I started blogging this summer to chronicle the countdown to my 70th birthday that was on September 12th.
Armed with a new FitBit, it was my plan to spend the summer walking at least 10,000 steps a day, losing weight, working out, having head-to-toe medical checkups and putting my finances in order. I thought blogging would be a good way to keep me on track. I also thought that my summer shape-up might inspire others to follow my lead.
The title of my blog Countdown to 70…And Life Beyond, gave me the built-in option of quitting once I turned 70 or to continue if I discovered that blogging was a calling for my senior years. My first post, Milestone Birthdays, went out into the blogosphere on July 15th.
Ten weeks and 17 posts later, here are the sobering lessons I’ve learned:
There’s no getting around it; blogging is a whole lot of work. Serious bloggers post several times a week. There are those people who love to write. I’m not one of them. Writing has never come easily for me, so the process was stressful. Committing to a blog is like constantly having a term paper due. It can quickly become a grind. I made the decision to keep the commitment I had made to myself and continue blogging until I hit my 70th birthday.
A bloggers day is never done. Writing a post is just the beginning. Once written, you need to promote it through a variety of social media platforms if you want people to read it. That means spending hours sitting at a desk in front of a computer. Not my idea of a good time; so I didn’t do it. I simply wasn’t interested in putting in the time and energy needed. Consequently, I never built an audience for my blog.
The most important lesson I learned is that I would much rather spend my time living my life than writing about it.
As I start this new chapter of my, I may choose to write a blog post from time to time but it is not something I will be doing on a regular basis. Blogging like all writing is a solitary activity, and I want to be out and about interacting with people.
My foray into the blogosphere was an education. I have the utmost respect for people like Rene Syler and my friends Deb Mitchell and Lora Wiley, who have been blogging for years. This newbie doesn’t have the motivation and tenacity to join your ranks.
Though I did not find my calling as a blogger, I’m proud of the 17 posts I wrote, which will live forever in cyberspace.
I was 70 years old on Saturday. When friends had asked what I wanted to do on the day of my birthday to celebrate, knowing me, they were not surprised to learn that I wanted to have a party at the Equinox Sports Club New York that would include a yoga class for all my guests.
Thanks to the support of Monique Dash, the group fitness manager at the Club that’s what happened on Saturday afternoon. Thirty of my friends joined me for a gentle yoga class and celebration planned by Whitney Chapman, one of my long-time teachers.
The beautiful, sun-flooded yoga studio was all set –up when we walked in; mats were facing the windows and the New York skyline. The energy in the room was palpable as we all chanted “OM.” One of my other instructors, Jeanene Garro, shared the teaching with Whitney. They were an incredible team.
As the class was ending, Whitney asked everyone to bring the cardboard container that was next to their mat and form a circle around me. The containers were filled rose petals. One –by –one, my friends looked me directly in the eye and made a one-word wish for my future; which was sealed by showering me with rose petals.
There were multiple wishes for love, health, magic, adventure, companionship, and fulfillment. My friend Dede Brown, one of the founders of the Spinsters Union, was the last to step forward. In a booming voice, she shared her wish for me: “Great, passionate sex!!!” “Amen!” shouted my friends as rose petals rained down.
A yoga party was the perfect way to celebrate this Milestone Birthday.
This week, I closed the joint checking account I had with my mother. It was the final act of the more than a dozen years I had spent as her caregiver.
My mother died on April 16, 2014. I had kept the account open until I was sure that her final tax returns, which I had filed in July, had been accepted. I had indicated on the returns that the person filing was deceased and had included a copy of my mother’s death certificate.
Before the Labor Day weekend, I received a letter addressed to my mother from the New York State Department of Taxation and Finance informing her that her tax return was not complete. She hadn’t signed it. What part of dead did they not understand? It took several phone calls over several days to straighten it out. The case is now closed, as is the chapter of my life that was devoted to and defined by my responsibilities as a caregiver.
Like many New Yorkers of their generation, my parents had retired to Florida, Century Village to be exact. Over the years, they had survived medical crises that are often fatal or severely debilitating. They sprang back like the Energizer bunny, a little worse for wear but still ticking.
