Tag Archive | elderly care

Invite the Cow In



As a sandwich generation man, I juggle competing priorities and events constantly.  Usually, I am cognizant that this is actually a sign of good fortune.  Sometimes it is easy to forget this, however.  Then you forget for a couple of weeks in a row and start to long for a simpler existence.  What if I could plan less?  What if I could just work as long as I wanted and finally conquer my to-do lists? What if I could go away for the weekend with my wife and not have one eye on my cellphone?

There is a story in Judaism of a man who lives in a small house with his wife and many children.  He is losing his mind with the noise and the crowded conditions.   He consults his Rabbi to ask what he should do, and is told to invite his cow into the house.  Not understanding why, he takes the advice anyway; such is the power of Rabbis in Jewish folklore.  He does so, and now, of course, it is worse.  Much worse (and don’t get him started on the smell).  So then the Rabbi advises him to banish the cow.  Suddenly, his previously unbearable cottage seems spacious, quiet, and more than enough home for everyone.

The emergency room is my cow.

Now that my father has emerged from his first Massachusetts hospital experience, I am looking forward to moving back into my cozy little cottage.  We’ll resume our usual Thursday frozen pizza dinners.  I’ll go back to being tech support on his iPad, and to reaching the light bulbs he can’t get to, and to expecting him late for everything.  I’ll have my next Saturday morning spent in front of our weekly-meal-planning-whiteboard with Nova, figuring out how to squeeze in one more meal with her and our kids.

True, I didn’t really invite the cow into my home; it sort of barged in.  But the same emotion applies: gratitude for the people I have inside the house and the hope I get to live here with them just a little while longer.

Caregiving Success: It’s Not Entirely Luck

I consider myself pretty self-aware; given how much introspection it takes to keep myself on the rails, I better be.  Every once in a while, I allow myself to take some credit for my father’s improved situation and my kids turning into warm, emphathic, smart and kind people (credit shared with my brother and wife respectively, of course).  So many things are out of our control in both situations that when a chapter ends well, you take a small victory lap even if you know already that the book itself is going to be a tragedy.

Brief side note: I have a good friend down the street who convinced me to buy an outdoor gas grill that I could connect directly to the line in my house.  Best thing I’ve bought in ages.  His logic was simple: as a father of daughters, you control so little in life that you need something that you actually do control.

Anyway, I am also keenly aware that much success in life and caregiving stems from luck.

Medicare Part D meets Kung Pao Chicken – A Cautionary Tale

If you are a caregiver and familiar with the administrative horror show that is Medicare Part D, you can save yourself the 10 minutes you would ordinarily spend on this space.  If you are not, you will be glad you invested the time, because inevitably, you will find yourself fighting with an insurance company while racing the clock.  Trust me, you want to avoid learning this stuff on the fly because those 2 things just go together.

On their 65th birthdays, seniors in the U.S. get access to Medicare.  It’s actually a few different programs, which vary from great to “huh?”  The great part is Part A, which is basically comprehensive medical insurance that helps cover inpatient care in hospitals, as well as skilled nursing facility, hospice, and home health care.  Then there’s Part B, which pays for services (like lab tests, surgeries, and doctor visits) and supplies (like wheelchairs and walkers) considered medically necessary to treat a disease or condition.  It also helps pay for lift recliners and a variety of other stuff that is advertised on cable channels during showings of old movies.  Smart marketing.

Ideally, your parent has supplemental coverage on top of Medicare.  This is extra insurance that covers things that Medicare won’t under Parts A, B and D.  Especially for Part D.

The big gap in Medicare until about 10 years ago was in prescription drug coverage.  While you were in the hospital, medication is covered, but the minute you busted out (more on this in another post), you were on the hook.  Along came the mid-2000’s Republican Congress looking to cement elderly voters as leaning GOP, and Medicare Part D was born.

