Before my Bavarian Break

With mum in Shalvata, I was still determined to keep up my plan to leave on the 15th, and to go on as planned to Munich. The first day of her stay in the psychiatric facility I couldn't bring myself to go, thereby probably losing further stock. Nir and Adi drove here there, and waited for a couple of hours till she was actually admitted, Lea arrived to see her, but no sign of life from me. I went with Lea the following day (Saturday). The place was actually much more pleasant than I expected. Low-rise buildings in a green setting. Mum was in bed. Lying on her side, clearly sedated by the injection she got (we were told by the staff that she hadn't eaten a thing, taken any medication willingly, she "may" have taken some water). She refused the cake Lea brought for her in the hope she could be tempted to break her hunger strike. Nothing. Lea finally gave up and placed the small container on the bedside table. Within minutes mum made a small hand gesture, intentional or not (I tend to think the latter) that upset the container, sending the cake, whipped cream and all onto the floor. There was only one more woman in the room. Mum was talking in murmurs, to Lea. All I got from her was an accusation that this was all my doing, a part of the plot to get rid of her. We tried to reason with her that she had to co-operate with her tormentors. She would be given her food and medicine in an intraveinous drip, the sooner she plays along the sooner she's out of there.
The meal in the Zepra restaurant afterwards felt wrong, given that Zepra is considered one of the best in Israel... Lea picked me up from the house, with Idan, Anat (his girlfriend) and Adi at the back. We were met by Nir (who brought Dor pillion on his Gold Wing, and gave the same treat to Adi on the way back).
The next day we got dad and all his stuff back up to the flat. Lea brought a Phillipina called Winnie from Tel Aviv for an audition. Dad must have a round the clock help in order to be able to live in the flat. One of the reasons for that is, unfortunately, mum, but he does need the help. I wasn't frankly too impressed with her. For one she can't cook beyond the most basic stuff, but she seems caring, and we needed to create an environment where first and foremost dad can be in his own apartment, not in the support clinic, where he can no longer benefit from staying - there was nothing more they could do for him. Winnie would start tomorrow (Monday). If I stayed in Israel it would be at Lea's house. I helped dad to shower in the morning, and I must admit he nedded little help. Winnie would still have to be there: it's an issue of balance, and the shower is probably the most volunrable place for dad to be. She would also be responsible for his exercise, walks etc.
I dropped Winnie of at the bus stop, and she would return with her things tomorrow to start her new position.
In the afternoon Lea and I went to see mum. This time she was moved to a locked-up ward, and looked more out of place among all the much younger people there than anywhere else I have ever seen her. She was sat in her bed. On seeing me she turned away. Lea brought another cake, again home-made, and some grapes. Mum still had not taken any solids, and would be given a drip by the end of the day. As Lea tried to sweet talk mum into eating something, a young woman stirred in the next bed. To my horror I realised she was strapped to the bed by her wrists and ankles. She was whipped up by Lea's pleas and starting to talk, wail and sobbingly add her support. Lea just said to mum: "You should listen to her, she is right. She knows what she's talking about". I thought so too.
We eventually talked mum into getting out of bed, to go sit in the ante room where the nurse, a tough but kindly woman, kept her watch on the two rooms in her charge. Other patients strolled in and out, they smoked there (as did the nurse, but would you pick an argument with either?), and we then progressed out to the eating area. A young man came to me and in a slurred speech, occasionally peppered with clarity, asked me to get him the police for some reason I couldn't figure (and didn't care, frankly), a big fat scary girl, mum's other room-mate in fact, sidled up to mum and fixed her stare in equal measure on mum and on her untouched cake. I knew that would create a dilema for mum: stubborn as she was, she would hate her own daughter's food to be wasted on someone else. We were always told how people fought for any scrap of food in the concentration camps. If you were fortunate enough to have food left-over you held on to it, for you would need it soon enough. To give it to someone who wasn't your kith and kin was as sinful as to throw it away. On a full stomach this always sounded like a twisted, uncharitable philosophy, but we never had the "advantage" of experiencing the holocaust...
The next day, Monday, I went shopping, later Winnie arrived, and I made up a basic program of her daily tasks. I also showed her how to make chicken soup more or less the way mum used to make it till she became disfunctional in the kitchen (long before they moved to the house, I later learned). The study, my room for the last three weeks was cleared of my stuff. I packed a few things to take with me, the rest was to wait for my return at Lea's place. I took the train from Tel Aviv to Ben Gurion airport, and around midnight BST I pushed my front door open to a pile of post on the floor. Tomorrow I plan to see Guy, we're going to visit a couple of galleries.

Lea driving us to the restaurant
















Self in car




















Azrieli Centre, Tel Aviv
















Zepra restaurant

















Nir and Adi on the Gold Wing



Saturday visit to Shalvata, the psychiatric facility where mum is staying wasn't a joyous one, but at least I got to see the place for myself and it was pleasant enough, though clearly under-funded. Still, very green and pleasant, Saturday staff seemed nice and empathetic, I felt reassured mum was in the best place to help her.
Mum was lying on her side in bed, still in all her gaudy jewellery but in hospital pajamas. She was not pleased to see me. She seemed to be in the very same mood as the previous morning. She wouldn't communicate other than to express disdain. "Have you eaten anything mum?" "What difference does it make to you? You've eaten and nothing else matters", and "You've got what you wanted all along. I will never come out of here. You will have me finished here". There was another woman in the room with mum. She got out of her bed from time to time, walked about, poured herself water, asked us if we were siblings, mum said she was probably planted there to spy on her. Lea sat there stifling her tears. She visited again in the evening. I didn't join her this time.

For lunch Lea's family and I went to a restaurant part owned by Nir's sister, a smart "Asiatic" place, very trendy, and highly regarded. That was a nice perk.

Now it's Sunday, Lea spoke to the staff in Shalvata. They told her mum became hostile this morning, aggressive even, but I don't know quite what it means.

The way events unfolded yesterday

Mum wouldn't get up till almost 9:00am. I wouldn't dare to disturb her, but wanted her awake so she can see dad, maybe go shopping (in Israel you want to get it done early on Friday as shops close early for the Shabbat), and she had that longed for, once deferred hair appointment. After last night's euphoria I felt we could at last resume normal life, or something very similar to that. To that end I placed myself in the kitchen and started making breakfast, not taking care at all to be quiet, on the contrary, I chopped my vegetables gaily (i.e. noisily) and moved dishes about so the kitchen sounds could be heard in her room (door was open), and for background noise I turned the TV on (though not very loud). She finally got up - some rustling, some shuffling, I could hear her going to her bathroom. I waited till she emerged. It felt like a long time, maybe some 20 minutes. She finally stuck her head into the main living space. "Good morning mum". She didn't reply. "Did you sleep well?". She finally spoke. "Well, there you are. You got what you wanted all alone. Aren't you clever. Look at these clothes." My heart sank. She was, or acted groggy, on account of the pill she took the night before, granted, but what happened to the happy girl, all smiles, the positive comments on Adi's new computer when it was shown to her, the playful banter with her youngest grandson Dor over how come the girls aren't throwing themselves at his feet? Have we all been dreaming it last night? "I am going back to bed" she announced. "aren't you going to have some breakfast mum?" "No, I will not have any breakfast" she hissed and vanished. I left it at that, feeling despondent. The phone rang. In this house the reception calls apartment every morning at around 8:30am "to wish you a good day". This morning (yesterday's, remember?) when they called first time I let the phone ring, so the noise might wake her up, and her day might commence. They rang off after 4 rings. A few minutes later it rang again. The internal phone is in the kitchen. I picked up this time and was greeted as is the way here. Now her bedside phone rang. She didn't pick it up. I looked in the bedroom, she was lying down, awake, still. I walked around the bed and picked up the phone. It was her friend Haya calling from downstairs, in dad's room to see if mum would like her to drive her to the hairdresser's home, not far from here. I related this to her. Pause. "Oh, tell her she can come up here if she wants to". This didn't feel right. Haya was her dearest friend. Mum simply adores her. Dad had already called at some point: "Isn't mum going to come down and see me this morning?" I gave him the sorry update. He fell silent.
Haya is at the door. Mum comes out, no smiles, a bit subdued. Fair enough, it must be that pill, and we were told it can take days before the full effect is evident, so let's all be patient. It will all turn out fine, you'll see! One more attempt at coaxing her to eat or drink something before going out. "No". "Mum, you could have a small tub of yoghurt, you can open that yourself" I said. Still no. I bade them a successful trip and closed the door. Seconds later the door buzzed. I opened the door. Mum is back: "Give me your key". I smelt a rat. "Where is your key mum?" "Oh, forget it then" she barked impatiently. "All right, all right mum, let me see if the metal key fits the door and you can have the electronic disc/key". "Give me the whole bunch!" I withdrew my hand. That whole bunch had the car keys too. She is up to something! I know my mum too well and she can often fool me, but not this time. I also knew by now it was not the wisest idea to send her out to the world, even with a minder, but I couldn't stop this. It dawned on me she only had her small "ethnic" purse with her. I knew she always kept her keys in the big black one - and she never takes a step without it. Where was it? At her bid I went to her room and fetched it for her. They were off, again, and as soon as I closed the door I realised she now has both disc/keys and I had none. Not a problem, it's just that the disc acts as a master key for the building while the conventional metal one only fits the apartment's front door. I can manage.
The following is an almost verbatim account told to me by Haya. Mum rushed to the lift at breakneck speed. Then from lobby level through the doors and to the parked car again at such rate Haya, a much younger woman could not keep up with her. "What's the hurry?" she called after mum, who replied: "we're escaping from here, we're getting away". In the car mum was talking breathlessly, and when Haya said something back to her she turned on Haya too: "Don't talk such rot". Haya said something back and mum started threatening she would open the car door and get out. Haya got scared and locked the doors. What followed was described in a previous post. Essentially mum went into aome hapless people's flat and wouldn't leave. By the time Haya searched and found her she had thrown her id card into the garden (later found by chance by Adi). Lea rushed to the scene, but mum wouldn't respond to her or anybody else. Police had to be called to help extract her from the flat, and she was forced into Nir's car. Nir and Adi took her back to Shalvata, where not 24 hours before she was sent home after a "chat". This time, following the wait for a District Psychiatrist's order she was admitted for one week. She was given an injection to tranquilise her, but other than that, as far as I know she refused all food, wouldn't remove her jewellery and wouldn't let them put the hospital id wristband on her. Lea went to see her later in the day, taking a bag I have packed for her. I will visit her on Saturday.