Intellectually I knew a day would likely come when my parents were no longer able to care for themselves but I operated as if it would never happen. I got used to seeing my once overweight father become painfully thin. I believed my mother when she said that her wobbly walking was not a problem. I blithely embraced the freedom of my single, childless life.
In 2002, that was all changed by a phone call.
I was shocked to hear my father’s voice. He NEVER called. I knew it had to be serious. In a shaky voice he said, “I’m really worried about your mother. She’s got a terrible pain in her left leg and lower back. She can barely walk. You better come to Florida.”
My mother was diagnosed with spinal stenosis, a condition caused by a narrowing of the space surrounding the spinal cord. A cortisone shot relieved much of her pain. The doctor prescribed a brace for her left leg.
My mother’s mobility was compromised; she needed help dressing and bathing. Housework, shopping, and cooking were no longer possible. My father insisted that he could handle the situation; that under no circumstances would he have help in the house.
Thus began my journey as a caregiver.
For the next two years, I called my parents at least once a day. I made frequent visits to Florida. When I was there, I cleaned my parents’ apartment and went shopping; accompanied them to doctors’ appointments and for haircuts; and cooked and froze enough dinner meals to last until I returned.
Despite my best efforts, both my parents’ conditions steadily deteriorated. My mother was having difficulty getting in and out of her bed and lift chair, and she was showing increasing signs of dementia. My father was having trouble swallowing and weighed less than 100 pounds. After much cajoling, my stubborn father finally relented and allowed me to hire an aid to come to their apartment for five hours every day to take care of both of them. That arrangement lasted only a few weeks. On January 10, 2004, my father had a heart attack and died.
The first thing my mother said was, “Who called Marian? When is she coming?” She had no doubt that I would come, take care of her and make sure she was safe. (I have an older sister but she was not a participant in my parents’ care. It is not unusual that one offspring bears the full responsibility.)
It was clear that my mother could not live alone. She shuddered at the thought of having an aid live in her apartment with her. She nixed the idea of moving back north to be closer to me and the rest of her family. She said she couldn’t face the cold winters.
My mother wanted to stay in Florida and go to an assisted living facility that served three meals a day. She wanted somewhere she could play bridge and if possible, she wanted a water view. I found just the place, The Classic Residence by Hyatt. My mother adjusted well and was happy there. But she was plagued by a variety of medical problems, and I constantly had to go to Florida to be with her. The truth was, it didn’t matter whether she lived in Florida or New York. Her mobility was so bad, she never went outside.
After five months, I convinced my mother to move to the Hyatt Assisted Living Residence in Yonkers, New York. We were both happy. She had a small studio apartment with a view of the Hudson River. Despite her worsening dementia, she played bridge three times a week; something clicked in her brain when she had cards in her hands. All was going smoothly when my mother and I were featured in a New York Times story about Sunbelt retirees returning north.
In January 2005, almost a year to the day my father died, my mother fell and fractured her hip. She had barely been able to get around before the fall. So it wasn’t too surprising that even after three months of rehab, she no longer had the minimum skills required for her to remain in assisted living. I immersed myself in elder law to explore my options.
I had two choices. My mother could move to a nursing home where she would be a private pay patient for three years, or I could get her an apartment where she could receive Medicaid home care. I chose the latter.
In April 2005, I moved my mother into an apartment across the street from mine. She had qualified for 24-hour Medicaid home care. I was going to run a nursing home for one.
Charlotte Oti was the primary aid assigned to my mother’s case. For nine years, my mother had home health aids 24/7. During that time, many different aids were assigned to my mother’s case. There was no one who ever compared to Charlotte. She was my partner in my mom’s care. Even when Charlotte became a Certified Nurses Aid and started working in a nursing home, she was always there for me. She was the one person I could always depend on. Charlotte and her children are now an important part of my life; we are family.