Part D should be better than it is.  It’s totally run by third-party insurance companies so is not the single payer model that Medicare is.  Sometimes these are the same carriers who have your separate long-term care insurance policy.  Sometimes your father knows the difference.  Most time he doesn’t, can’t explain it to you, and stashed the policy information deep in a drawer somewhere.  I’m just saying.  Plus it’s different in every state, so when you move, it can’t move with you.

When my father was discharged from the rehab center where he spent almost a month recuperating after his C-Diff-inspired hospital stay, his Vancomycin regimen became our responsibility.  Like most Americans, I have spent a decent part of my adult life on antibiotics, so when I got the prescription from his rehab center medical group, it seemed like a lay-up.  I even placed an order for takeout Chinese food from my dad’s favorite place near the CVS.

It was a muggy, rainy night in New Jersey and after placing our order and informing the nice man behind the counter that I’d be back in 15 minutes, I went into CVS holding the prescription.

“OK, I found the medication,” the pharmacist told me.  “But do you know that this medication is $3,000?”

“What?  How can that be?”

“Well, it’s a Level 5 drug and the doctor didn’t get a Prior Authorization .  Also, the prescription is for liquid but we only have capsules.  For liquid you need to go to a compounding pharmacy.”

I understood none of this.  That morning I had woken up naively believing that springing my father from rehab would be a good idea.

It tuns out that a compounding pharmacy is one that mixes medications from certain compounds in a variety of forms.  Good enough.  So eventually I got into my dad’s car and drove to the nearest compounding pharmacy, which was in a low rent strip center in Hamilton, NJ.  To find it, I had to rely on Google Maps on my cellphone, which drained the battery to nearly, but not quite zero.  There I told the pharmacist my tale of woe.  He looked up the medication.  Still a Level 5 drug.  Still no prior authorization.  Still $3,000.

He was able to figure out for me who I should call (AARP Insurance, my dad’s supplemental carrier), what information I needed, and what tactics I should use to overcome the inevitable denial that was coming (“tell them he’ll end up back in the hospital without it,” he said).

He also let me borrow the phone at the counter because of my aforementioned cellphone battery issues.  This worked great until I’d been on the phone for more than 30 minutes, after which point he and the other staff members kept reminding me impatiently that I’d taken up one of the only 2 phone lines in the store.  After 45 minutes, they told me that I had to get off.  I honestly thought I was closing in on success, so kept pushing them off.  (I was wrong, but didn’t know it).

After an hour, a woman behind the counter hung up my call, and then as I freaked out because I (wrongly) was convinced that I was about to break through, denied that she had done it.

If you are an experienced caregiver, you know this story.  You have grown accustomed to feelings of powerlessness.  Whether dealing with advancing age, health conditions, or insurance bureaucracies, you have come to accept feelings of inadequacy that stem from the situation, not from anything innate.  This was my first brush with it with my emotional guard down, and as I stood outside the compounding pharmacy on a muggy, rainy, August night, I was shocked.

As an added bonus, my cellphone battery had now completely drained, so I had no way of calling my father to explain why my 30 minute CVS errand was now taking almost 5 times as long.

The ending: I called the doctor’s office once I got home that night, and told their answering service that yes, it was an emergency even though their policies said that they couldn’t alert doctors for prescription questions.  I finally got the “Prior Authorization”, and got them to change the prescription to pills instead of capsules.  My father got his Vancomycin dose a few hours late, but at least it was the same day.  I wrote down all of the phone numbers, insurance plan numbers, etc. and put them into a document that my brother and I share online.  The medication didn’t cost $3000 — but the out-of-pocket was almost $800.   Part D coverage is different for different medication types at different “levels” based on which version of the plan you’ve signed up for.

In terms of dinner: the Chinese food was cold and soggy when I got it, and microwaving the Kung Pao Chicken did not help the situation much.  Then I drank 2 beers when I finally got home.  Strong ones.  Quickly.