We are delusional too. Last night's performance, was just that. By 11:00am she still wouldn't come out of her room, the suspicions and distrust are back, and only when her friend called (from dad's room, she went there first hoping mum would be keeping him company) she agreed to go with her to a hair appointment, as arranged last night. She wouldn't touch any food before going out, and I didn't ask her again to eat. The hairdresser works from home, locally but far enough to go by car. The phone call came not half an hour later: Haya couldn't park her car in front of the hairdresser's house. She let mum off and told her to wait there for a moment till she's parked the car and returned. Mum (who apparently said on the way that she wanted to throw herself out of the car) wasn't there when Haya came back from the car. Looking for her in the building she discovered that mum rang the wrong door, some elderly people opened, she wondered in, and before they could clear up the misunderstanding mum sat down and wouldn't budge.

13:30 update:

Lea rushed to the scene, then summoned Nir who came with Adi. Correct at this time Lea remained in Ramat Hasharon (at Nir's parents place), Nir and Adi talked mum into going by car with them to Shalvata (the psychiatric clinic from yesterday). This time, with the trauma of the very thought of having your loved one committed, even if for the briefest of stays, not as intense as it was yesterday, I feel she should be admitted and remain there for a few days, under controlled conditions, where personal emotions can't be manipulated (and thereby compromise treatment, e.g. when giving up on getting the patient to take their medication when they continuously refuse to).
Benny came by, we talked, and I save him lunch (I hadn't eaten a thing today either). Life's always a little bit better on a full stomach! We went down to see dad, I talked him into lying down for a rest. I will now shower and wait for news.

15:00

Nir called. They had to wait at Shalvata for an addmittance order till now. Mum had to be forcibly taken from the car into the clinic to be seen by a doctor. The process has commenced, and there's no fooling them today. It looks unlikely she will be released until fully stabilised.
Dad called from downstairs - I gave him the update, sold him I would just shave and come down, we'll go out of the room, have some tea perhaps, or take a walk. I am as confused today as I have ever been (have I said it before?).

16:00

So that's it. My poor mum, admitted for one week. Still uncommunicative, clutching her big black purse to her bosom, unwilling to let them put a hospital wrist strap on her. Nir and Adi left. Lea will come over later and will prepare a bag, again, for mum, and we will go there together. I understand we won't be able to see her to begin with, but tomorrow, Saturday we can visit at virtually any time.
I walked about with dad, venturing out of the compound of the house, and although slow and not completely confident, his gait is getting better all the time. If only he could be happy too.

18:30

I had gone back up, then down again, walked about with dad, then sat out in the garden, talking about this and that. I enjoy chatting with him so much. Plus it distracts from the real issue at hand. Still waiting to hear from Lea. I shouldn't wonder she'd had enough anguish for one day. But we will have to get some essentials over to mum - she doesn't even have a toothbrush there, let alone her medication, for all the good it'll do.
I may update this post later tonight. Have a look tomorrow.

Lea and Nir came by and collected a holdall I prepared for mum in the flat then took down to dad's room. It was filled with items Lea meticulously listed to me over the phone right down to her favourite scented soap. Dad wanted to go over too but we took it upon ourselves to refuse him. I stayed behind too. Still unable to bring myself to go, and not sure what state she might be in - what if my presence upsets her?

I suspected last night's euphoria was too good to be true, but needed that boost so much I (we all did) embraced it whole-heartedly. This morning I had to clear the beakfast table as mum is back in a dark place, paranoic (although not as extreme as before) and bad-tempered. I see trouble ahead tonight come medication time.

Bizaare Post Script

Dad and I, posing at the garden next to the house. He is my hero!


While mum and Lea were away I refrained from calling them on the phone until I couldn't wait any longer to learn what was going on. After dad's siesta I joined him (it turned out the person I saw entering his room was not Benny but a nurse who wanted to know if dad would mind sharing the room with a new guest at the facility). We took our books out to the patio and read them in a strange and new ritual - my choice for dad's book is a hit: he loves it, and I am delighted! Then I thought I'd take his (or thanks to the wonder of the 10 secs delay function, our) picture, depicting dad's new state of fitness, from being at death's door to on his feet, in every sense. But not before we had spoken to Lea and were told that the place they went was indeed very nice, every bit as described to us, even better, and that mum had been of top behaviour, quite herself, inexplicably. She was seen by two doctors, both charming, and she could not totally hide her symptoms from them. Anyway, they both agreed there was no need for her to stay there at all, she was perscribed a different drug from the one Prof A. and the house doctor gave her, she is to take it nightly before bed, cut into half for that is all she would need, subject to review. They were on their way back in a taxi that was kindly ordered for them, and could we secure a place at the table for mum, so she can have dinner with dad at the support clinic. She would later retire to the flat, and Lea would see in person that she takes her half tab, mum has given her word there would be no further trouble on the subject. We were puzzled, but really very happy at the news, and I went to do as Lea asked at once - no, there would be no problem letting mum eat there with dad.
Soon enough, and before 6:00pm even, the two ladies were back. All eyes were on mum - what sort of behaviour were we going to see? We, the clinic staff and other residents were stunned by that woman. Is she a good actress, or is it for real? Not having taken any medication of any type yet she displayed exemplary self restraint, she was sweet to me, nice to the nurses, gave dad a big hug and kisses, didn't even comment, let alone fly into a rage at seeing him out and about without his cane at all. It was as though one woman went off to the psychiatric clinic and another one returned! Lea was soon off to get the perscription and a pill caddy so no mistake may occur, mum sat with dad for dinner (at 6:30) and ate heartily (she was careful to bitch about the food later on, so we'd know they did send the same woman back). We then repaired to dad's room, and before long it was full with Lea's entire family, Benny and I. The room was as lively and noisy as it's ever been, only this time with laughter. Too good to be true? No drugs of any sort were administered to her, not till before her bedtime.
To round off the evening some of us went away, while Lea, Adi, mum and I went up to the flat for some coffee and cake, freshly bought from the house lobby (a Thursday evening tradition here). Lea wanted mum to take a shower as quickly as possible, get generally ready for bed, because she must be tired by now, after such two harrowing days. It seemed to me mum was starting to retreat into the old style again, dragging her feet over taking the pill, assuring Lea she could go home, and I could make sure she took it, jumping from one subject to another - now she wants to find a house coat she thinks may have been taken. Adi and I exchange glances. Lea is getting impatient, but it must not show. Finally, and with hardly any further ado, mum takes her med, and Lea and Adi can take their leave. The drug starts showing effect only after a few days of regular use, but I feel cautiously optimistic tonight. Mum is here in her own home, she was positive and pleasant all evening, dare I raise my hopes?