It had been my plan to have my mother remain in the apartment and receive home care until she died. As the years passed, I missed the freedom I once had. I was well into my sixties and was beginning to feel like my life was passing me by. Friends encouraged me to move my mom to a nursing home, but I resisted. I changed my mind after an aid had a heart attack and died while caring for my mother. I realized how vulnerable my mother was. She was wheelchair bound and no longer could make a phone call.
The decision to move my mother to a nursing home was the hardest decision I ever made. I did extensive research and chose what was supposed to be one of the best nursing homes in New York. Getting a Medicaid bed for my mother was considered a major victory. She moved on June 1, 2013.
I was traumatized eight days later when I learned that while being transferred in a Hoyer lift by an inexperienced aid, my mother’s left arm had been broken, and her shoulder dislocated. I turned into a raving lunatic. Having given up my mother’s apartment, I had few choices.
Rather than move my mom again, I decided to keep her at the facility. I arranged for her to be transferred to a different pavilion where the supervising nurse was sympathetic to my concerns. I hired private companions to be with my mother ten hours a day. I sued the nursing home and used the money from the settlement to pay for the companions.
My mother was content. Her companions took her to concerts, the art studio, bingo and other activities offered at the home.
She was at the nursing home for ten months before she died in my arms in April 2014. It has taken all this time to be finally able to put a period on that chapter of my life.
The most important lesson I learned from my mother during my years as her caregiver was the power of a positive attitude and an appreciative nature.
My mother had an incredibly positive and upbeat attitude. She NEVER complained. This was her mantra: “I consider myself very lucky. At my age, I’m not in pain. I’m lucky because I’m never bored; I read and watch television selectively. I even count the taxis that are going down the street. I’m lucky because I’m VERY well taken care of thanks to my daughter.” Every time I find myself in a negative frame of mind, I give myself an attitude adjustment a la my mother.
My mother never asked for anything without saying “please” and she was quick with a “thank you.” She expressed her gratitude to me daily. She was kind to her aids, and they loved her for it. She enjoyed every morsel of every meal. She took pleasure in the smallest things.
As I start a whole new chapter of my life, I’ve been working on myself to become more like my mom.
Today is the 20th Anniversary of the United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women (FWCW), which was held in Beijing September 4-15, 1995. As a media consultant to the conference secretariat, I was privileged to have an all-access pass at this historic event.
As indicated by its name, there were three previous UN world conferences on women – Mexico City in 1975, Copenhagen in 1980 and Nairobi in 1985.
It had been ten years since gender equality and women’s issues were center stage on the world’s agenda. A majority of diplomats and activists were determined to accelerate progress towards achieving global gender equality. They supported a Platform for Action that addressed 12 areas of concern:
The persistent and increasing burden of poverty on women
Inequalities and inadequacies in and unequal access to education and training
Inequalities and inadequacies in and unequal access to health care and related services
Violence against women
The effects of armed or other kinds of conflict on women, including those living under foreign occupation
Inequality in economic structures and policies, in all forms of productive activities and access to resources
Inequality between men and women in the sharing of power and decision-making at all levels
Insufficient mechanisms at all levels to promote the advancement of women
Lack of respect for and inadequate promotion and protection of the human rights of women
Stereotyping of women and inequality in women’s access to and participation in all communication systems, especially in the media
Gender inequalities in the management of natural resources and the safeguarding of the environment
Persistent discrimination against and violation of the rights of the girl child
More than 50,000 people attended the gathering in Beijing. Attendees were divided into three primary categories: 10,000 official delegates from the 189 UN Member States; 30,000 representatives from international, regional, national and local non-government organizations (NGOs) and 10,000 journalists. It was mind-boggling.
The well-appointed and well-equipped Beijing International Convention Center was the site of the official UN meeting. The site of the NGO Forum was Huairuo, almost an hour’s drive away. The Forum was a unique space of advocacy, networking, training and knowledge sharing. Conditions in Huairuo were challenging to say the least; heavy rains had turned dirt paths to rivers of mud. Undeterred by the hardships, there was an electrifying spirit that permeated the Forum. These women meant business!
