My younger brother who stepped out of time before me. Since I can no longer measure myself against him, it makes him seem older in a way. Who can be older than someone absorbed by time? Someone who has transcended time? 

    the lagoon water 

   brother drowned in 

  also gone 

  “We were graduates,” I’d joke, “of the University of Sylvia and Jack.” 

  The Hirschfield’s were a strangely paired Jewish couple in the West Bronx. She was kind, outgoing, deeply religious. She worked as a bookkeeper. He was a hotel maintenance man, who related to all of us as strangers. More like a boarder than a father, he’d come home from work, greet no one, go directly to his room. 

  Paternal abandonment forged a bond between Aryeh and I. We’d fantasize about rafting like a couple of Huck Finn’s to some fatherless refuge somewhere. Our bond, however, yielded to the stresses of clashing personalities, family dynamics. 

   Aryeh was blessed with mom’s outgoing nature, with her gift of drawing people to him. I was, sad to say, his polar opposite. A dark-spirited loner like Dad, I put people off. (If the old man noticed, he kept it to himself.) 

    The death of family patriarch, Moses Joseph, a Hasid whose extreme orthodoxy rubbed off on Aryeh, pushed our relationship to the edge. I’d be on my way to the park on the Sabbath with bat and ball, when he’d run up behind me, shouting, “God will punish you!” A little Jewish Taliban, who, happily, did not grow up to be a big Jewish Taliban. In fact, he became, in later years, a distinctly open-minded Jewish Renewal rabbi in Oregon (in his study were pictures of Groucho Marx and Ramana Maharshi), a member of Rabbis for Peace.   

    In our teens, there was a cultural shift. We became art house movie-goers, thrilled by Ingmar Bergman and Vittorio De Sica. We especially loved Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, forever enacting the chess game between death and the crusader, intoning death’s few chiseled lines in English with Swedish accents that made both of us howl.   

   I miss the laughter of brothers that rose up, it seemed, from the floorboards of our shared bedroom. It closed over the fissures in our relationship, as did our serious talks about Kafka. The suffering of a son permanently estranged from his father. Our story. 

    It might have been wiser to talk about the alienation of brothers. For when the laughter ended, when our Kafka conversations ceased, my envy of his popularity (reborn after his long season of fanaticism) returned, along with his justified anger over his big brother’s absence of affirmation. 

    Old age is when we all go for our PhDs in reflection. What a brother is, first of all, is an eruption in time. My first memory is of the day program I went to with my cousin Ruthie, at whose house I was staying when my mother was off giving birth to Aryeh. 

   At her day care, a dark passageway was constructed against a wall curtained at both ends. We were made to walk through it. Though not normally afraid of the dark, the journey filled me with a primal fear.  

    Only years later did I realize that that liminal journey in space contained my dread that time was now altered, shadowed by a tiny stranger’s birth. I’d no longer monopolize time. I was condemned to share it. 

    Like many brothers, we shared it poorly. Like many brothers, we eventually shared it at a distance. In his late teens, he discovered drugs and relocated to San Francisco. I discovered writing and remained in New York for a while, before heading off to South America to find something exotic to write about. We both drifted, but not toward each other. 

    I awake nights thinking of him. Where, in the unfathomable emptiness that we take to be death, has his spirit found a home? Or is it wandering still? Or am I the one who is still wandering, inwardly and outwardly, from my home to the river, from one haiku to another, toward some elusive center? 

    It is second nature for an octogenarian to fixate on his losses, having had so many of them. With Aryeh, it was what was lost before his death that haunts me. We would meet on occasion over the years. He’d come in for periodic visits that became frequent when our mother was failing. Or I’d make occasional visits out to the West Coast, where he was working through the various stages of his rabbinical career. Visits that were often intended as pilgrimages of reconciliation. 

    When we remembered to take deep breaths, there was sharing. Mainly, a mutual interest in the broken state of the world that somehow did not include our relationship. We’d discuss the race question. We couldn’t escape the awareness, even as children, that those hollowed out corpses in striped suits could have been us. Emmett Till, the black 14-year-old Chicago boy lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman, was a victim we could easily identify with. A more complicated identity, especially for Aryeh, were the Palestinians. A rabbi, he was at times prone to giving Israel the benefits of doubts I did not have. But his ability to try to see the occupation through Palestinian eyes when he traveled to the West Bank I held in high regard, as it meant extending himself far more than I had to as a secular progressive Jew. 

    I keep searching for him in all the old places where his voice can be found, where thoughts were momentarily shared, but never a life shared. 

    Once, when he was stoned, he said, “I feel like the donkey chasing the carrot. Sometimes I get close. But the carrot is always beyond my reach.” 

    Chasing after the dead Aryeh is a little like that. The feeling sometimes of getting close. But never close enough.  

    These words. My skinny candles. Lighted. Doused. Lighted again. 

Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based writer and poet. He has spent much of the last five years writing and assembling poems about his mother’s Alzheimer’s. In 2019, Presa Press published a volume of his poems, The Road to Canaan. His work has appeared in Parabola, Tricycle, Spirituality & Health, Sojourners, The Moth (Ireland), Tears in The Fence (UK) and other publications.     

Reflections on the Good Life

How Will You be Remembered?

Moving Closer to Your Family

The post Searching for Aryeh: An Old Man’s Journey appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

He has late-stage Alzheimer’s. He cannot walk, feed himself, toilet himself, bathe or brush his teeth. He cannot catch a ball or clap his hands or understand directions. He has little to no understandable speech. But he communicates with a smile and facial expressions and he can follow one direction—he can kiss. 

One day a baby and mom were visiting at the residence where David lives in memory care. When I brought David over, he was mesmerized, and his smile widened. And David, who could barely speak, said “That’s a baby!” I decided then that I would find babies to visit with him. 