Later, Same Day

We feared it, then we were outwardly resigned to it, but now it has come, we can hardly handle it. A little after midday the ambulance came to take mum away. A male nurse (in plain everyday clothes, just a cab driver) accompanied mum and Lea and off they went, no scene, no fuss. She is to be taken to a small facility not very far from here, and we are told it's a peaceful, lush place, non-threatening and very pleasant. "Like a little kibbutz" said one of the staff here.
Throughout the morning mum had been acting like a person who had had a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast. When she ranted it was as forceful as ever. Her fist shook with the vigour of a young woman, not the little, 80 year old (older, she says, although I don't think she is older than 78) grandmother who has spent the last 24 hours with no rest or nourishment. Dad has broken down and cried several times today. He has become emotional in recent years, and as it got too embarrassing for the family (mum, it must be said) he was given an anti-depressant which he has taken ever since. I was against it: why supress an emotion? He was only crying, that's all. What's the harm in that?! But he has been content so I never bugged him on it. Right now it was just the two of us in the morning, on the patio of the clinic (mum was inside, afraid to come out lest "they locked her out", Lea was busy elswhere within the building). I put my hand on his shoulder, not knowing quite what to do - we were never physically demonstrative, so I just patted him a little. Just so he knows I am with him no matter what. When the ambulance arrival was imminent Lea and mum went up to the flat. I had been there for a while, avoiding mum. At present I am the Devil, Lea is back in the good books. Mum has already been flying into a rage each time she saw me, and I was told to either ignore her or to be as nice as possible. Mum walked past me as I was drying some dishes, and she went into her bedroom, where the bed was made since the previous morning. She rummaged for some essentials to pack for an overnight stay, Lea followed into the flat. I volunteered to go back down to dad, and in his room we all met once more before mum left quietly, tearfully, with Lea.
After dad calmed down he sat in one chair, I in another, and we both opened our books - my suggestion as a way to relax, perhaps to help him drift naturally towards some sleep, of which he was deprived last night. It worked, and after a while he was ready to go to bed. I left him alone, and walked along the corridor to the exit door. As I turned and looked back, don't know why I did that, I glimpsed my brother Benny just entering dad's room. Crap! I have kept him informed of what was happening, and he had just called me back not 10 minutes ago. Or did I just imagine I saw him?

Mum wouldn't cooperate all day yesterday, wouldn't eat, behaved manically, grabbing anybody in her way to warn them of the danger they all faced here, and I get the feeling the staff here are tired of her, and they (well, not all of course) start to be indifferent to the situation. In Israel you can't admit a person to hospital forcibly, unless a strict legal/medical procedure is followed. The person qualified to order this is a District Psychiatrist, and they could not get hold of one yesterday. Mum tricked her way to the support clinic (it was bound to happen), and hasn't left since. She stayed in dad's room all night, and I hear from the staff, confirmed by dad that she kept ranting for the better part of the night. As I write this the internal phone rings. Now it's dad: "I don't know what to do, mum is following me to the dining room and won't shut up. I have gone back to my room". Now Duty Nurse on the phone - she has been volunteered to keep an eye on mum, who has not eaten or rested for 24 hours (well, she may have nodded off in the chair, but she wouldn't lie in the second bed in dad's room). She now believes Lea is dead. Lea can't come to show her wrong till 11:00, the psychiatrist can't come before 12:30pm, we are all on edge, nervously wondering what else can go wrong.
Meanwhile, dad, whom I thought I travelled to Israel to be with on his last moments is getting better, and although his heart will never "fire on all cylinders", is now capable of walking unaided, but for a cane (which the physio says he doesn't need!). His spirits are broken though, witnessing the woman he loves, still as warmly as ever before, despite years of having to cope with her "eccentricity", coming apart before his eyes.

A few days ago (before mum's condition took a tumble) I got a belated email from a friend in reply to an old message I sent to him. He writes: "I see you're in Israel. I took a peek at your blog. Looks like you're having a great time."

Well, it's been the worst day yet, and it looks set to get worse before it gets better.
I am tired and confused, so I'll try to be brief. Mum had a little breakfast - once I left the table, as she wouldn't eat with me. She refused to take her medication, and her psychotic state only got worse as the day wore on. I tried to talk her into taking that little pill but I got nowhere. In hindsight I wonder: have I made things worse? Her ranting alarmed staff in the house, and they want her hospitalised. She would not go back to the flat, use any door she feels can be locked behind her, she is delusional, and has refused food all day. It is now 11:00 pm in Israel, and she is down in the support clinic, last seen in my dad's room. He told me to let her be, but I am concerned. I am up in the flat, and it looks like she is not coming up. There is nothing I or anybody else can do, and she will probably be taken to hospital in the morning, forcibly if necessary. We have been told there is nothing else for it - she must be "chemically" stabilised. We as family are unable to judge the situation objectively, and lastly, we should seek psychological councelling ourselves.

The rest of yesterday was "moderate" (I need to devise a scale by which to record the level of mum's state. So far all I can think of is weather forecast terms). Dad and I went to a lecture in the evening (on Bauhaus. Fascinating subject, bumbling, rambling speaker, and lady in charge of "Culture" introduced him to the audience very charmingly, then spoiled it all by having to turn back and read out his name from the OHD image on the screen).
This morning, and I think I detect a pattern here, mum fast asleep around 7:30, while I am in the (open plan) kitchen, preparing breakfast. I work casually, not trying to suppress any noise, so if she wakes up (late by her terms) it feels more natural. She does, goes for her ablutions, and finally makes her kitchen debut for the day. She launches straight into a speech - much like she has done often throughout my life, perhaps not quite so paranoic, but it was there, quietly bubbling under the surface. Looks like she is "not a morning person", the extreme version. I think we should get her to take her medication in the morning, not late afternoon, and perhaps this would take the edge off her temper into the day. Here's hoping.
Later today I plan to drive to the Open University in Raanana, for a free recital organised by an old school friend. Racheli might be there too. Will call her to verify. The program: an Israeli soprano accompanied by a pianist and a saxophonist/flautist, presenting songs by Gershwin, Weil, Gilbert & Sullivan - sounds great already.

The day started badly, and I was ready for worse, but even that couldn't go to plan, and things are looking up (relatively speaking, of course). After the yo-yo game mum has taken her medication. Again under pressure from Lea, and at several locations, but she took it, and didn't take as long as yesterday. Still moaning as usual, we talked her into eating. I made a nice pumpkin soup, Lea brought her own vegetable rice (saved me making mash) and I defrosted and cooked salmon fillet with dill and chopped onions - very plain but easy on the palate.
It turns out mum's complaint that I and others are taking her pictures everywhere, including the bathroom (gross or what?!) is due to the fact that she doesn't belong in the "modern" age. She pointed at the anti-fire sprinklers placed on the ceiling in the living room (and in every room in the entire building) and said: "there: a camera, there's another one, and that's a camera". She were never told what those unfamiliar objects were.
I have been very emotional today, barely holding off from crying when I told mum something, I forget what it was and she said: "I believe you".
I think she may be getting drowsy, from the pill or due to the fact she was up all night, guarding her purse from me and my pesky habit of stealing money from it, then replacing it.

Let's see: I get up at around 3 am to use the toilet near my room. Mum is standing in the living room, in the dark, fully clothed. She starts her paranoic patter at once. I mutter something and go back to bed. Now I can't go to sleep. I hear (or do I?) rustling, sounds, what the hell is she up to now? I drift in and out.
In the morning, around 6:30 I go to the bathroom, but not so fast. Mum intercepts me. She wants to know how I sneaked right under her nose and took 2500 NIS from her purse (the one featuring in some if not all of her pictures). I try to reason with her to no avail. A few minutes later she wants to know how I managed to sneak in there again and put the money back.
I go to dad with his newspaper en-route to the supermarket. On my return mum announces ahe doesn't want me to make her breakfast. And she won't eat the sliced bread I took out of the freezer last night (a way of life with her, been like that for years). And it's not even 9:00 am yet!

