Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door: Anyone Home?

I lost it this weekend, my patience, that is, and not only did I lose it, I lost it with Old People, Really Old People, People on Death's Doorstep Old People: my parents. I am not bragging; I think, though I wasn't raised to use a confessional, I may even be admitting my moral smallness. Why I would do this in a blog addressed to Senator Feingold may be hard to figure out, but perhaps there is some political value to my confession, as I can't help but think I'm not alone in this experience I'm having.

Like almost all my age peers, those of us euphemistically labelled the Sandwich Generation, which I think sites us like bologna between the young and the old "bread slices,' I am getting a close-up and in-depth introduction to the pleasures of dying, American style by taking care of my elderly parents. Like so much else in our Puritanically inspired national culture, death a la Protestant is primarily negative in emphasis, as in, "Not Me." No one gets to die easily here. At the fittingly named Ronald Reagan/UCLA Medical Center in California, the chief executive recently told the New York Times (12/23/09), “If you come into this hospital, we’re not going to let you die.”  It's no wonder our health care costs have rocketed sky high. Heaven might be empty if not for the upward arch of our health care costs.

OK. I'm being a little unfair, but not grossly. Health care costs actually came down a smidgen recently for the first time in many months, though that may have been a simple consequence of the fact that the entire nation was so icy no one made it to their appointments so no one had any unnecessary testing or labwork done. My parents, however, have the last incredible doctor in the U.S. who is really the kindest doctor I can imagine and whom I would mention by name if I didn't think I'd embarrass Jack Anderson. He, a one-time high school classmate of mine, actually sends lab techs and specialists to my parents' house to do their work-ups in their condo. Well, it may be a little self-preservation on his part, combined with kindness; he may be justifiably concerned about meeting my parents' gold Buick head-on on the roadways they share since I spoke with him regarding observations of my dad's increasingly inattentive driving. In any case, Jack sends the clinic to my folks now, and I love him for that. And now you know about that gold Buick sedan, too, so don't say I didn't warn you! In fact, as a general policy, I think it's pretty wise to use extra caution any time you see any color Buick LeSabre on the road. It's a pretty safe bet the driver is a minimum of 75, with critically lengthened reaction time. Either that, or it's the teenager who just inherited Grandma's old car when she went into the nursing home. And with that, we're back to my losing patience with my own parents, who are not quite yet in a nursing home.

My parents are both still at home, largely because of the kindness of people like Jack and their seemingly endless legion of friends, as well as their limited cadre of daughters, all four of us. This last weekend was one of my times to be with them, to do some of the household chores that accumulate each week in both my house and theirs, to cook some meals that are nutritious in sufficiently ample quantities that leftovers can easily be reheated over the coming week, to spare them a few of the chores that are so easy for me and so painstakingly difficult or time consuming for them. And, almost inevitably, during this visit as in nearly every visit, there's some point at which the old tensions of our longstanding relationship snap like a too-tight guitar string. That would be my patience popping.

This time it was Medicare. My parents, as I've mentioned before, are major recipients of Medicare. Even if the only thing Medicare paid for was their list of prescription drugs, they would be major beneficiaries. I mean, just one of my mom's prescriptions, a little pill called Rilutek she takes twice every day without fail, would cost someone like me about $1,000/month, if purchased from an online discounter. My parents must visit a medical professional of some specialty at least once a week, and this doesn't even include the "fringe" medical care people, like the OTs and PTs and home care providers. Medicare pays almost every single medical expense they incur. But this weekend, among my other duties, I was charged with telling my parents that changes in Medicare coverage were going to necessitate they fulfill a 20% co-pay on a state-of-the-art communication device my mom needs to use as her ability to speak disappears, a percentage which will amount to around $3,200. Do the math, and you'll realize that this is one expensive piece of equipment we're talking about here!

My parents, of course, were dismayed. Aghast might be a better word, for at least one of them. And it is not that they can't afford the three grand, but that they feel entitled to Medicare. After all, it's been paying for everything. Why should it tighten up the purse strings now, they want to know, just when it looks like everyone else in the nation is about to get health care due to what they regard as the devious machinations of President Obama and that nasty Nancy person ("You know, the one who wears all the pearls"). That's when I lost it. I lost it, and I ended up raising my voice and effectively calling them selfish and greedy people, "Republicans," I believe I called them in the extreme vexation of the moment.

We have so much. Even when we trim our budgets, we have so much. I have a sister who complains of living in straitened circumstance. They have an ocean-going sailboat moored  two blocks from their front door on the Massachusetts coastline. I have another sister who has ceased giving Christmas presents because the downtown office building she owns is causing financial stress in her life. How dare we complain. How dare we begrudge others some of what we have in such abundance. How dare we write our Congressional representatives that while we understand the need to trim the national budget, it's not right to trim the part that affects, yes, us.

I lost my patience. Then, Protestant as we are, we agreed not to talk about it any more. It all made me so relieved to drive home, even through the blinding, blowing snowfields. As Pete, another high school friend, commented ruefully after listening to me vent today,  "I had forgotten how emotionally draining it is to be a caregiver." Pete nursed his mom through her last years of Alzheimers. For all I know, Russ Feingold may be experiencing some of these same feelings. He's part of the Sandwich Generation, too, I believe.

I do know that I for one am really spread thin. And I think maybe, just maybe, we don't have a responsibility to keep everyone alive who enters the doors of the hospital.