While searching for babies I came across an article describing the use of weighted life-like dolls for dementia patients. David now has his doll, and he perks up with her—engaging, smiling, and kissing her. Other residents, entranced by the doll as well, sometimes “kidnap” her and she has to be rescued. 

Finding real babies was difficult. I wrote, phoned, texted, and visited infant care centers, graduate student housing, and mommy-and-me support groups. I described the joy that seeing babies gave David and asked for their help in recruiting babies.  

But, when I took my search closer to home, I found my neighborhood has several events that bring families together. At a street party I met a young couple and their baby, 12 months old. I told them about David and asked if they would be willing to visit. To coordinate the timing of the visit, we took nap schedules into account, both the baby’s and David’s. 

I met a second baby on a walk with a friend. We noticed a young man taking a baby out of a car. I nudged my friend asking her if I should ask him about visiting David. As she said “why not?” I broached the idea of visiting David and, before I could get the words out, he emphatically said “Yes” explaining that he looked for opportunities to bring people joy. 

The parents of these two babies had no experience knowing anyone with Alzheimer’s. I have been so touched and warmed by their responsiveness. 

The third baby is a young toddler, the daughter of my private caregiver. 

The visits range from ½-hour to an hour, every four to six weeks. Upon seeing the babies, David lights up with smiles. Even with his significant decline David responds with joy. We end when either David or the baby is fatigued. 

Lastly, I was so focused on having babies visit David that it did not enter my mind to have David visit babies. It is now spring and the weather is warm and sunny. David’s caregiver and I wheel David to the adjacent university housing playground where, like magic, between 3 and 3:30 p.m. babies and toddlers appear, to David’s delight. He was nonstop smiles during our last outing. 

David, pre-Alzheimer’s, often engaged with babies by making funny faces. He was a gifted portrait artist, a very witty cartoonist, and a well admired jurist and author of judicial curriculum. 

I cannot stop Alzheimer’s. It is a terrible feeling to be so helpless and powerless in the face of this disease. But I can make life better for him and finding babies for David has done just that. 

Phyllis Rothman is a licensed clinical social worker, retired from private practice in Beverly Hills after decades of practice.  

Judge David M. Rothman was a respected jurist at the Los Angeles County Superior Court. He is the original author of the gold standard reference work about judicial ethics, the 791-page California Judicial Conduct Handbook. Judge Rothman spent much of his career training and teaching ethics and courtroom skills to other judges. He recently passed away at age 87. 

Nutrition and Dementia or Alzheimers

The Four C’s of Alzheimers

The post Babies and Alzheimer’s appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

BY STEPHEN SINCLAIR 

I was eight years old sitting on a booster seat in the barber chair at Frank “Penny” Rich’s barbershop in Spooner, Wis. While my dad and mom waited, he gave me a quick haircut and then took out a “Kennedy for President” button and pinned it onto my shirt. 

Mr. Rich was the county Democratic Party chair and we had gone to his shop so my parents, who were Democrats, could talk with him about the upcoming presidential election. Most of the families in our farm community were Republicans and it seemed that the county and state would be won by Richard Nixon. 

In hindsight, what was remarkable about this is that just the weekend before the barbershop meeting, my extended family had probably gotten together for Sunday dinner—our grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. During the meal there would have been no talk of politics or the election. Everyone knew that we all held various views and had different political affiliations, but what was most important was that our family remained united so we could continue to look after one another. Therefore, talk centered on the harvest, cattle, and the general goings on in the community and church. 

How different things are today when families are torn apart by partisan politics and rigid allegiances to political viewpoints. 

Disagreements in families are as old as time. In the Hebrew book of Genesis, the sons of Adam and Eve engaged in a long quarrel that ended up with Cain murdering Abel. Later, it is written that Esau and Jacob were already at one another as “the children struggled together” in their mother’s womb. 

In both the Mishnah and Talmud (two of the Jewish oral traditions) there is the term machloket l’shem shamayim, which refers to an argument or debate “for the sake of heaven.” It’s a principled struggle where people are honest, direct, and compassionate with each other while striving for something greater than themselves. The goal is to reach a conclusion that aligns with religious ideals and ethical principles, and to deepen understanding of the divine. The rabbis believed that arguments for the sake of heaven will endure, while those that are not, won’t. 

Using this concept as an inspiration for how we might best enter conversation over contentious issues with friends and family, I suggest the following: 

1. Don’t engage in an argument via texting, email, or social media. Do it in person or if necessary, a phone or video call. Nuance and subtlety get lost when communicating remotely with only written words and emojis. 

1. Enter the conversation from a place of love and a desire to respect and understand the other person rather than to win. Keep in mind if you would rather be right or be happy. Or if an argument is with your spouse, do you want to be right or do you want to be married? Being victorious often means the loss of something that is valued. 

1. Begin the conversation by recognizing some shared values or hopes for the future. This will help to remind you of what you have in common before starting to disagree. 

1. Listen with intention. When appropriate, repeat back what was just said (“I hear you saying”), which will assist the other person in knowing they’re being heard. Also, their response will assist you in knowing you comprehended correctly what they articulated. 

1. Admit when you may be wrong about something or that your view may have flaws. Perhaps you didn’t realize an underlying factor had been affecting the person’s world view or position on a matter. We all have unresolved issues that we may or may not be getting help with through therapy or counseling (e.g. family of origin issues and past traumas.) 

1. Be mindful of the fact that others’ views may have something to teach us. 

1. Walk away or take a timeout when things get heated. No good can occur when one is no longer listening and has become defensive. 

      In the 1960 election, John F. Kennedy beat Nixon. A few weeks later when our family sat down for Thanksgiving dinner, I doubt anyone grumbled about the outcome. Afterall, we were gathered there together to give thanks to God and not to argue over the fleeting matters of this world. 

Stephen Sinclair holds a Master of Divinity from Meadville Lombard Theological School in Chicago, and is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister. He’s been a pastor and chaplain in a number of churches and hospitals in the U.S. and has worked with the homeless. 

Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini

Que Sera, Sera

Make the Right Move

The post Where’s the Beef?  appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

BY ELIZABETH SHIER

My dad died on May 16, 2024. He had emphysema and the (undiagnosed) beginnings of dementia, but neither was the direct cause of his death. Due to the agency granted him through the Death with Dignity laws in Washington state, he was able to orchestrate his own death and last day of his life as a victory lap—a celebration of life filled with gratitude and dignity. It was one of the best weeks of his life. I couldn’t have imagined it, but his last week was one of my favorite weeks, too.

Eleven months before, my dad, John Shier, decided to move from his longtime home in Green Bay, Wis., to the Seattle assisted living community where I work as a director. He was on hospice and wanted to be closer to me, his only child, and to my mom’s family in the Pacific Northwest. He’d lost my mom in 2022 after her long battle with a rotten neurological disease, and his emphysema had robbed him of the ability to do many of the things that gave his life meaning and purpose. In light of these losses, and facing further decline, he felt that the full circle of his life was complete. Always an avid reader, educator, and activist, he was hell-bent on being back in the driver’s seat of his own life and that meant pursuing Death with Dignity.

My dad was uniquely qualified to pursue a groundbreaking and unconventional death. Those who knew and loved him would say that this was the perfect death for him. He had a PhD in philosophy of religion from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. From teaching, he went into advocacy work for seniors. Losing his best friend to cancer at 40 motivated him to spend almost 20 years as a hospice volunteer. Then rather than retire, at 60 he went back to school to become a hospice nurse and later wrote the book, Choose Today, Live Tomorrow—Notes from That Guy Nurse. He was keenly aware of the ways our health care system fails people at end of life. He preached loudly that our system prolongs life at the expense of well-being, therefore, he was committed to honoring his hospice patients and to preserving their quality of life as much as possible until the end. As an avowed atheist, he was not a typical church member, yet he remained active and engaged all his life, bringing philosophy to hard Christian conversations. It is difficult to imagine anyone with a richer or informed perspective on end-of-life issues.

My dad inspired me in many ways. I chose a career that places me at the center of aging and in close proximity to death. I deeply appreciate my elders and my days are filled with laughter, great conversation, and purpose. Aging and death are part of living. Most people who live in the community where I work are nearing the end of their lives, which creates a heightened appreciation of the time we have together.

I have lost friends, role models, amazing family members, and my own mom. Yet, in all the passings I have known, none could be described as joyful leave-takings. Death often arrives after a long, slow, and painful decline. And all the while we guiltily wonder, “How long will this go on?”

Over an 18-month period my conversations with dad were peppered with talk of his death, discussions about his life feeling complete, and his frustration over just waiting to die. He viewed Death with Dignity as a path toward ending the feeling of being in limbo.

My love for my dad is intense and complex, and respecting his decision did not come easily in the beginning. I would have loved for him to find enough joy in our Sunday outings to want to stay around for a few more years. I wanted more of chasing Thomas Dambo’s trolls, more ferry rides, and more gelato. In early April, his signature impatience kicked in and I got serious about finding him a doctor willing to prescribe the necessary medication. Dr. Darrell Owens at the University of Washington Medical Center turned out to be the right man for the job. He spent a full hour talking with my dad to assess his candidacy and prognosis. It took another week and some help from the good volunteers at End of Life Washington to find a second doctor we needed by law to agree. A week later I walked out of the pharmacy with his prescription labeled “WARNING: Contents fatal if ingested.” It felt surreal. I’m not sure how to express it, but it felt like a big win for my dad. And a win for me, too, the daughter making this dream a reality.

I have been learning more about ambiguous loss and grief since dad’s death. Ambiguous loss is a term coined by Dr. Pauline Boss in the 1970s. She used it to describe grief that has no definitive boundary or closure. My dad experienced ambiguous loss over the decline of his health and well-being and the uncertainty of when his life would end. I experienced ambiguous loss as I watched him go through that process.

My dad was a powerful and impassioned activist, opinionated, and constantly in motion my entire life. As soon as he chose a date for the end of his life, he reclaimed his identity and was back to the man I’d always known and loved. His thinking grew clearer by the day and I watched him have thoughtful conversations and make plans for a living eulogy party, complete with vodka martinis. Crazy, but true, this process gave me back the Dr. John Shier I knew and loved.

As a gifted keynote speaker, during his last week we recorded an interview for StoryCorps, which is now available and cataloged at the U.S. Library of Congress. We treated ourselves to a Seattle opera, threw a beautiful backyard birthday party, had a fantastic dinner with family at Ray’s Boathouse, and fulfilled his dream of riding in a Tesla. The grand finale was a living eulogy party. His oldest and dearest friends and family from across the country Zoomed in and his neighbors and caregivers gathered, while dad and I regaled everyone with stories from his lifetime of activism and adventure. The day before he died, his best friends roasted him and he was riddled with laughter. As we hugged goodbye that night he said, “I never knew it could be like this.”

On the day of his death, he played cribbage with his favorite bath aid, our chef made him a fantastic lunch and someone from our culinary team baked him a cake on her day off and brought it to him. Another team member wrote him a song and performed it. One by one his care team sought him out for hugs, conversation, prayers, and well wishes. The experience of saying goodbye to someone who is present and able to truly be with us at the end is unique. We say too many goodbyes and most are nothing like this. I was moved beyond words to see the grace, beauty, love, and humor so many brought to my dad’s last days.

As the afternoon waned, we gathered our favorite people in my dad’s apartment, and he toasted all of us with gratitude for a wonderful life and for everyone he loved and who had loved him so well. He gifted his ring to my husband. There was ceremony and joy. He swallowed his medication with his favorite cocktail. He was laughing right up until the moment he closed his eyes and took his last breath.

