Take It Easy: Heading for L.A. on One-Oh-One

I had a long drive today, from Los Altos, California down to Santa Monica, where I'm spending the weekend decompressing from the stress of getting my father settled in skilled nursing care. Fortunately, I have a great sister and she's taking over support duties in my absence, even though it means she'll miss some of her work back home in Denver.

I was up early and on my way by 6:30 a.m. I was well ahead of the commuters as I rolled through Gilroy, the Garlic Capital of the World, and Salinas, home of John Steinbeck. In spite of California's population boom, the fields in the Salinas Valley are still large and verdant. They are one of many reasons California has a GNP as large as the entire nation of France.

Sunrise near Salinas, California

I was almost eighty miles on my way when the sun began coming up. It's the first time I've seen a sunrise in quite a few years. I could say I used to see them more often when I, upon occasion, was on my way home at that hour. But that would be telling. When I stopped near a farm to take a picture of the dawn, I saw a man watching it too. He gave me a wave.

One of the nicest surprises of Highway 101 is coming down from the hills of San Luis Obispo, and suddenly descending upon the Pacific at Pismo Beach. I never have liked the name of that town--named after a type of clam--but the view from the highway above the cliffs is stunning.

A view of the Pacific, from U.S. Highway 101 in California. It's the route the padres took on their way from Mexico north, to set up their chain of missions. If you saw a view like this, you'd keep walking too.

My Google directions had me take a cutoff from Highway 101 that I've never used before. Not far from Pismo Beach, I turned off onto CA-154 and drove into the mountains over San Marcos Pass. It takes about 20 miles off the drive and puts you into the region of Ronald Reagan's old Rancho del Cielo--the Ranch in the Clouds. He's gone now. Taken by the same disease that is ravaging my father. When you reach the top of the pass, you are reminded of why our 40th president loved this country so much.

San Marcos Pass, near Lake Cachuma.

I arrived in Los Angeles before 2 p.m., found my friend Phyllis' house in Santa Monica, and was in my favorite Chinese robe when she arrived from Costco an hour later. I won't tell you how I got in. I've known Phyllis since we roomed together in college. What's a little breaking and entering between friends?

She's living less than a mile from our first apartment on Saltair, the place that was our launch pad into life. Now I'm splashing down again, and I've landed almost exactly where I began.

Next up, a visit with screenwriter Steve Latshaw, whom I haven't seen in at least a decade, though he is a contributor to my blog and we correspond regularly. For his big birthday party, he claims to have edited an "outtakes reel" that shows yours truly back when she was a real diva. Saints preserve us. I hope I survive.

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Headed to Los Angeles

Robin and Phyllis amidst the snow of Mt. Lemon near Tuscon, Arizona some considerable years ago. She came to visit me in Tucson where I had my first job in television news.

I think I must feel a need to step back from the intensity of nurturing my ill father. We are now, I realize, preparing to say goodbye to him. He isn't with us the way he has been during this past year. I deny it and then I face it, then deny it again. So, my college friend Phyllis, who lives in L.A., has invited me down for a break. She and her husband John and I have been friends for many years.


Also on tap in the Southland: my long-time television/film buff/screenwriter friend Steve Latshaw is celebrating a landmark birthday and his move into grandfatherhood, all in the same year. Some friends and I are putting on a shebang for him. I'll be reporting from his party, which will be filled with a collection of Southern California people so strange, none of them even uses drugs. (Or at least that is what they tell me.)

Anyway, I'll be out on Highway 101 early Thursday. And I have hired some big burly guards for my home, so don't even think about using this as an opportunity to visit it while I'm away. Also, my sister is in residence and she is much more fearsome than any big burly guards. And several Old Boyfriends who Owe Me will be staying in all the guest rooms.

So don't touch that dial. Next we report from the land of Santana winds.

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Rainy Day People

Umbrellas on parade in downtown Redwood City, California.