The moral of the story is this: find out all of your parents’ Medicare Part D coverage information BEFORE you need to know it, and always remember that anything besides the standard medications likely will require additional authorizations that only your doctor can get.  And above all, do not order Chinese food before picking up complex medications.  You are tempting fate, and as caregiver, this almost never works.

Blood (Not What You Think)

Here’s a quick story of how my Sandwich Generation moment (sort of) intersected with another’s.

My kids’ last elementary school science night was a few days ago.  The first session we attended was devoted to blood – specifically, what’s in it (plasma, hemoglobin, platelets and 3 types of white cells, by the way).  That we focused on blood was not the important part.  The element that matters in this story is the presenter, who was a student’s hemaologist grandfather.  I found his style and manner of speaking ideal.  Unfortunately, my sensibilities and those of a 7 year-old differ slightly, so I suspect many of them were bored.

The subject matter caught my attention, but even more so was the way his son behaved.  At least I think it had to be his son.  His impatience with his father’s imperfect presentation was palpable.  He corrected and interrupted him frequently.  HIs tone is one I can only describe as a cross between exasperation and embarrassment.

His father took it well and kept plugging away at his program.  But it got me thinking.

Fast forward to the next day when I found myself in my dad’s community room attempting to troubleshoot network connectivity problems with the overmatched and harried assistant executive director (Terry) responsible for the “independent living” wing where my father lives.  My dad’s latest classical music presentation had been hamstrung by technical problems that could have been caused by a variety of factors, so Terry and I were trying to troubleshoot.  Or, rather, I had on my nerd jacket and trying to decipher the problem while Terry told me stories.

One that he told me, after which he asked for my help, was about the a recent community trip to CVS (estimated distance: 1.5 miles) on the group bus.  Apparently my father had been a participant on that trip, which I know from speaking with him is one of his favorite outings of the week.  The fact that he does not have to shlep all the way out there (remember – estimated distance: 1.5 miles) never ceases to amaze him.  It makes him feel like royalty.

On that trip, Terry told me, as if this physical challenge of my father’s was news to me, that the smell from his incontinence had permeated the bus sufficiently that other residents had complained about it… and could I please speak to him about doing something about it?

Now, I know this issue is a chronic one for him.  It has been since 2004 when he started taking Lasix, which is his congestive heart failure (CHF) medication.  Basically, CHF is caused by excessive fluid, so the drug drains it.  There is only one way it can drain.  You get the idea.

I took him to Mass General last month for a C Diff check, and all I can say is that I know what Terry was talking about.  Plus, the weather that night ranged from really cold to “are you kidding me”, so opening the car window for very long presented its own set of challenges.  I usually give him non-stop grief about this issue.  My brother does too.  Don’t get my sister-in-law started on it.

So what did he say when I brought up Terry’s comment to him?  Nothing.  Because I didn’t tell him.

I figure that part of my role, aside from parceling out medication and checking that nothing scary has taken root in the refrigerator, is to take his side whenever possible, even when he is wrong.  In this case, he was almost certainly in the wrong.  But so what?   He already does his best with this.  I have done everything I can short of conferring with my brother and deciding that he’s not capable of making his own decisions about getting dressed.  And aside from having to pick my battles, I feel like I have to give him credit for generally making pretty decent decisions, and for a generally improving trend of decision-making overall.

When I had showed up for our weekly dinner that night, he had put on a nice oxford shirt and dress pants just because I was coming over.  This is a man who wore robes nearly non-stop just before and just after he moved here.  That doesn’t happen anymore, and not because I continued to yell at him about it.  He still has the capacity to self-correct, which if I devalue, makes everything (my brother’s and) my problem.

Back to the blood, which is how we started this.  I don’t know if I would have reacted as the hematologist’s son did had this been in front of kids, even my kids.  It is hard not to snap at parents.  Maybe I would have.  But I hope not.  I hope that if my father had been up there talking about and showing off his lifelong passion for blood or anything else, I would have listened quickly, helped out politely, and looked on with a lot of pride.