Death with Dignity is Not a Right Everywhere

Because Death with Dignity is a legal option in Washington state, my dad was able to be fully present for every remarkable moment that we got to enjoy together that last week. He charged me to share his story because we both believe it fundamentally changes the narrative about end-of-life. He would love knowing that you are reading this right now. He would be over the moon to think that he inspired a conversation on end-of-life options at your dinner table. He would be elated to think his death might provide inspiration to others to embrace their own best last weeks and to advocate for Death with Dignity where it is not currently available.

Eight states have enacted Death with Dignity legislation: California, Oregon, Washington, Montana, Colorado, New Mexico, Maine, and Vermont.

Six states have Death with Dignity legislation pending: Michigan, New York, North Carolina, Delaware, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts.

To learn more about end-of-life planning and Death with Dignity laws in your state, go to deathwithdignity.org

With Deepest Gratitude

My eternal gratitude for the incredible care provided by the team at Aegis Madison. In all of my years working with remarkable teams, I was still blown away by the support and love you gave my family. And to Dr. Darrell Owens for the time you gave my dad. Your willingness to write his script changed everything. The entire team at Continuum Hospice was stellar: You listened, you counselled, you leaned in, and you held our hands. Our thanks as well to Aegis Queen Anne at Rogers Park and a shout out to Katterman’s Pharmacy on Sand Point Way—not all pharmacies will fill this special prescription. Most of all, thank you dad. You showed me, once again, what is possible with determination and an open heart and mind.

Elizabeth Shier was born and raised in DePere, Wis., graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul, and has split her career between grant writing in San Diego, heavy-equipment operation in Antarctica, and senior living in Seattle. She is married and parents two cats. Weekends are spent hiking and making art.

Death with Dignity—Your Life. Your Death. Your Choice.

Living Well and Dying With Dignity

Being Mortal—Planning for a Gentle Death

The post The Best Last Week appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

“Are there other ways to get the tractor to town besides driving it yourself?” I asked Dad before going to bed. The late hour and residual jet lag were not optimal conditions for meaningful discussion but I asked anyway because I was anxious. For months, we had discussed, long-distance, his decision to sell the tractor and now we were at the point of disposition. How was “it” going to get to town? One more decision. 

“Yeah, it would cost about a hundred bucks to tow it,” he offered, with a resistant, ‘I don’t want to pay it,’ tone in his voice. 

My “Pop” is wired for doing things himself and when he can save a dime, well, it’s like winning a lottery bet. Equipped with mechanical engineering “know-how” and a good measure of initiative and devotion, he thrives on his list of projects. A self-described tinkerer, he is always up to something, especially around taking care of the house he and Mom built together. She’s been gone for seven years, now. 

While “know-how,” initiative, and resilience have served him well, he’s managed to get himself into a few injurious situations in recent years resulting in hospitalizations and rehab stays. His journey to honesty and awareness regarding his (evolving and devolving) physical capacities has been fraught at times with stubbornness, injury, frustration, and sometimes, a touch of foolishness. This weighs on me, living so far away. 

“Dad, I know you love driving the tractor, and I just don’t feel comfortable with the idea of you doing this.” I worried about the unpredictable impacts of a 10-mile tractor ride exertion on a person with chronic spinal limitations. 

He acknowledged my concern with a nod, but no words. We retired for the night. 

On some level, I knew he had already mapped this whole trip, the route, the rest stops, and the contingency plans in the event the old ’64 International tractor might take its last gasp on the way. This project had become a dream, imagining a “last ride” out on the road. 

Chowan County countryside is beautiful in springtime, with farm fields tilled, and being made ready for planting. Farmhouses, barns, and small family graveyards of extended relatives would mark the route. Driving in the country is a spiritual experience. You can go slow. 

We met at the kitchen table the next morning. His breakfast of choice, a bowl of runny instant cheese grits, a side of sausage links, and a cup of instant coffee, all prepared in the microwave, awaited him. 

“Morning, Pop,” I plopped at the table beside him. 

“Morning sweetie,” he returned. 

We sat together, quiet moments passing. Both of us being introverts, it’s a relief to not have to fill the space between us with words so early in the day. 

It had been five months since our last visit. Sizing him up, he appeared relaxed, and less achy in his body and mood. Having my husband and I around for the last few days already seemed to be “re-filling” his reservoir. Getting up to nuke his coffee again, he moved with ease. 

Before coming down for breakfast, I rehearsed my very good reasons why Dad should not drive the tractor to town himself. To be honest, I didn’t know if I had it in me to extend emotional support and advocacy once again (across the miles) because of a bad choice made. Besides, what responsible daughter lets her 89-and-a-half-year-old parent get up on a tractor? My reasoning seemed very sensible and justified. 

Finishing breakfast, I lingered at the table, waiting for any cues from him about our exchange the night before. 

“I’ve decided I want to try driving the tractor to town … I feel up to it … you and Fred will be there if we need to make adjustments along the way … I want to try.” 

Initially, the clarity of his declaration was disorienting. I was all prepared to do another round of pros and cons with him, but obviously, he had already sized me up and determined it best to make the call for himself. 

“So having it towed is really off the table?” I ask. 

“I want to try,” he repeated himself. 

I felt my exhale, all my reasoned thoughts and exhaustion give way like water that finally gets to tumble over a cliff edge, set loose. I was slowly realizing that he didn’t just want to do this, he needed to do this. Further, the power of his need would also require me to relinquish my own urgent need to protect him. 

Instinctively pivoting, searching for a new inner footing, I heard compassion arise from within: “You can persist with your protecting, raining on his parade, or you can yield, and let be.” 

“Well, okay,” I turned, looking directly toward him. “What can I do to help?” 

Things moved swiftly from there. Having my nod of “blessing,” Dad collected himself, calling out signals for the next steps to be ready to leave around 2 p.m. 

He climbed up on the tractor, his spirit and body moving slowly but with lightness and assurance. He pressed the ignition button and the old motor turned over once again on the first try, a good sign. 

