’s role. This one would chair the meetings. That one was in charge of legal matters. The daughter to our left would be the primary caregiver, and the one to our right would coordinate shifts of family members. The eldest grandchild would grocery shop and two others would cook and clean. One son managed medical appointments and transportation. They presented us with a list of all of these contacts and their phone numbers. Then they invited us to begin our spiel.

We weren’t novices, but we hadn’t seen anything like this group. They signed on, and before we left, we asked if we could hire them!

It’s easy to remember the difficult, challenging, dramatic family situations. It is truly rewarding when one can nudge such families toward a better place and provide the resources they need to do what families do best. This time, however, we were privileged observers of a unique three-generation tribe that was prepared, mobilized, and organized. Their good vibes could have powered a small city.

Some days, it seems as though the whole world is crumbling, and people in droves have lost their collective mind. Everyone is shouting. It’s nice to remember that here and there, dotting little cul-de-sacs or nestled at the ends of quiet country roads, there are houses with these everyday heroes. They are stepping up, handling the impossible and the unfair with grace. Just ordinary people. This holiday, let’s have faith and hope that these quiet superstars are out there and will prevail.

Striking a Minor Chord

Have you ever been in the minority? Not the kind of minority where you had options and chose a dissenting path. Not when you voted against the majority on your HOA board. Or PTA or departmental meeting. I mean the kind you can’t choose, deny, leave behind, hide, abstain or retire from. The community I grew up in was 100% white, Christian, conservative. (Oddly, there was a small lake adjacent to ours with a 100% black population, and that is an interesting story for another day.) As a child, my most exotic neighbors were a Polish couple who escaped to Michigan after WW II. It was not until I went to college that I lived in a more diverse community, and it wasn’t all that diverse.

Twice in my life I have been in a true minority position. Both times were short-lived, so I cannot claim a real understanding of the life-long struggles of someone who is seen and/or treated as different or less than. I barely sampled that sense of not belonging, not having a voice. I knew I’d be going back to my safe and comfortable life. I only sampled a bit of the fear, self-consciousness, and uncertainty felt by members of minorities in our society. We might be more tolerant if everyone experienced this now and then, perhaps going to minority camp for a couple of weeks every summer.

The first experience was in grad school when a friend and I received a grant from WJBK in Detroit to produce a film. The University of Michigan was trialing a program to bring students from small black colleges in the south to the Ann Arbor campus for a few semesters. We proposed to document one young black man’s experience coming to an affluent, predominantly white campus. We approached a participant with this proposition: he would be interviewed in Ann Arbor and in South Carolina. We would drive to South Carolina to visit and film his campus. He would get a free ride back for a long weekend with his friends. He signed on.

These were not the days of iPhone videos. We had a lot of equipment in large cases, long cases, heavy cases. Tripods, studio-sized film cameras, and cans of film. We stuffed my partner, our volunteer, and me plus our suitcases into a Karmenn-Ghia. (One degree removed from a Match Box car.) I, being the shortest, was twisted like Gumby, poured into the spaces in the back seat around the equipment. It was one long trip, and we drove straight through.

We were shown to dorm rooms, and our volunteer disappeared to spend the weekend with his friends. We strolled the tiny campus; you easily could see from one end to the other. We were the only two white people on campus, at least as far as we could see. My co-producer took off for a bit, and I went to my room. It was a second story room that looked out over the commons area, right over the entrance to this lovely brick building. I opened the window, sat on a window seat, and watched the students walking to class, chatting, doing the usual student things. Then, across the commons I saw  a long black limo enter the main drive and wend its way slowly to a spot just under my window. It stopped, and a crowd materialized, streams of excited students from every direction, all gathered around this car. The car door opened, and a tall, handsome black man in a perfectly tailored suit emerged. He was greeted with cheers as he climbed the steps below my open window and turned to face the crowd. The top of his head was now about10 feet below me.

