My neighbor Dave collapsed.
That’s not 100% accurate, but I’m not sure what the right word would be. Mike the porter noticed the New York Times sitting outside Dave’s door for longer than usual, and knocked on my door.
Had I seen Dave recently?
I hadn’t, but that wasn’t unusual.
We knocked. Nothing.
With let ourselves in and found Dave naked, in a dry bathtub. Mike covered him with a bathmat, for modesty. He had no idea how he had gotten there or how long he’d been in there. It didn’t look like he’d fallen. Or bathed.
Fast forward to the arrival of paramedics. Is there any family? An emergency contact? Where’s his ID?
On an index card with tiny names and numbers, Dave pointed to a number for his “son,” who turned out to be a nephew, in Wisconsin. We (me, Dave, Mike the porter, and the paramedics) are in NY.
Fast forward some more:
past moving furniture to make room for the paramedics & the carry chair;
grabbing random clothes around the living room to dress Dave;
ignoring the used adult diaper on the chair;
discovering an storage room with twin beds but no working lights;
finding open prescription pill bottles spilling out everywhere;
Dave’s (mistaken) belief he’d been alone in the bathtub for two weeks;
his delusion that someone, under the pretense of upgrading the bathroom, had tried to rob him, but piles of tens and twenties were scattered around the apartment; and
his “Sunday go to church” outfit: a clean suit, shirt and tie, pressed and hung neatly on a single hanger from one of the many bookcases in the living room, it stands out amidst the utter filth, isolation, neglect and boxes of junk food.
Dave had been a college professor. Single. Childless. No family in the area, the only call he made was to someone from his church.
I was nauseated by the smells and conditions, the paramedic had a sneezing fit from all the dust. If “Collyer Brothers” was a DSM-V diagnosis, Dave was on the spectrum. His hallucinations and disorientation weren’t from dehydration or lack of nutrition. At 90 years old, isolated and retired, this is who Dave is now.
Next door, Mom, age 94, may have no idea who I am, but she’s comfortable in a beautiful room flooded with sunlight; she has clean clothes, fresh sheets, fluffy slippers, and someone to look out for her physical and emotional well-being around the clock. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for what I was able to do for her, that she wasn’t Dave.
Me? I’m Dave 2.0. No siblings, no kids, no nearby or close relatives to count on. No long-term care insurance. No job. I won’t have the same amount of money coming in as mom has (because I wasn’t smart enough to stay in a bad marriage with a disabled vet long enough to become a widow/surviving spouse with a VA pension and medical coverage, prolly not her intention when she first met Fred, sure was towards the end)1. Right-to-die states require a terminal illness and a clear head. Even Switzerland requires a sound mind. Dave wouldn’t qualify. Mom doesn’t. Who knows if I will? I’m hoping for a Hunter Thompson-like2 end. I joke about pulling a Thelma & Louise; where does one find a good cliff to drive off of in Queens?
I left my rent job at the end of March 2024. Calling myself retired feels like quitting. I’m not, I’m updating and tweaking my operating system.
In the past year, I dropped 60 pounds, with ten more to go. I’m doing cardio three times a week now, which is exactly three more times than I ever did before. Swim class starts in July; I want to learn to swim like a real girl3.
I’ve dropped:
my cholesterol from 202 to 179;
my weight from 221 to 160;
my A1C from pre-diabetes to normal; and
my fatty liver disease is a memory. I have the liver of a twenty-year-old Mormon now (not literally, it’s not like I’d kidnap a Mormon and harvest her organs).
I have teeth now, all the teeth. The bottom set are all implants, because…years of basic junkie math. Junkie math tells you that when a root canal, post & crown costs twenty-eight times more than an extraction, that even if you have the money, some teeth are just…expendable, especially the back ones. Molars, they’re like the appendix of the mouth.
I’m tempted to say I’m getting back in shape, but I was never in shape. I’m motivated because I’m Dave—there’s no one around to take care of me but me. Because the world is increasingly unsafe for opinionated loud-mouth Jewesses like me. Because 20+ years of drug dependence, alcoholic drinking, and aforementioned bad relationships are still taking their toll despite 30+ years of sobriety.