Cinching the chin strap of his straw hat, he called above the engine noise. 

“I’ll see you at the farm,” he said with a smile, and off he went with a wave, clutch smoothly released, deftly shifting to second and then third gear before reaching the first curve down the road. 

We followed him at a just-right distance, meeting him at his rest stops with the watering bottle and hoots of enthusiasm. He looked so strong, relaxed, and SO very happy. And I felt so relieved and joyful, joining him in exhilaration for the fulfillment of his dream. We were all in all the way to town. 

Agency is the freedom to choose and to act. To support (allow) this free choice in one we care for, is an act of love. 

Rev. Harriet Platts, 62, retired hospice chaplain, describes herself as an urban contemplative, seeking wholeness, balance in the “everyday” of life. Her creative outlets include iPhone photography, particularly portraitures, and writing urban field notes about what she experiences in relationship to the natural world. She loves walking, reading historical novels, and cultivating her community of friends and family.   

 The Truth About Long-Distance Caregiving 

Harriet Platts has been providing long-distance, caregiving support tracking for both her parents for more than 15 years, with episodic, increased involvement, and over-the-phone and in-person visits driven by need, medical crises, and transition. Her mother died in 2017, and she lost her only brother and sibling in 2020. She currently lives in Seattle and her father is aging in place (at this time) on the Chowan River, outside of Edenton, North Carolina. They are 2,500 miles apart. Platts remains connected with her father by phone/texting most days, and in-person visits two to three times a year. “From a distance, I had a practice of writing-mailing cards with hymn lyrics written in them of some of their favorites. Dad and Mom sang at the dinner table, as was a family custom. I also often sang to them on the phone,” she says. Platts can continue long-distance care because of the robust circle of extended family, neighbors, and local support near her father. Other long-distance caregivers are not so lucky. 

According to the “Caregiving in the U.S. 2020” study by AARP and the National Alliance of Caregiving, 11 percent of family caregivers live an hour or more away from their aging or ailing family member, with many living hours away. Long-distance caregivers spend nearly twice as much on care as those with family members nearby because of the need to hire help. If you are a long-distance caregiver, check out aarp.org/caregiving for a wealth of resources. 

FOR WASHINGTON

Your Vote Needed to Keep Long-term Care Benefit in Washington  

Working Washingtonians, and especially those caring for loved ones who are sick or aging, should be on the lookout for an important vote this November. If passed, Initiative 2124 will increase costs for working people, including nurses, teachers, and firefighters, by eliminating Washington’s long-term care insurance program.   

I-2124 will send more people into debt when faced with expensive long-term care bills and private insurance premiums they can’t afford. And more than 820,000 family caregivers in our state will lose important supports and benefits that help them take care of their families and loved ones. 

 Family caregivers are the backbone of our long-term care system, helping with everything from buying groceries and managing medications to bathing and dressing. Caring for a family member or close friend is one of the most important roles we are likely to play in our lifetime. However, the emotional, physical and financial tolls of caregiving can be profound. 

 Washington’s long-term care insurance program provides some important relief. For instance, funds can be used to help pay family caregivers to offset lost income while they are providing care. Funds can also be used to hire homecare aides and pay for home safety modifications, meal delivery, or assistive technology. If passed, I-2124 will strip away these critical supports. 

 AARP, the Washington State Nurses Association, labor unions representing home health care workers, doctors, grocery workers, teachers, and organizations like the MS Society representing Washingtonians living with pre-existing conditions are all urging a “no” vote on I-2124. 

The Virtual Family Caregiver

The Dawn of a New “Age”

Life’s Completion

The post A Tractor Tale of a ‘Last’ Ride: ‘What can I do to help?’  appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

When my grandson was very young, it was easy to tell when he was mad. He’d fold his arms, scowl, and say, “I’m mad!” Once he got mad at me and shouted, “You’re not my grandpa anymore!” He changed his mind later when we shared a popsicle.

It’s harder to tell when adults are mad, though the emotion may be no less intense. Adults are good at masking their anger. Showing it seems to be a sign of weakness, an admission that someone or something “got to” us. “Never let ‘em see you sweat,” ran a line from a deodorant commercial some years ago, and most of us take that to heart both physically and psychologically.

Of course, many things can make us mad, but one of the most fundamental is injustice. Whether it’s the cop who gives us a ticket when everyone else is driving just as fast, or the person who owes us money and doesn’t pay it back, it’s the feeling that we—or someone we care about—haven’t been treated fairly. It rankles us because it violates the Golden Rule—“do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Sadly, injustice is a part of life. The world isn’t fair, people don’t always behave honorably, and, yes, bad things happen to good people.

But while we can often accept injustice from nature or strangers on the street, it’s a challenge to accept it from relatives. Why? Because we think we know these people and we trust them. When they let us down, it’s a double fault—they were unreliable, but we were gullible.

So it is that the most painful feelings of injustice often occur between family members. Family fights over real or imagined slights and insults are notorious for their viciousness, and longevity. Animosities can grow and resentments can simmer, sometimes for years, until they erupt in acts that may be all out of proportion to the original offense. It’s hard to bear an injustice without wanting to get even. Families have been destroyed by those who prefer revenge to reconciliation.

The antidote to this is ironically to do more of what probably caused the problem in the first place—talk. Injustices need to be discussed. Anger over them needs to be surfaced and not bottled up. Otherwise, it turns to hostility, a far more corrosive emotion. On the other side, we should treat our relatives the way we treat our friends. We don’t belittle or bully our friends because we know they wouldn’t take it. They’d be hurt or offended. They’d probably tell us off and then cut us off. Why should we expect any less from our family?

And when we talk, we should talk to the ones who caused the injustice, not those in the middle of it. It’s easy to complain to people we know will hear us like close friends, even if they can’t do anything but feel bad.