Half Full (Part 1)


Although I am in the midst of the intense experience called “caring for one’s parent”, I am also aware that in many ways, I am lucky to be in this situation at all.  C-Diff is not a disease that everyone survives, and certainly not everyone who is 89 years old and has 5 recurrences.  But then my father has been giving death the slip for a long time now.

And, whether by good fortune, planning, or both, I also can look at the situation of taking care of my father and feel like the glass is not just half full.  It might be closer to 2/3.  Here’s why I say this (and have been encouraged to say it):

  • My father’s mind isn’t just sharp.  It’s activated.  He reads newspapers online in multiple languages (Hungarian, German, English).  He leads a bi-weekly classical music seminar in his community where he streams YouTube videos over AppleTV to an ever-growing crowd.  He Skypes with my brother regularly.  He remembers nearly everything from his photo albums from 60 years ago.  This is big.  And he nearly always wants to learn.
  • My brother and I are a great partnership.  Yes, I am local and he is out in California, and yet I could not ask for a better partner.  Our relationship works now at a level that I could not have conceived of only a few years ago.  We work at this and communicate frequently, so this is not entirely luck.  Many siblings actually disagree about what to do and how to do it, which leads to paralysis, which then leads to bad situations persisting.  I learned a lot about partnerships in one of my businesses and have applied some of those lessons to being in this one.  But having a brother?  I can’t take credit for that.
  • Ditto for the support I get from my family.  It is easy to mess this up.  I have to balance things carefully (hence the title of this blog) to keep it that way, of course.
  • Jewish Family and Children’s Services have great support and programming for this exact situation.  We got connected with their Elder Experts service, a pricey (more on this later) but invaluable service that helped me find him a place to live, a local doctor, and connected me with Schecter Holocaust Services, which pays for some of his additional home care because he is a Holocaust survivor.  WIthout them, I probably would have moved him into an apartment, which likely would have been an unmitigated disaster.
  • We have sufficient financial means to pay for housing in a nice community near me, which is not easy since I live in Wellesley, MA, also known by its slightly derogatory nickname “Swellesley”.  He actually lives in Framingham, which is a lot cheaper than being here and still feels really swank for someone who grew up in Depression-era semi-rural Hungary.  He is in independent living, which is a lot cheaper than assisted living, which itself is cheaper than skilled nursing.  JF&CS pays for his weekly HomeInstead visits, which when they finally began liberated me from being his housekeeper.  And we have insurance which paid for his post-hospitalization stint in the rehab center (Medicare would have mostly dropped him after 20 days), so that didn’t wipe him out.  Some of these stemmed from good choices he or we made a long time ago, which I guess has some degree of foresight to it.  And a lot of it was luck.  My mother was a bit of a day-trader in her day, so not all of their financial decisions were good ones.  The decision to take out Medicare supplemental insurance definitely was.
  • We were selling his house in 2013, not 2010.  Total dumb luck.  People forget sometimes how the difference between financial success and failure is timing.  Never has this been more true than in the housing market in the past 5 years.  We hired a really good broker who specializes in this kind of transaction (vacant house from a senior owner who lived there for many years and then moved on), and she did a terrific job.  For our part, my brother and I were hyper-responsive to anything she asked us to do and let her drive the bus, so to speak.  Could she have sold the place so quickly and for such a good price in 2010?  Doubtful.

I could go on, but you get the idea.  Here is one last story to illustrate it.

When he was in the rehab center and I was shuttling back and forth to NJ from MA, my visits ranged from a few days to a few hours.  During my shortest visit, my father was in the physical therapy room and I was about to leave.  He had been there for over 2 weeks and physical recovery was coming slowly; he still had C-Diff, the power of which neither of us fully understood, so we didn’t know why he was so drained and tired all the time.  As I started to leave, he started to cry, which is very unusual for him.  He was convinced he was going to die in rehab as my mother had 2 years earlier.