On the Brink

Still waiting for a light at the end of the tunnel. We were told today that if mum doesn't start taking the medication she may have to be hospitalised, willingly or otherwise. Mum is raging. She was up in the flat when the social services lady came over to try and sweet talk her into taking the tablet. Her friend Sara was there at the time to take her to a long awaited hair appointment. Social services vetoed it, as mum is too unpredictable at the moment. The rest of the day went like a game of cat and mouse. The house doctor goes looking for her upstairs, but she is down, sitting with dad, ranting. She turns up at the surgery, no result. Lea leaves her work in the middle of the day to help. Nothing. I threw around an idea: let dad leave the support clinic (he is so much better, he doesn't need the walker anymore, we had a lovely walk albeit at a slow pace using a cane, and really than for his shower he doesn't seem to need much help) and go back to the flat. Let them be together. Mum had her life pattern broken by this lengthy separation and this may be the cause for her acute state. Dad could get some help from the house, perhaps someone to come daily to help him shower (after I've gone back to London), Lea will make sure there's always fresh wholesome food in the flat, couldn't it help put the situation in control? Prof. Adonsky, clearly impatient on the phone, still tells me: "I think this is a good idea. I hadn't thought of it. Talk to the house doctor. If he calls me I will support your idea". The house doctor is strongly against it. He tells me: "If Prof. Adonski calls me I will discuss it with him". I am left frustrated.
In the late afternoon, after mum has been to every part of the building, and freaked out all in sight with her paranoic drivel, she is coerced into promising the doc she would take the tab. She doesn't. She then promises to take it, but in her own flat, not in surgery. Lea, mum, doc and I go upstairs. Mum, as expected starts to beat about the bush, avoiding the tab. The doc finally loses his patience and walks out. He then returns. "Let me see the sleeping pills you have". Mum (after a suitabley infuriating procrastination) shows him. He doesn't take them away, indeed he tells her that she can still go on using them at night. He leaves again. Lea tries to explain to mum that she has to take the tablet (left on the table by the doc). She hands the tiny cup containing it to mum. Mum takes it, waves it around as she gesticulates while going on about how everybody is now against her, the usual stuff, then places it back on the table. After an hour she starts to crack. She has managed meanwhile to briefly break down and sob, for the first time since I've been here, as far as I know. She finally pops the tab in her mouth, swigs from the water bottle she's been clutching all along (she won't take a cup of water from the cooler from anybody lest it is spiked). We almost collapse with exhaustion. I call dad in his room. "Dad, just to let you know, mum has taken the tab". He calls back after a minute or so. "Tell your mother I am sending her kisses". Mum says: "I know you are trying to kill me".
I ask Lea to stay for a very late lunch. I have now taken to heating all food while mum is around, so that she eats without fear I am "in it together with the rest of them". Everything is yesterday's leftovers, so it only need reheating, and soon we sit around the table, while the lettuce, apple and carrot soup, the beef stew, the basmati rice and the braised red cabbage are all dished up, and gobbled up, while my mum's conversation does not stop at any point. Later she seems to have fallen into deep sleep. Is it the tab? Or maybe she's tired, having slept badly the night before, and after a riotous day like today? Anyway, at around 7 pm the internal phone rings. It's dad. "Isn't mum up yet? I would like to see her". I call for her, then look in her room. She's gone. I go to the front door. It is just a crack ajar. Mum has sneaked out while I was on the computer, with my door wide open (and facing the front door), and so as not to make a sound she didn't close it behind her! I call dad back. He says: "Yes, I know. She's already here, bothering the clinic staff". I rush downstairs and find her pouring her heart out to one of the cleaners. I gently coax her to sit down at one of the dining room tables. She is full on. Ranting and raving, and I dispair. I talk to her, well, listen to her. The staff give us a wide berth. She says: "You must be pleased. They all think I'm crazy". I say "mum, I don't care what anybody think. I only care about you". No idea if any of this sinks in. I doubt it. Dad appears from around the hallway, with his walker, clearly not to upset her, as she refuses to accept that he is better and walks almost freely now. "We can sit in my room and talk" he pleads. "They've turned you against me too", she says. Dad says he will not sit and chat here. "You know where I am" he says and shuffles back.
She relents after the usual long pause when I try to reason with her we could just as well be sitting with dad in his room. Once there, I let them have their space and go back to the flat. Around 8:30 I return. Strange: mum is rather quiet and almost reasonable. Dad seems better too. Oh, well. Around 9 I help dad into his bed (he hardly needs my help, he is that much better), kiss him goodnight, let my mum take her leave and we silently (yes, silently) make our way back to the flat. I dish up some salads, I make mum a fried egg, we eat our light supper with little or no conversation. I find that she tends to spoil for a fight, so I only speak to her if absolutely necessary. Still, it all feels close to normality as we go over the shopping list for tomorrow. My worry now is: will she be as difficult tomorrow as she has been today. You see, she will have to go on taking that tablet daily, in a controlled environment (i.e. in front of health staff), for a long period, probably indefinitely. The effects would be noticable after several days, so she is likely to remain as disturbed as she is now for a while, and then there is the question of the drug having the desired effect, and minimal side-effects. There is no other way of knowing whether it is actually helpful or not.

Another Escape

Had to snap this: note the house numbers...


















Roey and his pride and joy





Brief mum update: after sending her, in her state, back and forth to the surgery (the general clinic in the main part of the building), because the doctor was called urgently to see a resident who had a fall, mum eventually saw him. For an hour and a half. Long story short, she refused to even touch the medication he tried to give her. I was out in Tel Aviv after lunch, with Roey and Mali, shopping for some wedding stuff, then a nice late lunch in "Nana" in South TLV.
Lea and Nir were here this evening. Mum was relatively calm. I wonder whether the meeting with the doctor has had some effect on her - perhaps she is grasping the gravity of her condition? Vain hope?

Another Day

Challenge for today: getting mum to see the house doctor. Social Services tell us she no longer trusts him, may refuse to take the medication. This could be disastrous.
Last night, after another unpleasant day I went out at 11:00 pm, Lea, Nir and I went to the Marina compound in Hertzeliya, and we were soon joined by Benny's boys Roey, Eran and Mali. Tried to steer the conversation away from reality, with partial success. I downed a Mas (1 litre) of Paulaner Weissbier, had something they call Bavarian Pretzel - actually grilled with cheese and ham, a welcome surprise, the other boys had smaller beers and the girls had Cosmopolitans. Hope they tasted ok - they looked almost grey to me.

Go? Stay?

Guy invited me to join some family members on a beach near Hadera. They meet up there around 5:30 pm. I am sorely tempted, but wary of not being within reach for my mum's next trick. So far she has joined dad and I downstairs after breakfast. Dad and I already had been out for a walk, quite a distance for him, and "mum needn't know" as she is openly sceptical of his improvement. "A hero all of a sudden. You must have given him something to make him believe he can take care of himself". She left us and went wondering for quite a while. I later found out she went to reception and started complaining that she was being bugged and photographed in the flat (or some such paranoic story). Upshot was they got a bit anxious and called the house social worker on the Saturday (she is off duty today). When dad and I passed the large patio door on the way to his room to fetch something (and to see if mum went there for some reason, as she was gone for a good half an hour) we noticed her talking to Eran, my nephew and a female who as it turned out was the social worker. She later told me what had happened. "She must receive psychiatric help", she said. I told her that we want her to see the house doctor, in the hope the medication perscribed for her by Adonski can be more acceptable to her if it came from the house doctor.
Other manifestations of paranoia: Mum accusing me of deliberately reorganising utensils in her kitchen cupboards so as to confuse her, and every time I'm on the phone - last one was with Guy - the plotting against her. I only hope that a: she takes the medication (and agrees to see the doctor in the first place) and b: that it has the desired effect. Otherwise I shudder to think what else can be done, and this crisis is not helping dad either.

Dad's First Outing

The runaway train that is mum's mind is gathering pace. I got a call on the internal phone to the apartment around 6:45 pm. It's dad from his room in the support clinic, to see when I'm coming down to get ready to take him over to Lea's. "In a while dad, I just woke up". "OK. Mum wants to talk to you". She is huffing and puffing. Let's have it then. "You think you can fool me but you can't, fancy writing 249 on the phone. I know you were speaking English with Lea and the doctors, trying to ..." and so on. I have no idea what she is talking about, but the pattern is familiar. The rest of the evening has the same note. She has called me a liar, and I keep breaking the cardinal rule of not rising to the challenge. I keep failing on that front all the time. Lea has prepared a lovely spread for Idan's 20. The family is there, and we keep getting those pitying looks from people. Mum grabs Nir's mum's attention, and that's it - all the rest can make good their escape, Talma is a gonner. Talma is great: she sits with mum, listens and indulges her. Mum babbles on, and it's not difficult to hear what she is whispering... Later my nephews (Benny's boys) and Mali arrive. I would rather they weren't made privy of the latest developments, because I fear benny might get wind of the news, and manipulate the situation, but it looks like it's not in our hands. Mum now has Eran's ear, and no further explanation is necessary.
















Left to right: Lea, dad, mum, Talma. Lea is bringing dad up to speed on mum's state, mum is lobbying Talma for sympathy

















Idan blowing a candle


















Mum and dad, posing (at her insistence).



I am on the thorns of a dilemma. Eran's batchelor's party is due next Saturday, and I already expressed my delight at the offer to be there. But now it has turned into a nightmare: remember the episode of King of Queens where Doug and Carey are invited verbally by some friends to their wedding, they accept effusively even though they are not that close, then the invitation arrives and it turns out the wedding is to be held some out of state, far away place. They now have to hatch all manner of plots to get out of it without looking well, uncool? No? Just me then. Anyway, similar situation if not worse. It is now to be a jaunt of 2 days, everybody have to bring some stuff for the BBQ, sleeping bags and flipping tents for goodness sake, and the only people I am likely to know there are Eran himself, Roey his brother, Benny, their dad, my brother (a major problem there, let's face it), Nir and Dor who are invited, but I believe as excited as I am. So, how do I handle this: do I use my function as carer to my dad (my duty of care to my mum is generally a failure except for the food I make for her) as an excuse? I have nothing else, although I know if I told Roey, who is organising the whole thing that I foresee friction if I am to spend any appreciable time with Benny (and right now my level of tolerance is at an all time low) he would fully understand. I think I'll go with the latter, but ask him not to quote the real reason so as not to offend... No real danger of Benny reading my blog, and if he does, I would consider it such a miracle, he deserves to know all there is to know.
The cooking storm I've reported earlier consisted of a stew I made with shin of beef, tons of vegetables, garlic, herbs and red wine, and an easy braised red cabbage and apple side dish. With the rest of the cabbage I made a quick cole slaw.
Enough. I think I've earned my glass of Goldstar.