But unless they’re trained counselors or mediators, getting more people involved in an argument rarely helps. On the contrary, other voices and opinions may compound the injustice. The last thing you need when trying to resolve a wrong is people taking sides.

Finally, we might remember that a lot of hard feelings can be resolved with two simple words sincerely spoken: “I’m sorry.” They’re not the same as a popsicle, but they have the same effect.

Corwin P. King is a retired university professor now serving as an adjunct faculty member at Pacific Northwest University of Health Sciences in Yakima. His articles on health and other topics have appeared in The Seattle Times, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, The Christian Science Monitor, and The Mensa Bulletin. He lives in Ellensburg, Wash.

Grandfatherly Wisdom: Advice to Emery

When Experience Counts

Susan Partnow — A Life Interrupted

The post A Popsicle for Injustice appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

We rode—my boyfriend and I—in a bouncy, two-door Toyota, destined for Thanksgiving dinner in Racine, Wis.

He did the driving. I was busy balancing our contribution to the big dinner on my knees. There, covered in foil, was a warm 9-by 12-inch pan brimming with Cajun-style sweet potatoes smothered in butter, orange juice, and maple syrup. It was a recipe my old friend Jane Peterson, the daughter of our hosts Sylvia and Willy Quadracci, gave me years ago. I still make these sweet potatoes, especially for new opportunities to tell this story.

As we cruised our way from Milwaukee to Racine, the smell was divine. With Jane and Sylvia—two of the finest cooks I’ve ever known—in charge, we knew this would be a mouthwatering Thanksgiving feast. The Quadraccis owned and operated Willy’s Sentry Food Store in Racine from the 1950s to 1993. Jane and I became good friends when we worked for competing newspapers in Madison, Wis., in the 1970s.

Jane loved to cater and took that role on for about 20 years, dubbing it Anything But Plain Jane after she and husband Jim returned to Racine. So many people asked for her recipes that she was prodded into writing a homespun, spiral-bound cookbook named after her catering business.

Her dad’s vintage quote in the cookbook is priceless: “You know the Kennedys have better houses than we do, drive better cars than we do, and wear better clothes than we do, but they don’t eat any better than we do.” There’s also a picture of Jane and Sylvia, arms around each other’s shoulders with the caption: “Me and ‘My Inspiration.’”

All that expertise in the kitchen turned this particular Thanksgiving into a new adventure and an honor—to be embraced by the Quadracci family in their home on Turkey Day with all the trimmings.

As we neared their home, we left the highway and were on a side street. At first, I didn’t notice when we took a particularly sharp turn. Suddenly, my pants felt warmer than the pan on my knees. Then I realized my thighs were also quite damp. Soon I knew they were very sticky and slippery, too.

When we pulled up to the Quadracci homestead, I rolled my eyes and could not imagine how this would—uh—pan out. I did not want to announce to everyone that I had wet my pants with butter, orange juice, and maple syrup.

Levelheaded Jane and always unflappable Sylvia shrugged nonchalantly. Sylvia slipped me into the laundry room where I removed my pants and undies. She found me replacements from her closet and dresser, handed them my way and started the washer.

“Yours will be clean and dry by the time you’re ready to leave,” Sylvia reassured in her inimitable, matter-of-fact way as she tossed my syrupy duds in her washer.

If anybody had told me I’d be eating Thanksgiving dinner in Sylvia’s pants, I never would have believed it. Yet, there I was, a welcome guest in this warm and inviting home, wearing the pants and underwear of the hostess.

And what a terrific feast it was. Turkey, of course, along with several dishes from Jane’s cookbook: Shredded potatoes smothered in butter and whipping cream, holiday peas done up with dry sherry and almonds, and a rich, spicy and smooth pumpkin pie with pecan topping. Even those jostled sweet potatoes were a hit.

When we prepared to leave, I retreated again to the laundry room where I slipped into my toasty warm, fresh-from-the-dryer duds. I laughed all the way home. That is one of the pleasures of sharing an experience with the Quadraccis—lots of hearty laughs.

This Thanksgiving memory is the peak of what I call my shenanigans with Sylvia. Who would think I’d leave a lovely dinner feeling satiated, and have warm buns to boot!

Annie Culver developed a knack for unearthing oddball characters and improbable events as a staff writer for various newspapers. In the early 90s, she went to work for websites where she wrote sassy essays aimed at women. In recent years, she morphed into a writer for several universities in the Northwest. She retired in 2016, yet still enjoys freelancing.

Footnotes:

—For her 90^th birthday, I sent Sylvia Quadracci remembrances of this and other shenanigans we shared over the years. She passed away just a few months later.

—Jane Peterson, who wrote the Anything But Plain Jane Cookbook, still has copies available. If interested, send $20 (which includes postage) along with your address to Jane Q. Peterson, 11692 N. Via de la Verbenita, Oro Valley, AZ 85737-7291.

More from Annie Culver:

Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini

My Not So Quick Response to a Quick Response Code (QR) Future

Pull Dates—What our refrigerators can tell us about ourselves.

The post Thanksgiving Shenanigans appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

BY MARILEE CLARKE

Most of us are familiar with the construct of the stages of grief. This idea was first brought to the world’s attention by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in 1969, who outlined the five stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance that are part of the grieving process. In the years since her groundbreaking research, experts have concluded that not every person will experience each of these phases and not necessarily in any prescribed order. I’m going out on a limb, however, to say that I suspect anger will always be one of the stages a person goes through after a significant loss.

When we lose a loved one, there is inevitable anger: Anger at God, at the universe, at the doctor who gave us too much hope, or at ourselves for missing something or saying/not saying the right thing. These are all expected within the anger phase.

But I’d like to delve into misplaced anger in the grieving process. After exhausting the obvious targets, I found myself getting cross at senseless, inane things at a disproportionate level. I am not by nature an angry person, so this blindsided me. Little things completely unrelated to my husband’s death could work me into an irritable froth. A good psychologist would probably say it is easier and healthier than beating yourself up in a period of deep sorrow. In the end, I concluded that this was what was happening.