I told him that we were destined to have 1 more bowl of clam chowder together at Legal Seafoods and that all he had to do was hang on long enough to make that happen, and the rest would take of itself.  When I said it to him, I believed it.  I don’t know why; I just did.  I told him it was written in the stars.

Several weeks later, after he left the rehab center, had survived 2 weeks on his own mostly alone in the house, moved to MA and gotten over the latest bout of C-Diff, we finally had that meal at Legal’s.  We were very fortunate to be there.  I am fortunate to be in this situation.  I know.

My initiation into The Sandwich Generation

I have read many blogs over the years and I have to admit, they make me feel like I am probably a little too late to have a compelling hook.  I live in suburbia, so can’t wax heroic about the challenges of cooking for 365 straight days in a tiny urban kitchen with one burner and an underpowered oven.  I have 10 year-old children and a mortgage, so I am not about to trek through the Orient, across the Sahara, all the while really journeying inside my own mind on a self-indulgent journey to its center.  I have completed only 2 short triathlons, so I lack the credibility required to speak of discipline, of commitment, of transcending my limitations.  I drink beer, so while I know about its self-medicating qualities, I can’t hold your attention my encyclopedic knowledge of different brewing styles.  Maybe someday.

What I can write about, with authority, is juggling.  Specifically, about being caught between two things that each pull me nearly irresistibly in opposite directions.  You know it as “sandwich generation”.   This typically refers to newly middle-aged adults who wake up one day looking after children and elderly parents, all the while fearing that the struggle to accomplish both is futile.   And, somewhere in the back of their minds, they remember that they are married and would like to stay that way.  And, they probably have to earn a living.  And, they have made commitments to their community – their neighborhood, their hockey team, or in my case, their synagogue.  All of this happens at the precise moment that their bodies start their slow physical declines, suddenly needing more running just to arrive at the same cardiovascular destination.

This is now my story.

My father contracted a dangerous stomach infection in June.  He had been living on his own in the same split-level where I grew up in Lawrenceville, New Jersey for the past 2 years.  He got sick on his 89th birthday and when we couldn’t reach him for more than 2 days, we knew that something had gone wrong.  A neighbor told us that he was at Princeton Medical Center, and I figured that it would a quick recovery from food poisoning or something equally innocuous.  Only when I traveled down there and spoke with the doctors – who, as anyone who has dealt with a sick relative long-distance can tell you, are impossible to reach over the phone – did I find out that his malady, the dreaded C Diff infection, has a 50% mortality rate at his age.

I carry with me the memory of standing by the hallway window and calling my brother to tell him to buy a plane ticket, right now, because we didn’t know what was going to happen.

My father is a man who survived the Nazis, then the Communists, and then colon cancer, and even eating his own cooking in recipes he learned after age 87, so we should not have been surprised that he beat the 50/50 odds and left the hospital 10 days later.  But before he cheated death, he wrestled with it, and as a son, nothing drives mortality home like watching a father do this.  I would run my fingers through his hair as he looked up at me from his hospital bed, and I could not help but see myself.

More on that experience later.

Over the course of the next 2 months, my brother and I made many trips to Princeton, first to the hospital, then to the rehab center, and finally to pack him up and move him to the Boston area to live near me.  And now he is here.

So, my story is about wishing for and getting one more meal at Legal Seafood with my father.  It is about best practices for making work conference calls from hospital waiting rooms.  It is about a rainy night on a cellphone with a dying battery at a compounding pharmacy debating a prior authorization for an expensive Tier V antibiotic with my dad’s Medicare Part D provider.  (Side note: it also is about waking up that morning not knowing what a compounding pharmacy, prior authorization, Tier V antibiotic or Medicare Part D provider were).  It is about sitting on the porch with my wife, who is crying because she fears that the life I’d had this past summer was going to swallow our marriage and our limited time with our children.  And, it is about the clarity of selflessly loving a (sometimes selfish) parent.

Until I start writing regularly, I can’t predict what else it will be about.  But I hope you recognize enough of your own story in mine to keep reading and maybe contribute as well.