A Day in the Kitchen

Actually, before we go any further, I must tell you, reader mine, why I gave one of my posts the title "That Poor Guy", then went rambling on anything but. Well, I was so furious by the end of that evening (foolishly thinking it could not get any worse), that a phone call from Guy (my friend and former flatmate in South London, who is in Israel, staying partly with his parents, not even 1/4 mile from where my parents live now) was more than welcome. I jumped at the offer to go out for a walk. You see where this is going? Yep! I poured my heart out to him, and he was just great: empathetic, and willing to let me go on. I did get told off however, for turning up in my Crocs. I hadn't realised by "out for a walk" he'd meant a brisk, envigorating exercise. Yeah, like that was gonna happen. We did walk around the quiet streets of Old Ramat Hasharon, officially a town, but in its heart still an old "moshava" - hard to explain, I guess it's a rural community, where nobody actually work the land anymore. We crossed a couple of small parks, dimly lit and almost deserted but for some youths hanging around, chatting (in London they'd be flashing knives, and you'd be lucky to get out alive), the sense of calm clashing with the turmoil raging in my head. We ended up in our regular place (been there twice). This time I would pass over some lovely iced tea or mineral water. I wanted hooch. I took a bottle of strong Belgian beer, and a large glass of gin. Guy was almost as reckless: he had a bottle of fruit flavoured mineral water! It should be noted he eschewed the glass placed in front of him and drank from the bottle. Who ever said the answer is never found at the bottom of a glass? I felt great after this drink. Wouldn't hesitate to recommend it to anyone. Well, not anyone obviously. And the answer is indeed never there. Still, I was cheered up by it, or rather by the company.
That will clear the mystery for my readership regarding the Poor Guy reference. As for today's developments, I shall be brief this time. Prof. Adonski, my parents old GP came at my sister's request to see my mum. We stayed out of sight so as not to appear involved, which could scare her off. He reported back to us after the meeting. Our fears were further confirmed (Adonski is a psycho-geriatric specialist) and he was firmly in favour of medication therapy, as she is largely uncommunicative. The meeting had gone well, she not only cooperated, she actively asked to have a word with him in private (he went to see dad on the pretext of an informal, friendly call, and mum was with him at the time). She repeated to him all her fears: we, especially Lea are plotting against her, we wish her dead so we can inherit her money, we're trying to poison her (her anti-insomnia tablets have been changed to generically identical drug, but one that is swallowed, unlike the usual one that can be dissolved in the mouth. She won't touch it). We now need to get her to see the house doctor, and we hope to find a way to make her consent to try a drug that would treat her mental state or put it under some control. That will have to wait till Sunday, as it's Friday afternoon now, and Israel shuts down till Sunday morning, the first day of the working week here.
This evening, with the doctor's dispensation, and against mum's protests, we are taking dad out to Lea's house for Idan's 20th birthday party. Watch this space.
Oh, and the kitchen reference? Thanks for asking: I have cooked up a storm in the kitchen today, is all...

Looking After Dad

Lea and I saw the house doctor earlier today. We discussed the situation, and it looks like mum would need some strong stuff - none of your namby-pamby anti-depressants, it will take the kind of drugs that require the signature of a psychiatrist. Their old family GP specialised in so-called psycho-geriatric case. He can't make it over to the house today. Could mum call at his office at 4 pm? "Certainly not! If he wants to see me he is welcome to come over. Making out like I'm a nutcase yet". We call him again. He will be over tomorrow noon. Let's hope she consents to see him, and agrees to take whatever he perscribes. Meanwhile the advice we are given is not to let all the accusations, the insults, even the rumour spreading get to us. "Don't argue, avoid confrontations as a top priority". Oh yeah?! So I serve her lunch ("late"), let her go on babbling, but I notice at the end of the meal she thanks me and says "it was delicious". I wish I could regard this as progress, but I am sceptical.

Post Script

Mum calm this morning. I was up early, and she had breakfast at 8 am. I had some food and went down with the newspaper to my dad. He too was at the breakfast table, looking as I expected him to look. He was tearful, struggling to say to me without breaking down: "I just want to know whether I still have a family or am I all alone". I reassured him. Mum joined us after a while. Entering, clinic staff seemed alert! She marched to the table, and with no 'good morning" or any pleasantry launched into "what's got into your head last night?" I told her to belt up or I would call the staff to remove her. Dad didn't want her with him, but on she stayed. I asked the nurses to keep an eye on things, and went back to the flat - the weekly visit from the cleaner was imminent, mum had already expressed her intention to remain in the apartment (that would mean a 2 hour session of her following the cleaner around, "helping", and the said cleaner subsequently never returning to the flat again). Lea has been downstairs, we are to see the house doctor prior to mum's appontment. He is already up to speed on the situation.

Wednesday, 03/09/2008

What fresh hell will tomorrow bring?
My sister Lea and B. in-law Nir have been a tower of strength for my parents. They tirelessly organised everything for them, ever since my dad took ill for the first time. Lea is now the effective administrator of all their financial affairs. Dad appointed her as legal executive of just about everything since I live abroad (and a bit thick to boot) and big brother Benny is a loud, useless bit of oh.. you get my drift, surely.
Our old house, not a mile away from the sheltered housing where they now live (and to reiterate, a five star facility they scrimped and saved for all their frugal lives), has been put up for sale. Too expensive to put right for the purpose of letting (which normally would have been the most prudent thing to do), it has been on the market for over 3 months. The whole affair was in the hands of Lea and Nir, and today, at both my parents consent, they called the estate agent to offer the prospective buyers a lower price in the hope it would move things along. It was below what they hoped to get, but seemed realistic, and now it is up to the buyers to make the next move. Lea, efficient as ever has brought some paperwork from the Land Registry, namely an owner consent to sell, which requires the signature of both owners, i.e. mum and dad. Now mum has been getting progressively worse on the mental health front. She has been using controlled drugs designed to treat depression, perscribed to dad, for years now (to no effect that I could tell). Lately she has started to resent Lea being in control (a position she has never abused, never even wanted) and despite all of Lea's work on their behalf she has started to voice some unpleasant opinions like "you're in control, you could do as you please, how am I to know what's going on with my money?" or "I know what's going on, you're trying to make a fool out of me" and so on. Lea was on the verge of chucking the whole thing in when she found from staff at the support clinic that my mum has started to tell them of her suspicions that Lea was "taking money from me". I calmed her down by telling her she should simply ignore whatever mum says, even hurtful accusations, and deal directly with dad, whether mum is present or not. Easier said than done. The four of them sit at dad's room, I go up to prepare our dinner. I finish everything, the table is set, and I call dad's room to summon mum up as pre-arranged. Lea picks up: "mum says she's not coming up". I sense another storm brewing. I go straight down to dad's room. Everybody is talking at once, what the hell's going on here? "Mum refuses to sign the owner consent to sell". "Why not? You've just agreed you were selling the house". My mum shrugs. "Well?" Nothing. Lea and Nir are exasperated and dad looks ashen! Mum just babbles as usual, the paranoid rap of how we must have brain-washed dad, we must have given him some drugs to make him seem so lively in recent days. Why, the doctors all agreed he was so ill, how come he is suddenly so srtong and confident?" She goes on from one conspiracy to the next, making no sense and worst of all, freely admitting she doesn't know why she is refusing to sign. Just refusing. "I know what's going on", she keeps repeating. "It's all in your hands" she tells Lea, "it's nothing to do with me". Voices rise and fall, but nothing works: she just sits there pouting like a little girl. Lea has had enough. "You've crossed the line mum". She hands her back dad's credit card (mum doesn't know how it works, remember), all the paperwork she has brought along. Nir, surely the most patient and tolerant person I know has also lost his patience. He tears up the estate agents calling card and places the pieces on the little table by my mum. "I wash my hands off the whole affair". I feel sorry and desparately anxious for my dad's well-being. I can look after him for a while, but what then? I can't stay here indefinitely. Even if (or when) he gets a live-in carer, my mum is going to torpedo it. I've seen her chasing away various domestic (and garden) help by just well, being herself. Lea, Nir and I leave the room to have a damage assessment talk, but we're too upset to actually think of anything. They go home, and I say "let's talk tomorrow". I return to the room. My mum starts saying something. I lose my temper with her like never before. "You shut up. I don't want to hear a word from you. You have just ruined the work of a lifetime for you and for dad." She starts to answer. "Not a word" I lunge at her. "You have said all there is to say". Each time she tries to talk I shout her out. I tell her to leave the room. "You can get your ass out of here. Go to the apartment, you've done enough damage here for one day". She is quiet, but won't leave. "Let her be" pleads dad, looking devastated. "I simply don't know what to do anymore", he says. My rage sort of under control for his sake, I do as he says. Later she tries to pipe out some banal stuff like "it's late for you, you should go to bed". I yell at her: "oh, you're really concerned about your husband are you?" After a while I say to him: "I am leaving the room for the two of you to talk. You have exactly 10 minutes. Then I want her out of here and I will put you to bed". I go and sit on the patio, my mind swirling with half-thoughts and confusion. A stray cat that has made the area its home comes sauntering and demands attention. I start teasing him, he walks up and down, rubbing his head against my hand, then gets more confident and jumps onto my lap. I just let him be, and he curls up, the reedy, wild looking animal, and purrs loudly as he stretches his claws and catches my t-shirt like he owns it, and I am his furniture. I savour the odd distraction.
But the 10 minutes are up. I get up and the tabby leaps off me reluctantly. I return to the room. My dad speaks: "Take all the paperwork, the credit card, give it back to Lea tomorrow and enough with all this nonsense. Your mother signed the form". My mum says: "Look, my hands are shaking". I do not even acknowledge her". She tries to tell me to do this or that for my dad. I snap: "I do not take directions from you". My dad begs me to take her up, to see that she has some dinner, and no "scenes". "I promise, dad". I send an SMS to Nir with 2 words: "She signed". Unsurprisingly there is no response. On the way back to the flat my mum makes her small talk: "That door leads to the lobby" and such statements of the obvious, perhaps to placate, or maybe she is really oblivious to what she had done this evening?
Back in the flat dinner is already on the table. Only cold plates so no problem there. There is my salad, a sardine dip, some store-bought humous, cheese, she asks for some smoked salmon and I go to the fridge, open a pack for her and bring her a slice. It's nearly 10 pm, at her age she has dinner very early, never later than 8 pm, so she is quite hungry. She eats well, we both do, but almost silently. She insists on washing up. I drink my beer.