Gertrude Mongella from Tanzania was Secretary General of the FWCW and presided over the sessions where the Member States gave their official statements. At one of these sessions Hillary Clinton uttered those now famous five words, “Women’s rights are human rights!”
Dr. Patricia (Tatti) Licuanan, a Filipina, who was the chair of the Commission on the Status of Women, was responsible for overseeing the negotiations for the agreements made during the conference. (Amazingly, Tatti had been my language instructor in the summer of 1968 when I was training for my assignment as Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines.)
There is no underestimating the impact of the outcomes of the United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women.
“Twenty years after the Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action was adopted by 189 Member States meeting in China, its stature and significance as a roadmap for the achievement of gender equality remains undiminished. This pivotal document continues to guide the global struggle against constraints and obstacles to the empowerment of women around the world. In the face of new forces threatening to curtail the rights of women and girls, we must return to the agenda set by the Platform for Action and renew our commitment to carry it out in full.” Ban Ki-Moon Secretary-General United Nations
One only needs to read the headlines to understand that there is a dire need to invigorate support for women’s advancement on the international, national and local levels. It is my intention to join these efforts.
As part of this summer’s countdown to my 70th birthday, I scheduled a series of doctor’s appointments. I’ve been fortunate health wise. I have no chronic conditions; I’ve never been hospitalized, and I’ve never had surgery. My intention is to keep it that way. I wanted t make sure that if there were any potential problems, I’d catch them at an early stage.
In the last two months, I’ve seen my eye doctor, general practitioner, dentist, and gynecologist. All delivered good news. “The cataract in your right eye hasn’t changed. No need for surgery.”“ Marian, your test results are good. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.” No new prescriptions. No problems.
My most recent appointment was with my dermatologist. I was nervous before this one. I wondered if the stupid use of a sun reflector when I was in college and the endless hours I spent in the blazing sun during my years representing the scuba diving industry had done more serious damage than the freckles that dotted my skin. Were the hated bumps and blotches that had sprouted on my body like a garden out of control more than an annoyance?
My concerns were not unfounded. Skin cancer is the most common cancer in the United States. According to the American Academy of Dermatology (AAD) one in five Americans will develop skin cancer in their lifetime.
She determined that the blotches and bumps I loathed were Seborrheic Keratoses, common, non-contagious skin growths that can appear anywhere on the skin in middle-aged and older adults. (An unwelcome gift of aging????) Some people get just one. Most people have many. Too bad, I’m in the latter category.
According to the AAD, most Seborrheic Keratoses do not require care. However, they recommend you see a dermatologist if:
The growth grows quickly, turns black, itches, or bleeds (possible signs of skin cancer).
Many new skin growths suddenly appear. This can be a sign of cancer inside the body.
Your skin growth does not look like a typical seborrheic keratosis.
Your growth is dry, flat, rough, and scaly. It could be an actinic keratosis, which can progress to a type of skin cancer.
The growth is easily irritated, such as from shaving or clothes rubbing against it.
You want the growth taken off because you do not like how it looks. An option I may consider some time in the future for the blotches beginning to develop on my face.
There was only one spot, the size of a pinhead, which Dr. Travis said could be problematic and she wants me to watch. To me, it looked like just another freckle. She explained that it was much darker than my other freckles and that color was an important variable.
Before I left the office, I asked Dr. Travis the most important things people my age should do to keep our skin healthy and hopefully, cancer free. She said her recommendations would be the same for people of any age.
First and foremost, be sure always to wear sunscreen with an SPF of 30 or higher. She also said that everyone should examine his or her skin regularly. She suggested that I visit the Skin Cancer Foundation website that has an excellent step-by-step guide for skin self-examination. I did that as soon as I got home, and I encourage anyone reading this to do the same.
All-in-all, it’s good to know that I’m as healthy as I feel.
We all have our version of what constitutes a perfect day. That image can change given where we are in our life at any given time. Since I’m committed to logging at least 10,000 steps daily, a perfect day for me is sharing an active outdoor adventure somewhere visually interesting with people I love. With that as the criteria, Saturday was a perfect day. I went to the Afropunk Festival in Brooklyn with my friends Ruth LaFerla and Deb Mitchell.