Nothing can be done about the alcoholic neuropathy4 in my feet. Sometimes my toes feel stuck together, other times can’t feel my feet at all. Or they burn. Or it feels like I’m walking on pebbles. It’s prolly why I fall as much as I do, which at (almost) 67 I can’t afford to do. I’m in physical therapy, again, for a wrist I broke (for the second time) in August 2023.
Osteopenia, osteoporosis, idiopathic osteonecrosis. I have all the osteos. Lifting weights helps counter the first two, but apparently the only option for the necrosis is waiting for the bone to crumble and then I can have surgery.
I got hearing aids. What I think I heard has always been more interesting than what you actually said, but hearing loss can be a contributing factor in dementia. I’m watching that shit show up close daily.
I haven’t had a car since 2022, after two accidents in one month, one that demolished two of the three cars involved. I have too much on my mind to be sparking up two & a half tons of steel, speed and gasoline.
I’m getting in shape because it feels good and I want to live well. I’m not going to age gracefully, or go gentle into that any night, good or otherwise. It’s not vanity, I’m a happy little crone. But I don’t want some of the things that can come with aging like the loss of independence and self-reliance. The need for oversight.
Dave can’t live alone anymore. If it hadn’t been for Mike the porter, he could’ve starved to death in his own bathtub.
Mom can’t live alone either.
There is a possibility that one day I won’t be able to live alone. I mean, I might die of some illness before I become feeble, infirm or go batty, but I’ve beat “You’re going to die if you don’t get treatment for this” more than once5 having chosen not to get the treatment I was told I had to have. Part of me really believes I can overcome all and any illnesses (pu pu pu). Alcoholics and addicts, we’re a resilient bunch, until we’re not.
Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus.
I met a lovely older (than me) woman at physical therapy. We made what passes for small talk when you’re single and reach a certain age. Healthcare Proxies, Living Wills, regular Wills, Durable POA.
It prompted me to get those things that’ve been on my to-do list forever actually done. So, I’ve assigned them deadlines. My BFF (for 30+ years) will be my POA and the executor of my estate6, but since she’d keep me alive even if I was “just a pair of eyeballs on a plate,” I’m looking elsewhere for a health care proxy.
My go-to guy died ten years ago. My fake brother, go-to guy number two, got married and maybe I’ve seen him once in the three years since his wedding in 2021. Not so go-to anymore. A fellow caregiver offered. Maybe. It’s a big deal. An attorney? That’s a lot of trust to put in someone you pay, but don’t really know. I’ve joked about currying favor with my friends’ kids, because when I’m really old, my friends will also be old, or dead.
I’d love to wrap this up being able to say “I decided to” or “so this is what I did.” But I’m not there. Not yet. I wonder what other folks in similar situations have set up?
, you must have thought about this? Victoria at? ? ?I was only “smart enough” to stay in a series of bad relationships that netted me nothing as useful as a pension and medical coverage. I did, however, learn just how much crap I’m willing to put up with. As the years passed it went from “all the crap” to “a lotta crap” to “I don’t like your attitude, hit the road, Jack.”
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”―Hunter S. Thompson,
Because the thing I wanted most as a kid was to be a mermaid, I learned to swim with my legs together, so I wouldn’t tear my tail when it finally grew in.
Apparently face transplants and sewing your dick back on are real things, but there is nothing they can do to repair nerves once they die.
Hepatitis C (untreated), amoebic parasites (Entamoeba histolytica) ate my liver for decades, severe chronic ulcerative colitis, multiple broken bones, car & motorcycle accidents, bad relationship boyfriend accidents, alcohol poisoning, several attempts on my life, and how much is too much of (fill in your favorite drug), maybe just a little more?
Estate = a co-op in Queens filled with furniture I’ve gotten for free one way or another, a kitty litter box, and a shit-ton of books, none of which have any retail value.
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