"That Poor Guy"

There may my some progress ahead re: mum. The other day she sent me on an errand to ask at the clinic (the house one, for the healthy old folk, not the "Harmony" where dad is languishing) to get her two perscriptions for some drugs. Needless to say it didn't go smoothly from the off. I insisted on seeing the original packaging or perscriptions, she dodged it but eventually yielded. Of course, she totally mispronounced the names of the drugs (in fairness they would have known what I wanted but if they were professional they would refuse to perscribe medication freely anyway. I noticed that one of the packages bore a printed perscription on it, made up for my dad. I knew it was an anti-depression drug he was given in recent years, to stop him from getting over-emotional at the very mention of the Jewish Holocaust - and both mum and dad are Holocaust survivors, so the trauma is with them every day, every moment of their lives, and by association with us all. From the comfortable distance of London I have voiced an objection to the treatment. I argued that the drug was not for the benefit of dad, but to eliminate the awkward embarrassment of the family, having to witness an elderly man, once an officer in the IDF, a proud Nation Builder, reduced to sobbing in public. Nevertheless, he started using the drug and it did help, so he had a "brilliant" idea, and he stocked up on it, and made my mum take it too, to help her with her own psychosis. Well, would you believe it? It had no effect whatsoever. Yet she has been taking that drug for years now, obtaining it without ever having been seen by a physician or a psychologist on the subject of her mental state. I was about to start arguing against this escapade (knowing she could not do too much about it, as she still can't bring herself to pick up the phone and call any of the services within the building, all internal and therefore free calls, all services that have been paid for, all by courteous, efficient staff - "dad deals with everything") but decided against it, wrote down the names of the two drugs and went down to the clinic. I was insrtucted to see the receptionist. you tell her what you (or your mother in my case) want, then return to collect the perscription. The drugs can then be collected from the local Health Centre in person, or if required there is a nice fellow who goes there from the house and bring back people's drugs, then delivers them to their own apartment door. "Over my dead body. They charge 10 INS for every delivery!" (about 1.30 quid or $2.50).
The receptionint at the clinic was pleasant. She (and almost all staff in the house) is fully aware of my "special" mother, but they are perfectly nice, indulgent even, whether out of sense of duty or through experience. The next day, however (yesterday, Tuesday) she asked me if I could bring the written request again, and that the house doctor is reluctant to perscribe such medication without seeing the patient first. Would my mum be able to see him Thursday at 12:30 pm? I set-up the appointment and went about giving mum the news.
It took some talking, discussing, debating, arguing, voice-raising, screaming (nah... just kidding! It went well, relatively, and we'll just wait and see tomorrow).
Lots of other things happened too. If only I could remember what they were...

Kayak Yok

This evening ended on a high note: I walked with my dad from the support clinic to the main building, where they had a lecture in the "C Major Hall" (everything here is music themed. The clinic is "Harmony" Section for example), "The Middle East in the Modern Era". My mum was fiercely against my taking dad there, for no rational reason (clinic staff as well as "normal" staff were fine with it). Just against it, pouting and hissing, lobbying friends and anyone who'd listen to what she has to put up with. But I just told dad to raise himself from his chair, position his walker, release the brakes, and off we went. Mum refused to join him for the lecture, and stayed behind in his room with another resident in the main part of the building, Carmella, who used to live right across the street from us in the old house. The lecture turned out to be fascinating, centering on the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire ("the Ossman Empire, our youngish lecturer said emphatically - Ottoman is a non-existent term, made up by the Europeans, or rather the British. You are to expunge it from your lexicon"). The lecture lasted (as they always do here) exactly one hour. Dad was beside himself with pleasure. He enjoyed the lecture itself (I must admit I did too), and getting away from f*****g "Harmony" did him a world of good. I said I'd bet mum will be still in the room, waiting up on us. She wasn't. Dad said I'd lost my bet, but in she walks, face like thunder, a woman defied. "He's probably tired beyond belief" she says. "Why don't you ask him, he's right here". "Yeah, yeah, you and your clever answers for everything".
Earlier today I woke up at Racheli's house. I had settled down in the computer room, lower floor, level with the patio where we sat last night. It must have been partly dug out as an afterthought for the original house, because the bottom half of the back wall is raw rock, giving the room a starnge cave-like look. Also, there is no direct passage to the rest of the house, you have to walk around the side along the path to the front porch to enter. The front porch is where we had our breakfast: strong black coffee, prepared the Beduin way in a small pot, allowed to almost boil over several times then poured, already sweetened (before I could protest I never sweeten mine, in any style). Still, delicious! We then went to the beach, Racheli got ready for her kayak rowing, my turn would come at 10 or 10:30 am, and it would take an initial introduction/induction session, then a rowing session with the next group or one on one with one of the instructors, possibly Hadas, a giggly, freckled girl with two sun bleached plaits. She is tougher than you'd think, "she rowed her kayak around Japan last year" Racheli tells me. "Around, sorry, did you say..." "Japan", Racheli removes all doubt, "you know, the country, made up of islands". It took 6 months, legend has it. I snap the club members setting off to sea, due south towards the coal powered power station, a massive complex with 3 stacks, said to be the tallest structures of that type in the Middle East. Not much, indeed any smoke visible. Very efficient filteration system, apparently.














I realised I have forgotten to pack my swimming suit. I decided to wade in in my shorts. The water is like a tepid bath, utterly pleasant. How I love the Med!
I got bored, and started walking north along the beach, till I reached the Roman ruins of Caesaria.
















Snap, snap, then back to meet up with the brave sea-farers as they come back to shore. I then got a bit restless, and decided to forgo my introduction to the world of rowing, for today at any rate. An associate of R. turned up to collect some research work she had completed for his company (R. is a marine biologist, Dr. Racheli if you please). We went for a beer in a beach café, no hurry because he is driving to Hertzeliya afterwards, and is happy to give me a lift right to the train station, where I'd left dad's car yesterday evening.

Got Away!

Through the day I've been in contact with Racheli, a school pal, with whom I studied some of the elementary, and a couple of the intermediary (high) school years. We remained close friends over the years, with various degrees of actually keeping in touch, but in recent years we really got closer. Well, I am now at her charming, and chaotic house in Zikhron Yaakov, on the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, just south of Haifa. We just had a light supper on the porch, by the garden, lush with herb plants, some citrus fruit trees, peaceful, quiet part of the world. Magic. We reminisce about Zehava Germann, our old headmistress, now at the support clinic where my dad is staying, we talk about what ails us, our parents (always), and our plan for tomorrow. We are going to the beach, to introduce me to kayak rowing. Racheli has recently taken it up following a painful foot surgery as this was just about the only type of exercise she could take that doesn't impact her sore foot. I got here by leaving dad's car at Hertzeliya Station, then took a train going north to Binyamina. Racheli picked me up from the station, and we took a scenic route over some dirt roads through vineyards and orchards - too bad it was totally dark so we couldn't see much, but I'm sure it's all beautiful. Till tomorrow then!

