Meanwhile, Back at the Things That Really Matter

Friday night, a little after 11, I got a voicemail from L.  L is Harriet's nephew, an energetic and unstable-seeming person who was a near-neighbor of my father's in New York.  He makes his living, as nearly as I can tell, by trading foreign currencies online.  Before he called me, I hadn't heard from him for a year.

He said, in a sort of machine-gun style:

"Hey, Alan!  This-is-L-Harriet's-nephew!  Listen, I-was-just-talking-to-Harriet-and-she-told-me-about-your-father-and-I-was-wondering-what-you're-going-to-do-with-the-apartment-are-you-going-to-rent-it?  Because-I-live-10-blocks-away-and-I-don't-know-what-we-can-do-but-I'd-love-to-have-a-look-at-it.  So-hey-give-me-a-call-and-let-me-know-what-we-can-work-out-hope-you-and-your-wife-are-well."

I let myself absorb that and didn't call him back.

Saturday morning, there was another voicemail:

"Hey, Alan! I-haven't-heard-back-from-you-and-I'm-wondering-what's-going-on-man.  I'm-10-blocks-away-and-I-could-get-over-there-and-have-a-look.  C'mon-man-help-me-out-here!"

The "help me out" was the clincher.

I called him and identified myself and said, as coldly as I could, "The apartment is under rent control.  I don't have any authority over it.  If you want to contact the landlord, his number is 212-XXX-XXXX."

He said, "So you're completely out of the picture?!"

I hung up on him.

He called me back a moment later.

He said, "Hey, man, did I say something to offend you?"

I said, "Did you say something to offend me?  OK, let me explain.  I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen.  It's like this.  I've just put my father, who has advanced Alzheimer's, in a nursing home.  This has been the most difficult, wrenching experience of my life.  Now you call me and you don't acknowledge that, you don't ask after it at all, except to rattle off 'I-hope-you-and-your-wife-are-well.'  And you keep telling me about how you live 10 blocks away. Now, during the time I've been dealing with this - during the four years I was an on-site caregiver, and then during the two years I was an out-of-state caregiver, you didn't visit him once, you didn't look in on him once, you never once checked with me to find out if I needed any help.  But now that you need something, you're all over me, two calls in 12 hours, 'help me out, man!'  You know what this tells me?  It tells me that in spite of having been born in Manhattan, and in spite of having lived there for 46 years, I'm not a New Yorker.  And you are.  So I want to wish you all the best of luck in your future as a New Yorker.  And that's the end of this conversation."

I hung up on him again.

If what I said sounds excessively scripted, that's because it was.  I'd meant to send him an e-mail, and actually wrote one out, but it turned out I had a bad address for him and it bounced.  So my only option was to call.  I wasn't reading from the e-mail but I guess I had the wording under my skin.

If it sounds like it was excessively satisfying, it wasn't.  I hate confrontation and I was exhausted already and feeling slightly ill and this just made it worse.

You want the irony?  The irony is that the apartment is already answered for.  I haven't confirmed this officially, but I have it from good sources that my father's next-door neighbor paid the landlord a while ago for rights to the apartment - first refusal, I suppose.  Longtime readers may remember Neighbor Guy - a lawyer who, all the while my father was declining, kept knocking on his door and asking him if he'd move out so Neighbor Guy could expand into my father's apartment and knock out walls and create this enormous living space.  The first time, my father still had the presence of mind to say to him, "Look, I'm old - why don't you just wait?"  Neighbor Guy was embarassed, but not enough to keep him from trying again.  After the second time, I asked his wife to have him talk to me, not my father, about real estate.  Neighbor Guy went back and knocked on my father's door and did it again.  That led to a hostile exchange of letters in which I used phrases like "durable general power of attorney" and he pointed out that my father hadn't been declared incompetent and used phrases like "be guided in this matter."  But he stayed away.  Or rather, he did an end-run and tied things up with the landlord and got what he wanted in the end.

Both of these affairs prove that I was right when I said I wasn't a real New Yorker.  If I was - if I was good at manipulating money and property and getting the edge - I would have held somebody up, Neighbor Guy or the landlord or somebody, and offered to move my father out in return for a nice sum of money.  And the money could have gone to help with his care.  So from one perspective, I'm paying the price for my relative lack of sophistication.

On the other hand, maybe it just means that I'm not a New Yorker according to the cliche of what a New Yorker is suppsed to be.  (I always think of them as New Yorkers From Elsewhere, newcomers like Steinbrenner with something to prove, as I think Dave Anderson once pointed out).   Maybe it means that other things matter to me more than the last dollar.  Or maybe I'm just slow.  So for whatever reason, at the moment I'm not thinking in terms of real estate.  I probably should be, but I'm not.  Let that be my character note.

It's exhausting sometimes, the culture of self-interest.

Meanwhile - I spoke to Harriet on Sunday and didn't mention L.  Also I didn't mention anything about my father's transition.  As far as she's concerned, he's doing well, all cheerful and happy and making new friends.  I said pretty much the same thing to E - he's doing great, he's settling in very nicely.

I haven't heard anything from the nursing home since Friday.  I didn't expect to.  I suppose they're still assessing him and acclimating him and playing with his dosages.  Maybe he's even doing OK by now, though I wouldn't bet on it.  They might contact me this week, though I'm not expecting any contact until the official first treatment conference Friday morning.

Tomorrow I'll drive up to New York and start packing the apartment.  No emotions to speak of.  It feels like I'm cutting a big weight loose, and also I'm doing a social good.  The place used to be home, but now it's past time for the edge guys to take it over.

What's it they say?  Life goes on.

Comments

[Flouncy]

You done good. It'll never be this hard again.

[Kim Bledsoe]

I almost feel as drained as you Alan, just reading about the move and your idiotic nephew, probably because it was like reliving it...although I had half the drive time when I moved my dad...its so damn hard..your role changes now to advocate for your dad at the NH...its hard but at least you get the respite you need...please get some rest and I know I speak for those on the forum when I say we are so glad this monumental task is over for you...dad will adjust..it just takes time. He will bond with one of his caregivers eventually...

As far as that nephew goes, you handled it beautifully!! What a jerk...so many like that..don't give it another thought.

God Bless and Take Care of you,
kim

[crella]

I've been away from this blog a bit, I just read through your father's move, was saddened by the comments of Harriet and E, and now this. It's a shame that people can't keep such thoughts to themselves , or in the case of the apartment, wait a bit and be more tactful. You handled it all very well.