The Internet is abuzz with news of the big storm that is inundating California. People being told to evacuate. Trees falling on roadways. Landslides everywhere. This is from the on-line site MSNBC:

"By midday Tuesday, more than 6 inches of rain had fallen in parts of the Santa Cruz Mountains and more than 4 inches in parts of Marin County, according to the National Weather Service. Santa Cruz County issued voluntary evacuation orders affecting about 60 homes near areas burned by the Lockheed Fire, a 7,800-acre blaze ignited in August."

It did rain a lot. But it is autumn and California hasn't had a drop of precipitation since June. And we do sit on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I thought it was nice to see a little moisture for a change. And my windshield wipers, feeling out of shape from their summer vacation, had a chance to stretch their blades.

Windshield wipers fight to keep my windshield clear on El Camino Real, near Palo Alto, California.

My mother, who has been a real trooper this week, during Dad's first week in skilled nursing care, didn't let the storm keep her from her daily visit to the nursing home. She appeared at the back door, ready for the Swedish car to pick her up, sporting her rainy day shoes: a pair of brown-and-white oxfords that go back to World War II--at least--and thus, are even older than I am. They have terrific lug soles that have managed to survive all these decades and that make walking in rainy weather very safe. Ah for the days of American-made shoes with soles by U.S. Rubber that would last a lifetime.

The inches of rain swooshed down from the Santa Cruz Mountains and filled Adobe Creek in Los Altos, California. The little riverlet is dry all summer and it is the the place I caught my worst case of poison oak when I used the dry creek bed, one hot summer day, as a path to the grocery store.

Today, only a canoe would suffice on Adobe Creek. Like Mom, sporting her rainy days shoes, the little creek has donned its winter wardrobe. We won't be endangered by its poison oak again 'til the dry days of spring roll around again.

The water in Adobe Creek speeds its way into San Francisco Bay.

Residents Urged to Flee California Storm

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Patronizing the Pumpkin Patch

Robin, out standing in the field, near Half Moon Bay, California.

What is it about pumpkins that make a person smile? The color is wonderful and they are round as a harvest moon. But it is the season? The hint of Halloween? Whatever the answer the Half Moon Bay Art and Pumpkin Fest in Northern California has gained international acclaim for the size of its pumpkins and the prizes it awards each year. Farmers from all over the nation bring in their biggest pumpkins for the weigh-in, and crowds of visitors follow.

Pumpkins in crates near Highway 1 in Half Moon Bay, waiting to be set out for sale.

Local entrepreneurs bring in tons of pumpkins to sell. Pumpkins fill every inch of extra space in and around this tiny city on the Pacific, just south of San Francisco.

There is a big Pacific storm brewing off the California coast and today I dashed over to get a preview of the Half Moon Bay festivities. When the storm blows in it will be too wet to see much. And after that, little Half Moon Bay will be pretty crowded. Today, it was just a town full of pumpkins waiting for a festival to happen.

Early shoppers out purchasing pumpkins pre-festival and pre-storm.

The challenge visitors face is that narrow Highway 92 over the mountains from the Bay Area can only handle so much traffic and come festival weekend it will be slow going. In addition, merchants insist the festival's largest pumpkin (this year's winner is expected to weigh something close to 1,700 pounds) be displayed on Main Street, another choke point. So visitors are well advised to come early and park at a distance and be prepared for traffic jams and walking.

Pumpkins for sale along the highway.

I've mentioned before that my father caught the pumpkin-growing bug during the last years of his retirement before his illness set in. He began nurturing seeds he obtained from a Half Moon Bay contestant in Los Altos Hills. He grew some pretty big ones over the years--225 pounds was his record--and it always made us laugh when he would tell us the weight of his prize pumpkins. "Why is that so funny?" He would ask us in mock surprise, and we would laugh even harder.

Dad, with one of his last great pumpkins. That's his high-tech hearing aid around his neck, though now even that has ceased to work.

My father always had a large collection of curious hobbies. And they were almost always solo entertainments. Disney executives would have called him an IC--for "individual contributor"--and, not surprisingly I guess, that is just what they labeled me.