Came for the Treatment, Stayed for the Laughs

The support clinic is its own microcosm. This is not lost on my dad, and he doesn't care for it. Once you're a familiar face, you are a part of this universe, a permanent case. True, most residents (or guests) seem to be worse off than him. He refers to them as sad, tragic cases, "not normal people, with normal life, not like me". His companion at the table in the dining room is a man in a wheelchair, to whom everyone refers as "the professor". He sits at the head of the table, arranging his "things". These are a magnifying glass, a magazine, usually Time or New Scientist, some press cuttings with an article he had published in the past, a thick, large medal which he moves around absently and uses as paperweight, a pair of sunglasses, never worn, never removed from the table, and a wicker basket for miscellaneous items, scrap paper etc. "The professor likes to find his things just the way he left them", tells me one of the staff. You can glimpse The Professor's corner at the table in one of the pictures here, the one showing my dad chatting with another man at the table. The professor has a bit of a temper, and he barks his demands of the staff without resorting to any pleasantries. "I want tea. No, put it here. I am going now. My girlfriend is at the next table. Bring my tea over" and so on. I amuse him by saying he won't get far calling on his lady friend with empty hands. No flowers? By George, he really rolled up and sidled up to a female resident the next table. Gosh!
Mrs. Germann is always there, reading the broadsheets mostly solitarily at her table. She scans the room with a severe, disapproving look (or is it me?). She can be heard occasionally being argumentative with staff, and I thought I heard her snap: "What for?" to a younger female visitor who said to her: "We'll come and see you tomorrow", but I suppose she may have been trying to be considerate and demure. Some residents are severely immobile, and at least a couple of ladies there have an advanced form of dementia. Dad hates being technically in the same condition: "care dependent". "I am most certainly not!" he hotly contests. I don't fully agree, but I am glad he feels that way.
Another gentleman, a soft-spoken, smart fellow, around my dad's age, comes from his flat up in the main building to see his wife, who is confined to a wheelchair, and has no mobility at all. He embraces her gently and kisses her cheek. "Mi amor", he says tenderly. He talks to her, and feeds her. She is unable to response or even show facial expression, yet other people there who are not visited as often look on in some envy.
On the maternal front still no change. In her defence I am very firm with her, and when she starts babbling I cut her short unceremoniously. When she's uncooperative to the point of being disruptive I "correct" her, and there she was, thinking her blue-eyed boy was coming over to be at her beck and call, no questions. Not so. At some point I said to her: I am not here for you or your whims, I am here for dad. So you see, it's not as though I am completely innocent. But hey, this is my blog, right? She can write her own if she likes. Still every meal, with no exception is greeted with no thanks or acknowledgment, but today during lunch (I made sweet potato soup for a starter) she commented it was hot (ok), could have been thicker had I cooked some kinoa in it. Another mantra of hers: "It's healthy" in Hebrew: "Zeh barri". Go on, say it, but roll your "R"s. Personally I'd like to kick hers. Then the chicken (yesterday's fare, reheated. In best tradition I made way too much) and the potatoes were too hot, or too cold, I forget. She got a rude "Just shut up and eat your food". Gawd, it felt good!

Headmistress

I was taken aback when we got back from the Meir Hospital to the support clinic at the sheltered housing, because my sister pointed out the room opposite our waiting area. The door bore a ceramic plaque with the name Germann, Zehava. That's our elementary school headmistress, isn't it? Between 1961 and 1965 it was my school. The lady in charge was a formidable matron, held in awe by all. She was a tough, strict womwn. My memories of her were not fond ones. I remember being sent out of class once over some misunderstanding. Feeling wronged, I hissed under my breath without actually saying something, and the teacher thought I had used some obscenity. She suspended me from school, summoned my parents, I was grounded for a while, and through it all I wasn't told what I was (presumed to be) guilty of. I forget, or perhaps never found out how it was resolved, but I did have to go to Mrs. Germann's office to plead my innocence soon after my mum finally mustered the courage to repeat to me the offending words I was accused of uttering. It was a scary, unpleasant experience, but not the worst one. That was after I dressed up as a girl for the festival of Purim, at the age of 10 or 11 (my school friend's sister dressed me up, and I was assured it was just great). I thought it all went well at the school party, but a day or two later I was naughty - talking at class, and for some reason the headmistress was asked to come along. She stood me up in front of the class and declared that to dress up as a woman might be all right for him, but that didn't mean he ought to chatter on like a woman at class or generally in life. I could feel my face burning with the humilliation. I hated her for it. I was glad we were to move to another part of the country, so I would go to another school.
Now, old and frail, she resides at the clinic, uses a wheelchair but otherwise seems to have all her faculties. And the years haven't dulled that gimlet-like stare in her eyes. She gazed upon me at some point, and I thought, for a split-second "oh, no, am I in trouble again?". You know, it took me two days to psyche myself up to speak to her, and then in the company of a friend of my mother's, a girl who was a few years above me at the same school, who came to visit. Mrs. Germann couldn't remember who I was. I would have felt relieved if that happened 37 years ago, but now I felt awful for not dwelling a little longer.

Today's Post Script or You Have to Break Eggs to Make an Omelette

Just now, after saying goodnight to my dad mum and I went up, and I had a nice arab-style salad with tahini sauce, omelette with fried red onion, toasted cheese sandwiches... She first said: I could have enjoyed a hard-boiled egg. I said: well, an omelette is what I'm making. Then, at the table when I served the omelette she said: Couldn't you have made fried eggs? This time I was firm with La Fille mal gardée, and I said: You eat what's on your plate and say thank you or ask me to take it away. And next time you can ask for something if you want it, not wait till it's too late. She shut up, thank God (and again, no thank you, no comment on the food, but no negative criticism, so I guess we can call it a marked improvement).
Now I am too tired to go out!
Dad is to be seen by a doctor tomorrow... Mum isn't. Can I?

Saturday Delight

The usual scenario: I cut a simple salad, make toasted cheese sandwiches and set some dairy products for breakfast. I also serve Mathias fillets cut in small strips (mum: "salty. Sara gets me better ones from the market"). My "bon appetit" is met with the usual silence (I have resisted commenting on it so far), and the only conversation I get is something negative. "Why cut it this way? I don't like this type of yoghurt, I always take that one". Throughout my life I was taught by that same person I should never fail to thank her for every meal, and woe betide he who failed to praise it over-enthusiastically (a practice she always found vulgar with all others who indulged with it). After breakfast: "I'll wash it up". Sure.
While she is down with dad I prepare and roast some potatoes with whole cloves of garlic, onions and a blend of olive oil, honey, mustard and other spices. Later I fetch her so dad can have his lunch with the professor. I reheat some of yesterday's chicken paprika on a low heat. She adjusts it. I turn the oven on again to give the potatoes a final boost. "What for?" I serve it up. "Bon appetit". Nothing. She gobbles her food. "It's hot (as in spicey). What have you put in it that it's so hot?" I forget there's some English mustard powder in it, although very little and I certainly do not feel too much spice. Again no thanks forthcoming. Now what to do with the left-overs. I say "leave it in the dish, it can cool off in the oven". "Not a good idea, the oven is still hot" she contradicts me. I know she is right but my feathers have already been ruffled. "So leave it out of the oven covered with some foil". "No, transfer it to another dish" (a habit of a lifetime with her, forever moving left-over food from one container to a smaller one as the quantity diminishes over several days of same fare at the table. Now I too rarely cook an amount for just one meal, damn it!). "Tell you what, mum. You do whatever you want with the potatoes. But don't tell me to do it. You want it your way? No problem. Your way it is. But I'm damned if I'm going to do it for you". "You'd rather I didn't speak at all" she starts yet another long, monotonous soliloquy. I close the door behind me and go to see dad. Lea calls. Among other things she mentions she had just spoken to mum, and asked her whether she had eaten lunch yet. Mum's response was as it has been throughout my stay here. Evasive and dismissive. "I had whatever Moshe gave me". "What was it?" "Oh, I don't know".

Kabalat Shabat? No!!!

Dad meeting a long lost friend at the support clinic. The Professor is on the right (out of shot, but not his knicks knacks)
















Kabalat Shabat. Mum and dad in front, dad reading the song-sheet. Behind them - Idan and girlfriend Anat, playing furtively with his iPod Touch (yeah, I know!). Sitting on bar-stool at back: Dor.
















Kabalat Shabat in full swing.