Looking back, I now know there is nothing I could have done—or even the doctors could have done—that would have changed the course of my partner’s illness. But that anger at the universe had to go somewhere and I wished I could apologize to every innocent bystander on the street, in a store, or on a dreaded customer service line that had to put up with me when that rage was loosened.

Eventually, like all things, the anger phase subsided, and I crossed into acceptance. I’d like to offer hope that your anger will wane and give you a free pass to allow the release of this vexation for a few months or however much time you need. I gave myself a free pass for about a year. It meant that I could be irritable, cancel social engagements, or crawl into bed when the sadness overwhelmed me. I think it is a grace that a grieving person deserves; a time when we will be forgiven for almost everything. If you are grieving, I recommend you set a deadline on your free pass. It is easy to get used to people offering to help at every turn and being allowed to let a lot of things go, but be careful not to settle there.

Finally, the corollary is that if you find yourself on the receiving end of someone’s outrage, remind yourself that this probably isn’t about you, but rather about a person who may have recently experienced some significant loss and is suffering from misplaced anger.

After losing her husband in 2021, Marilee Clarke began writing her book on navigating grief. Excerpts from the book (still in progress) often appear in this magazine. Her passions include mixed media creations and traveling the world every chance she gets. She currently splits her time between Issaquah and the California desert, enjoying the best of two very different and beautiful locales.https://3rdactmagazine.com/speed-bumps/lifestyle/humor/

Living Past Grief

Speed Bumps

Do You Have Compounded Grief?

The post Navigating Grief – Misplaced Anger appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Studies show that social engagement adds to our longevity even more than breathing clean air, quitting smoking and drinking, or getting those vaccines.

As a naturally gregarious person with no fetters, I easily connect with people in the checkout line or sitting next to me at the theater. I’m an organizer/inviter. Alone time is important to me, too, I just need less of it than some people. But not everyone finds it easy to stay connected. Of course there are always book clubs through the library, gardening at your local pea patch, or reading to kids at the local elementary school. I decided to ask a few people to share how they stay socially engaged.

Joanne, retired last year, offers a tip: “You could start by answering the question, ‘What are the things that delight me?’ For me, besides family and friends, it’s birds, orcas, sailing, political and environmental advocacy, and community engagement. Just by Googling things important to you, you find organizations that are involved in those issues.” Their websites may show if they have classes, gatherings, or how to volunteer.

Here are ways to get socially engaged either by being a gentle joiner or by jumping in:

Stay Connected Professionally

Rhonda, 71, has kept involved in her professional life by joining Delta Kappa Gamma (DKG), the international society for women educators. She served as president of the local chapter and continues to mentor others. It made it easy to continue to be around experts in her field a few times a month so retiring wasn’t as abrupt.

I have often used the large workspace at Third Place Commons in Lake Forest Park as an alternative working spot. On several days, I’ve noticed a group of men chatting. Armed with a few 3rd Act magazines to leave as a peace offering, I stopped by one day to ask how the group got started. They are retired Boeing engineers who get together monthly. They don’t talk about work as much, but can connect on a level that they don’t with their other friends.

Volunteer

Chuck, 84, is a retired Human Resource Manager. He is chair of Healthy Families of Clallam County, which serves families of domestic and child abuse. He has been president of both his local and district chapters of Rotary International and has loaded bags of groceries for the local food bank and worked in community dining, which serves a need for so many in Port Angeles. “Sometimes you just need to be there,” he says.

Kathy, 68, volunteers for her local housing consortium.

If you think that volunteering requires a long-term commitment or more days or hours per month than you intend, consider that many organizations need extra hands to work at their annual fundraising event for one night, just a few hours.

Take a class

What do you have to lose? No one is evaluating you and you don’t have to get good at it. I took tap dance classes and lived!

Chris, 72, had played tennis on and off while working. Once he had more time, he called a few friends to play, but it was usually a one-off and he didn’t find any regular partners. So he joined a club and took tennis lessons. There, he met people who were at his level and they began to play outside of the lesson. Chris says, “Now I have a list of 40 people I can play with. I also organize one of the groups. It’s both social and physical and much more enjoyable than trying to create a group on my own.”

Join a new group

Recently, back at Third Place Commons again, I watched as about 20 older men gathered chairs and moved tables right in front of me. Grabbing my latest 3rd Act issue and introducing myself, I learned they were a vintage Volvo owners club. The purpose of the Puget Sound Chapter of Volvo Sports America is to encourage the ownership, proper operation, maintenance, and restoration of out-of-production model Volvos.

Dale, who retired in 2016, and the current club president says, “Once retired, most club members have the time, energy, and means to do something they’ve been interested in for years.” About 85 percent of the members are retired and the club not only talks about repairing and restoring their old classics, they are a social support. Dale adds, “Not everyone has the DNA to be friendly, so we assign another member to the new ones to be their wing man.” He also knows that men, in particular, might feel vulnerable asking for help, and might not have the courage to offer help. So the club helps support members. If they have a medical incident, the club sends flowers and keeps in contact with them.

People are discovering senior centers, realizing they are quite different than the stereotype conjured up in the past. Janis, 71, has already participated in an activity offered by the East County Senior Center in Monroe and is considering joining. “I never thought the senior center offered such fun activities until I read through the calendar,” she says. Take a look—it’s not your grandmother’s senior center.

Teach

Kathy, a retired leadership trainer and human resource professional, uses her skills at her local church by coaching the lectors not only in public speaking techniques, but also where to stand and how to use a microphone. Joanne teaches sailing; Rhonda teaches art both online and in person.

Stealth Activities

What about being there in-person without saying a word? Is it being social? It is for some people. Go to a library, attend a lecture, sit in a room with folks to write postcards and letters to get out the vote.