But, if you were going to make an individual contribution, a 225-pound pumpkin isn't a bad contribution to go out on. I just wish he had been with me today, to look for the 1,700 pound winner and to give me his sternest look when I showed any evidence that I might crack a smile as I ogled a pumpkin the size of a Volkswagon.



Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival Information

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Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival Information

The Engineer and the New Device

I mentioned in my previous post that at the skilled nursing home where we've been forced to place my father, there is a very cool device they use for transferring him from wheelchair to bed and from bed to bathroom. More news on that today:

Dad on the Sara 3000 with his CNA Thad doing the driving.

Enter the Sara 3000 lift. Produced by ArjoHuntleigh, a company founded in Sweden, it is the Volvo of chair lifts. Battery-powered, safe and very cool.

My father, the engineer, is not clear in his mind about much these days. But put him on the Sara 3000 and he's happy and calm as he watches the device operate. At the skilled nursing center we know he is safe and well cared for. Now we also know the Sara 3000 has a certain fascination for this mechanically minded person.

He has moments when he sleeps and awakens speaking about nothing that makes sense. "Did you fly here in the Cessna?" (We don't have a Cessna, but he must be dreaming about the years he belonged to the flying club at Moffet Field.) "Is your mother in the garden?" That's an understandable one, since he's lived with Mom and her garden for 65 years, this month.

Mom and Dad at a sing-along on this, his first week in skilled nursing care.

But there are moments of clarity: "The chow here is really good," he said yesterday. And at one point he asked if we had gotten references for the place. "Did Kimmy think this was a good idea?" he asked, referring to my practical-minded sister and added: "Now there's a conservative for you."

So we are plodding along with a father who is dwindling. I am trying to remember how lucky we are that he saved his money so he could afford to stay at the Ritz of nursing homes where the mother of one of Silicon Valley's most famous billionaire inventors is also staying.

And Dad still has a sweetness, when he isn't yelling at the nurses and telling them to get out of his house.

To me, late yesterday: "Oh you're all fixed up. You must be going somewhere." I was. I came to see him.

And to Mom, just a few minutes later, he said something that made her smile. "Faye you look gorgeous." He can barely form the words. His brain is failing him and his hands and eyes are so weak it is hard for him to eat. But he can take a minute from his misery to tell his wife she's gorgeous.

And he loves the Sara 3000. So it's not all bad out here in the land of elder care. I'm trying to stay optimistic.

About ArjoHuntleigh and the Sara 3000

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Third Time is the Charm: Dad Incarcerated

The last two weeks have been the most trying of times for those of us caring for my Dad. However, the good news is that both he and the Mother have turned into the Monsters That Ate Their Young, so keeping one's distance will now be easier. All part of the fledging process, as the mother bird said to her chick.

I've been increasingly stressed, as you know, seeing that Dad could no longer survive safely at home and seeing how hard it has been to convince the Mother of this.

These past ten days, all that changed as Dad grew lethargic, unable to walk, unable to feed himself, and uninterested in getting out of bed. After antibiotics for an infection made him bounce back for a couple of days, he was back into his lethargy again earlier this week.

The hospital wouldn't take him because the doctor said he wasn't sick enough. (Did you know ER physicians call patients Gomers, as in Get Out of My Emergency Room?) and I finally hired a private ambulance to take him to his doctor. His doctor had me spend the day wheeling my 89 father in his wheelchair from test to test, with my exhausted 88 year old mother in tow, and at the end of the day, said physician made this brilliant medical deduction: "He needs to be in a nursing home."
Well, duh.

Oh and he also has a compression fracture of his lumbar vertebrae and his infection has come back.

Fortunately, some smart person invented the cell phone, so in the middle of this all epic journey, I called my sister, who was trying to visit her grandchildren in Florida. "Help!" I said. "I'm being held captive by the health care system! Call that Big Fancy Nursing Home on the Hill and find out if they have a bed please! A bunk bed will do! Just Google the number."