I knew exactly who this man was. I had heard him speak in Ann Arbor. Radical rhetoric, eloquent, confrontational, exciting. He had stood on the steps of the Michigan Union. I had been walking to class when I stopped and had to listen to him. I was mesmerized, stunned at how bluntly he spoke about racial issues. Now, I was about to hear him speak to a very different kind of audience. He soon had them laughing and clapping. The one line I recall most vividly had to do with white women who wear bright red lipstick so they can find their own skinny lips. I sucked in my own skinny lips and slid slowly down off the window seat and out of sight. This experience gave me a tiny taste of what the young man we were filming experienced every day in Ann Arbor. In school, at work, shopping, driving. Just a tiny taste, but a memorable one.

Decades later, just a few years ago, I found myself in a van with 8 Jewish women from New York, a Rabbi from Israel, the Rabbi’s brother, the van driver, and an armed guard. I had never been on a trip that required an armed guard. It was a Jewish heritage tour, and we were in Lodz (pronounced Ludge) Poland. The buildings in the old neighborhood we were visiting were covered in hateful graffiti. Before we walked anywhere, our guard strolled ahead to assess the situation and then trailed after the group. Faces stared at us from upstairs windows, and not in a welcoming way. If we wandered the slightest bit, the guard nudged us back to the group like baby ducks. We walked down a narrow alley to search for the house of one participant’s grandparents. We were walled in. That is not a feeling I will soon forget.

A few years after adopting a child with dark skin, we were traveling from Iowa to Florida and found ourselves traveling across Mississippi. We were running low on gas, but there had been no gas station for miles. With the needle nearly on empty, we left the highway to see if we might find a small town. Only a seriously naïve white person would have thought that was a good plan back then. In about twenty minutes, we coasted into a wide spot in the road with a few houses and one ancient gas pump. I can still feel the fear that pulsed in my chest as people stared into our car. Truly, it felt as though we had wandered onto the set of Deliverance. This fear is what parents of children of color feel every day around the clock. Every minute. This is not a history lesson; even today, this same gentle, honest son cannot shop for chips at a convenience store without being followed by the manager. He cannot drive past some police officers without getting a stare I never experience.

I know some people scoff at the phrase “white privilege,” but most of us acknowledge the privilege of getting a good education, a fair a chance at a job, and freedom from unjust treatment by law enforcement and courts. What I have learned is that I take for granted some other privileges as well: day to day peace of mind, a sense of belonging, freedom from constant vigilance, freedom from anger at all of the above. I am grateful for the few moments when I was educated by these experiences.

 This Call May Be Recorded for Quality Assurance Purposes

(or in case they bring back The Twilight Zone)

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You’ve heard a lot of stories about maddening calls to tech support centers. Now, you’re going to hear another one. You have not heard this one before. I am confident of this.

This morning I called for assistance with a movie editing program. I wanted my two computers synced so that the video I am editing will appear on both computers in editable form. If I cut out one second of music on my laptop video, I want that to occur on my desktop video as well. I tried the usual methods: iCloud, Air Drop, thumb drives, etc. No luck. I called the support number. They asked for my SSN, birthdate, serial number of both computers, pantyhose size–the usual. Then, they informed me they only handled billing issues. We scheduled a call-back from a “creative specialist.” Rob called at 8:30 as promised. Nice voice, easy to understand, most likely domestic. He sounded friendly, too. Off to a good start.

One hour later, Rob and I had tried a lot of syncing techniques. There is that brief moment when you are a little happy that the expert is puzzled; it shows you aren’t a complete dweeb on the computer. Then, you move on to “Uh oh, this guy is as befuddled as I am.”

Rob finally asked to access my screen. First, he saw my screen display–a cute photo of Vera and Dave in their rocking chair. He said, “Oh, beautiful cats! I just lost my cat.” I consoled him. We continued trying more little tricks. Nothing. Everything on my two computers was in sync except this one program. Eventually, we took a circuitous route and ended up on a site that informed us that this program is no longer syncable. Still, Rob did not give up. He put me on hold to find out if anyone else at the center had any suggestions. He returned to the phone and said no one did. This is when the call took a turn.

Rob told me he had wanted to check with his colleagues because he’d been gone 5 months and might have missed something. This was his first week back. Then, silence. Not the “we got cut off” kind of silence.