It came about by accident. Ruth and I had gone to the movies on Friday night. She told me she was going to the festival the next day for a story she was going to write for the New Yorks Times Style Section where she has worked for the last 15 years. When she heard me gasp, she asked if I wanted to come along making it clear that I’d be on my own since she’d be working.
Early Saturday morning, I got a call from Deb, a TV producer and social media guru, who has been guiding me through the blogosphere. She told me she was going to Brooklyn for the day. When I asked what she was doing, she said she was going to the Afropunk Festival to do a story for her blog. Hello, party time!!
The Afropunk Festival had its beginnings 11 years ago in a small lower eastside club. It is now held at Commodore Barry Park in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, and is a two-day affair of black arts, music and culture that draws a daily audience of more than 30,000. This year’s headliners included Lenny Kravitz, Grace Jones, and Lauryn Hill.
When Ruth, Deb and I arrived, we let out a collective OMG!!! What struck us were the creative fashions and style and the overwhelmingly good vibe of the festivities. Afropunk is the visual equivalent of a delicious, exotic smorgasbord. We didn’t know where to feast our eyes first. I zeroed in on women’s faces. Camera shy that I am, I loved how confident they all were as I pointed my iPhone in their direction.
Deb and I hung out together while Ruth went off to meet the photographer she would be working with. Despite the throngs of people, in yet another coincidence, Deb and I ran into Ruth hours later as we were ready to head back home. The three of us collapsed in a cab. We couldn’t stop talking about what a perfect day it had been.
In case you’re wondering, I logged my 10,000 steps and then some.
It has never been easy to find an affordable rental apartment in New York City. Snagging one was always considered a major accomplishment and the subject of many a dinner party conversation.
Decades ago, the shortage of available housing led to a series of laws aimed at stabilizing the Big Apple’s real estate market. Though there’s been a weakening of those laws over the years, there are still currently close to a million apartments in New York City that are stabilized. These prize apartments offer perks including a guaranteed right to renew your lease and limits on how much your landlord can hike up your rent each year. It is my good fortune to live in one of them.
It most definitely was not my plan to spend my entire adult life in the same one-bedroom upper westside apartment. However, that is what happened. I have the dubious distinction of being the longest continuous tenant on my block, which runs between Broadway and Columbus Avenue.
I moved into my apartment in November 1968. I’d been staying with my best friend who had an apartment on West 83rd Street, which was a seriously seedy area at the time; Columbus Avenue was neither stylish nor safe. My friend’s apartment had been robbed multiple times, and she was having a new lock installed. The first thing the locksmith said was “What are two nice girls doing in a place like this?” He was the super of a building on West 68th Street and said there was an apartment available. We signed the lease the next day. My friend left two years later to move to Israel. I remained and have been there ever since.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my apartment this summer.As I develop the financial plan for my retirement, I realize just how blessed I am to have affordable housing.
There have been many changes since I moved to the block. There were years of blasting and drilling as high-rises went up all around me. I used to envy the people in my building who had apartments with windows that faced 68th Street because they had unobstructed skyline views. No more. Thanks to the 47 story building that was erected directly across the street, they now face a brick wall.
For the most part, I embraced the changes. The Loews AMC multiplex was a welcome addition; I joined the Sports Club New York before it opened. However, the cost of commercial and residential real estate in the neighborhood has reached astronomical levels, and we are losing needed services.
For virtually all the time I’ve lived in my apartment, there was a supermarket on the corner of Broadway and 68th Street. No more. The Food Emporium left because it was more lucrative for them to sell their long-term lease than to sell food. Now Lowe’s Home Improvement is anchoring the corner.
Lowe’s will be having its Grand Opening on September 12th, my 70th birthday. And on the same day, for the first time, the West 68th Street Block Association will be holding their Fall Party on my street rather than the block between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue.
How very thoughtful of my neighbors. I hope you will join the festivities. There’ll be partying from 11:00am-4:00 pm.