Ron, 77, approaches new groups more slowly. “There is a degree of comfort and safety in being known, not a complete stranger. It doesn’t have to be big gestures or grand introductions.” Small courtesies grease the social navigations throughout the day.

Is all this still too much in-person schmoozing? Well, buckle up! A positive outcome of the pandemic is that almost everyone has learned to use Zoom, Teams, FaceTime, Skype, or just to lurk on Facebook, Instagram, or other social media platforms. You can see what your friends and family are up to. You can take or teach a class, attend a lecture, or even a birthday party when you can’t get there in person.

Chuck plays chess online. “I stopped playing against a computer. I learn more by playing with a human—they make more mistakes and I can learn more.”

And don’t forget to combine exercise with socializing—get a walking partner, take a Tai Chi class, or go to water aerobics.

What about people who don’t have the privilege of being socially active on their own? There are people who aren’t comfortable with technology, or those who can’t access community transportation and no longer drive. Some have physical or mental health issues that prevent them from joining in, or don’t have the financial means to pay membership dues or buy tickets to theater. Here is the opportunity for those who do enjoy these privileges to help out. It doesn’t have to be through an organization.

Bill, 67, has already connected with neighbors in his new city. After caring for his dad long- distance, he knows that neighbors can be vital to an isolated older adult’s well-being. He reminds us, “It’s ok to check on a neighbor you haven’t seen around lately. It’s ok to knock on their door, leave a basket of fruit, or leave a note with your phone number inviting them to call if they need something.” If you believe someone is in jeopardy of being isolated or neglected, call 211, which connects callers—at no cost—to critical health and human services in their communities in Washington state.

Will you spend most of your day channel-surfing or finally learn mahjong? As my dad used to say, “The trouble with doing nothing is you never know when you’re done!”

Dori Gillam writes and speaks on creative aging, resilience, and ageism. She facilitates Wisdom Cafes and tours the state with her presentation, “What’s Age Got to do With It?” A lifelong Seattle resident, Gillam has worked for Sound Generations, AARP and is Board Chair for the Northwest Center for Creative Aging. Learn more at www.dorigillam.com.

Here are some more ways you can engage!

Join the Dance!

The Art of Mentorship: A Mutually Rewarding Arrangement

A Group of One’s Own—Creating a Supportive Community

The post Get Engaged as You Age! appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

As I took a seat at Benaroya Hall in Seattle, I clutched one of my mother’s old, embroidered hankies. Never before had I felt nervous about a concert, but I was unsure what would unfold when guest pianist Stephen Hough played Rachmaninov’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” a few years ago with the Seattle Symphony.

There was little doubt my tears would flow. Here’s the backstory.

Dinner plates had been cleared from the dining room table one night when I was 13. While other family members bolted to watch TV, Mom and I didn’t join them. She chose not to blow out the candles on the table and instead reached into the stereo cabinet for the LP featuring Rachmaninov’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.”

Like most pubescent teenagers, I rolled my eyes at the thought of listening to classical music. We quietly talked about our day over her coffee and my favorite cup of tea until the “Rhapsody” melody began. Then Mom looked at me—her eyes welling up—as the tender music prompted both of us to lose ourselves in tears. This became a special bond between us. Every month or two, we would clear the dinner table, keep the candles lit, chat for a while, put on “Rhapsody,” and share a good cry.

In 1965, Mom died of cancer at age 49. I was 17. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to that popular Rachmaninov piece in the decades that followed. If I’d hear it introduced on the radio or in some chintzy TV ad, I’d change stations.

It wasn’t until I was 70 and discovered the Seattle Symphony would feature “Rhapsody” that I knew I was ready to experience a live performance by a distinguished pianist.

As Hough brought the music to life, I noticed more than his stellar performance. There were other teary-eyed, modest sniffles heard ’round the concert hall. Perhaps because I’d only ever listened to “Rhapsody” on a crackly old LP, I had no clue anyone else in the audience might be moved to weep.

I later learned that in 1872 British scientist Charles Darwin, famous for his evolutionary studies, also wrote about the emotional power of music.

“Several of our strongest emotions—grief, great joy, and sympathy—lead to the free secretion of tears,” Darwin said, as he described music’s effect on humanity.

I recognized how susceptible I’ve become to music and how it propels and motivates me today when I take part in exercise, cooking, writing, and more.

An article in a recent issue of AARP Bulletin describes how modern-day research explores music’s potential to improve lives. Julene Johnson, a cognitive neuroscientist at the Institute for Health and Aging at the University of California, San Francisco, said we’ve known for centuries about music’s health benefits.

“But there’s more to learn,” Johnson noted. “NIH (National Institutes of Health) just launched a five-year research project to accelerate studies on music and dementia.”

When Hough’s Seattle performance ended and my spirits soared, I began to think how “Rach Pag”—as Hough likes to describe it—could trigger tears for any number of reasons. That prompted me to send the pianist an email with my tale.

“Thank you so much for sharing that sad but heartwarming story,” Hough responded. “Actually, I’ve not had any similar stories shared with me, but I am conscious whenever I play that variation that a sort of common sigh runs through the audience.”

Now when I think of “Rach Pag,” I imagine Rachmaninov who, according to Hough, composed this major work in 1934 at his lakeside villa in Lucerne.

A romantic setting for the creation of Rachmaninov’s heartfelt music would have made my mother smile. And the live performance? It was a concert that revitalized sweet memories and love of the mother I lost more than half a century ago.

Annie Culver developed a knack for unearthing oddball characters and improbable events as a staff writer for various newspapers. In the early 90s, she went to work for websites where she wrote sassy essays aimed at women. In recent years, she morphed into a writer for several universities in the Northwest. She retired in 2016, yet still enjoys freelancing.

Read more by Annie Culver:

A Didgeridoo in the Boudoir

Faux “Service Dogs” Draw Out My Canine Curmudgeon

The post Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.