I must be a slow week for sick old people up on the Hill. And my sister is resourceful, found the number, and from long distance in Florida, got Dad admitted. About 5:00 p.m. I was taking Dad by private ambulance to the BFNH (private ambulance: $375 each way). Wow. The BFNH is really nice. And my blood sugar was so low at this point any place would have looked good to me.

It is so much fun doing Good Deeds for one's elderly parents. After a full day of pushing an unresponsive Dad around in his wheelchair from test to test on Tuesday, I was pulling a blanket up around him so he wouldn't be cold, when he suddenly came to and said: "Oh Robin, your hands really look bad." Thank you muchly Dad, but schlepping you around for 12 hours has taking all the skin off my cuticles and broken all my nails.

Wednesday, when I took the Mother up to the BFNH, I sat for a minute in the garden with her and Dad and sighed, "I haven't even had time to go to the hairdresser, or eat or take a shower." And she looked at me and said, "Yes. Yes. And I liked your hair better when you first came. It was shorter and ... " I held up my hand to stop her. Thinking, perhaps, I might slug her she ceased her critique. I'm getting dangerous.

Oh and it gets better.

After four trips up there yesterday, I was exhausted. By nightfall, my father had become abusive. This is called sundowning but is no less fun for having a name. I've hired extra caregivers to help him make the transition, but even they couldn't calm him and when I walked in, the garbage really hit the generator blades. He called me names. He was sarcastic. He called for my mother. Repeatedly. He yelled. He refused to eat. He refused to take his medication. I considered smashing his dish of ice cream on his head. I decided that wouldn't be mature. I hid behind a curtain, which was much more mature, and let the on-duty nurse handle it.

Finally, like a little child having a tantrum, he wore out after about 90 minutes. Also, a male CNA seemed to bond with him and Dad began to be tired and hungry enough to take orders. He fell asleep. His once-favorite caregiver, Carmen, and I sneaked out the door. I vowed never to speak to him again.

Until the next day of course.

I called my sister and told her how much fun I was having. Besides needing a manicure and a new hairdo. We laughed and laughed.

I told her about this crane they have that lifts Dad up and rolls him into the toilet and then sets him down where it can do the most good. (I'm going to have to get a picture of this thing. It really is an interesting piece of equipment!)

I told my sister I wanted to suspend Dad from the crane for the night.

She and I were laughing so hard we were crying. Or we were laughing to keep from crying, I don't know which.

She'll be here next week to join in the party. I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, gotta go. Dad is at it again, and I'm going to have to go up there and learn how to use that crane-to-toilet machine. Just in case.

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Missed it by That Much: Another Reprieve for Pop

I don't know if my angel friend the Patron Saint of Parking stepped in or what, but my father has made a miraculous recovery from his infection and yesterday was back on his feet. It appeared he had been to Lourdes, the difference was that great.

I didn't have the heart to okay his transfer to the nursing home when they called and said they had a space in a three-bed room. I asked them to put us on the wait list for a semi-private or a private room, and that's where we are today. He's still very rickety on his feet and is always one step away from disaster at every moment. But ...

... he missed Old People Jail by that much.

When I saw him yesterday, after two straight days of being unable to get out of a chair, he was standing in his underwear, getting ready for a shower! When he saw me peeking into his room, he took his hands off his walker and did a little dance. Later he was very funny and said; "You're my granddaughter and you should not see me nekked like that."

Well you weren't naked, I told him. Then later he told me, "Hey you're not my granddaughter. You're my daughter." Seems he's coming around in mind and body.

Also, today is his 65th wedding anniversary.

In the course of this latest crisis, I was feeling mighty low about putting him in the home (even though I still haven't done it), and, rooting through some old pictures of him, I found a baby picture taken in about 1920 in Birmingham, Alabama of my Dad as a toddler.



That big smile is so familiar, and now it is back again, for however long we have. Something else: my father is known for his big feet (which he managed to pass on to me) and I want you to take a look at that photo. Look at the size of that baby's shoe!

He's again walking around on those big feet, though it is more of a shuffle now than a walk. You have to give him a lot of credit for that. It is mostly his will to live that is keeping him upright. That and a very good-sized foundation.

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