            “I lost my wife 5 months ago,” he said. I offered my sympathies. Poor man had lost his wife and his cat. Rob told me about the truly tragic accident he had happened upon. He needed to talk. After a bit, I said I understood as much as one could, because I, too, had lost my spouse. He was very interested. I asked how long he had been married. I figured most techies at call centers are 30-ish. Rob had been married 46 years. Oddly enough, I told him, I too had been married 46 years. For another half hour, Rob shared his loneliness and asked me lots of questions about recovering. At this point, my call for computer support had totally morphed into bereavement counseling. Then, we entered the confessional phase. Rob wants to start dating. I told him about how many hospice husbands came back to visit, sheepishly telling us they were dating or even getting married after a few months. I assured him there are no rules, that life is for the living. He seemed relieved.

No, my friends, this is not a potential aging Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie in the making. No, no, nooooo. We said our goodbyes, and I stared at the phone. Surely I had imagined providing grief support to someone in a call center.

Wouldn’t you love to be there if they actually listen to that call for Quality Assurance purposes?

The Latterday Santa

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                    My father was not a demonstrative man. When he told me to come row the boat for him so he could go fishing after work, ­that was a loud and effusive statement. We both knew he could row himself out to his favorite spot and then just sit there unwinding after work. He didn’t need me to row; he wanted me along. At some level, deep inside, spinning around in my Kreb’s Cycle, I knew this. He was equally subtle when correcting our misdeeds. He did not go on and on like Mr. Rogers, explaining in a kindly voice why one should behave better. He simply stated, “You’re just a passenger on this train, sister,” and you straightened up right quick.

                    At Christmastime, my dad would never be mistaken for a jolly old elf. On December 24^th every year, a big truck from Heydlauff’s Appliance in Chelsea would squeal to stop out front. The driver would open the back doors, pull out a ramp, and back down with a hand truck. On it was something covered in a tarp and lashing straps. It was a washer or dryer, dishwasher or vacuum, something romantic and fun that the whole family could enjoy. Ho ho ho.

                    Then, he got older. Grandchildren appeared. He wasn’t buried in bills and feeding four kids. (And God bless the hormonal changes that occur in old men.) Some other cosmic event must have occurred, too, but we’ll never know. After opening gifts on Christmas Eve one year, we all sat chatting, half-buried in wrapping paper, trying to corral hyped-up kids. My dad got up and went to the garage. He returned with 3-4 huge black garbage bags. The cacophony deflated into a puzzled silence. He walked to the center of the floor and emptied the bags. We sat staring at a pile of little brown lunch bags, all stapled shut. There must have been well over a hundred of them.

                    “It’s a piñata,” he announced.

                    Thus began Jack’s piñata, which was great fun and more than a little strange. My mother had selected and gathered gifts all year, wrapped them nicely, and now she sat watching as we all tore into brown bags and staples, laughing and shouting. He explained the rules: open one, keep it or trade it. There were many rounds, so it created havoc for the rest of the evening. He experienced all the joy he’d missed out on for so many years.

                    What was in the piñata? There were the usual junky plastic toys, a vegetable peeler, socks, books, maybe an antique Blue Book from his collection. Then, there were the uniquely Jack Gilbert gifts. To say my dad was modest is to say that in 1906, San Francisco was all shook up. I never even saw him in an undershirt. He could not even utter the word bathroom or deodorant. He was hung up like grandma’s skivvies on the clothesline. So, imagine our surprise when we’d unwrap black lace undies and other rather personal items. Or, one might get a potato. Only the uninitiated guest would smile and try to be pleased. The rest of us knew to look for the little plug he had dug out and pull out a $5 bill. Sometimes one person would get half of a twenty-dollar bill and have to negotiate with the person who got the other half. Including silly string and funny nose glasses always added to the chaos. It wasn’t a true piñata until someone got the box of chocolate covered cherries.

                    In the movie, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Sidney Portier’s character asks his dad, “What happens to old men?” He meant why do they get mean and surly and unable to even remember the passions of younger people. We did that movie in reverse. We always knew who was coming to dinner, because our dad was an upstanding man who always showed up. But, he got old and became Boppa and piñata man. He’d be 109 and very pleased to know that a smaller version of his warped piñata still occurs, just enough to bore the kiddies with stories they’ve heard dozens of times.