Today mum has been calmer than usual. That is to say relatively calmer. One highlight was her objection to walking dad from the support clinic to the main lobby of the building to attend Kabalat Shabat, held at 6:00 pm every Friday. He had already missed out on this personal favourite 3 or 4 times while ill, so I was all for it. In the morning I go down to see him, and after breakfast when the room is being cleaned we step out of the patio door, dad sits and reads his paper, and it's all warm and pleasant. We walk a little bit more and I tell him to start picking up his feet a little. I think he is not trying too hard... Of course the truth is he tires very rapidly, so after a few steps he will stop, pretending something to his left or right has caught his attention and he must study it well before moving on. In the early evening I take mum down to dad, along with her friend Haya. Mum starts to protest against taking dad to Kabalat Shabat: "I was told it's absolutely forbidden to do that, on my life" she gushes breathlessly. I refute this load of nonsense. She leaves the room to ask the nurses just to prove her point, returns triumphantly and declares; "See? They told me the exact same thing. On my life!" (You hear that expression a lot around here). I go to see the head nurse. Mum had spoken to some young nurse (well, staff in a white coat) who helps residents in the more menial tasks. She is unclear about what that lady wanted of her. I speak to Hassan (who is a head nurse but dubbed "doctor" by some of the nurses). No problem. Back to the room. Mum protests, her voice rises: "They did. They told me it is strictly forbidden for him to get out of bed without help", she vainly tries to bamboozle us.
We are joined (mercifully after that last scene) by Lea's two boys - Dor and the older Idan, with his girlfriend Anat. Off we go to Kabalat shabat. One of the boys takes the few stairs half-level down to the ground floor to send the lift up to level 0 - the call button doesn't work on level 0, by design. The lift doors are held open for the entire party to enter. We are such a herd of sheep - why the hell do all of us have to take the lift - even the one who popped down to call it in the first place, just to descend back to the same level? We slowly arrive at the lobby, arrange comfy armchairs for mum and dad and sit around and behind them.
This event is popular in this community, and it is well-attended. The social strata here is of mainly well off people, and it shows. Mum has always felt out of it among them, never knowing what to say, other than on the subject of food and health-scares, never quite up with the others on fashion - they always looked effortlessly stylish, while she always had (still has) clothes with an unclear, sometimes downright suspicious origin or age. Mum forces smiles in all directions, they sit down, some people come by to greet them. They know a few of the residents, and fewer still former neighbours or acquaintances. The Soirée is conducted by the lady in charge of "culture". There is a young female on the keyboard with an older gentleman with her, they both sing some Sabbath related Songs of Praise, some of whom I recall from my childhood. My dad looks at his song sheet earnestly, but Idan whispers to me he thinks he is looking at the wrong page... There are some short speeches: this lady is celebrating her birthday, and she will light the Sabbath candles. Another will read this week's chapter from the Torah and deliver a brief sermon (my mum could never do that). Some new residents are made welcome. Applause. Some other lady reads a poem. The old folk here are lapping it all up. I don't care much for the content but the company and the human interaction as well as the sense of occasion and continuity must be great for them. Certainly dad loves every second of it, and doesn't give a damn about being late for dinner. The residents, temporary or permanent of the support clinic, on the other hand get a misrable little party, and dinner is served at 6:30 pm so not a lot of fun there. I nip up half way through Kabalat Shabat to ask the staff to keep my dad's dinner, as he will be a little late.
Our visitors leave after the Kabalat Shabat. My brother Benny and his partner Noga come to visit later in the evening. Benny keeps finding fault with almost everything he casts his eye on. "The maintainance here is beneath contempt" he cheers dad up. I have to admit there are some problems under the glossy surface, but generally this is a superb facility (I think).
Final part of the day is when we return to the apartment. Benny's boys, nephew Roey and his older brother Eran, with his betrothed Mali are here. They have missed their grandad by a few minutes, but he would have been a bit tired for more company anyway. We all file in, and I excuse myself as I quickly prepare some light supper for mum and I. That over, I get on to the business of refreshments, with Roey's assistance, and we are presented with Mali and Eran's wedding invitation. The envelope reads "Grandpa, Grandma and Moshe", So, it has come to this. I, a (nearly) 55 year old man, living with his parents. Compared to this description, Cliff (remember "Cheers"?) is a personal success story.
Evening over, I reward myself with a stiff drink. I find in the sideboard a small half-bottle of whisky. Must have been there for ages because it takes a few attempts to turn the screwtop and snap it open! Still, the hooch is good.
I forgot to mention that I also managed to do a spot of shopping with my sister before lunch. That gave me the opportunity to be in the flat on my own afterwards, so I could cook undisturbed for a while. I made my chicken paprika. Mum samples it (came back way too soon): "dry". Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Thursday, 28/08/2008

As arranged yesterday, I am up at around 6 am, and being a good son (such as I am), I start making salad for my mum's breakfast. I will be gone till noon possibly, and God knows she's not going to make any breakfast for herself. Mum appears, shuffling half asleep to the kitchen. "What are you making a salad for, and so early yet?" It's for your breakfast mum, I reply. I leave early enough to reach my sister's place at 7 am, she is already outside, waiting.
We arrive early at the hospital, so Lea goes up, and I go on to fill-up the car and put it through the car wash. Then the hand-finish. My guy is a chatty Russian immigratnt. "I have 5 kids", he boasts. His chat goes on to the mystery that is gripping Israel at the moment (and is relished by the sensation-hungry tabloids): the disappearance of a little tot called Rose. Now, you pay for the hand-finish in advance, and I am not familiar with this particular rite of passage. I later find out that the dirty look I got from the guy was for not leaving a tip. I'll know next time.
The transfer of dad to his own car goes smoothly, and before you know it we are at the home. Not to the 2nd floor apartment, but to the support clinic, where he must stay for a (short?) while. We arrive around 11:00 to find the old folk in the clinic sitting around the dining area, an accordion player, a man of some 50 years, with protruding front teeth, frozen in a permanent smile, sporting a rich auburn rug on top of his head, belting out old Israeli folk songs, while one of the nurses, a solid, broad shouldered lass with long, wavy dark hair skips around the audience constantly banging a little tambour. We sit at a slightly more remote corner, but it seems to adt like a vox box, intensifying the shrill sounds so we cannot hear one another. The jolly nurse comes bounding over: "Hello luvvie, welcome to our little party" she trills, still banging her nefarious instrument in time with each word. Some more small talk follows, each word of which stressed with a jangley bang. I feel the onset of joy rage looming, so I go to find someone who will acknowledge our arrival in some useful way. Head of team comes to the rescue, and dad is finally shown his new room - a large bedroom, two beds but he is to be sole occupant, big, well equipped bathroom, the bed, unlike the hospital one proves comfortable. Dad, tired after his day of activities, nods off, and he is fast asleep till late afternoon. My sister and I return from Belinson Hospital (where I was born, oh so many years ago), where we met with head of Chest, Heart & Lung Ward, who had seen dad a few days ago, to consider treatment options. No radical news there, but he says we needn't "slam the door" on the surgical option, let's look at it in a while, in the light of dad's recovery. We force our mum to go into the home's dining room to have lunch. As with everything else, ever, it is a struggle against monumental resistance. My niece volunteers to sit with her. She melts, even offers to buy Adi lunch. Later of course we find that she couldn't quite go along with this outrageous extravagance fully, so she kept going back to the salad bar, while the main course she only nibbled on, and... you've guessed it - had the rest wrapped-up to go. So now it languishes in the refrigirator, still along the leftovers from the previous day, brought back from the restaurant by the hospital.
Lea, Adi and I go to a "noodle" restaurant in town. It's now 3:00 pm and I realise I haven't eaten all day. Really I ought to be thin. We have a fantastic late lunch, then we split - I go back to the home, Lea and Adi back to theirs.
My mother is having great difficulty learning how to make her way from the apartment to dad's room, and forget about comprehending how to phone him direct - there is a cellular phone with him, and the room's landline. She is too technophobic to even listen to voice messages on any phone, let alone respond, delete or save them. To make matters worse, the home is deliberately designed so that the support clinic is separate from the main section. To reach it from the main building one has to use the goods lift, which is in a slightly different location to the "proper" ones, and go to floor 0. Enough to confuse my mum. To go back it's even worse: that same lift cannot be called to floor 0, one has to operate a fire door by pressing a button on the side to release the lock, then push a cross-bar on the door, go through it, go down some stairs one landing down - this is in fact the ground floor, call the lift there, or go out of one of the two (very similar looking) fire doors into the lobby, then take the lift they are used to, and ride up to the 2nd floor. For my mum (and many others, I hasten to add) this is like taking a walk in a minefield. So far she got lost each time she attempted to make the journey.
In the apartment I find that the salad I made for her this morning was left untouched. It's clear to me she had not eaten today till she was frog-marched to take lunch. When I get back to my dad's room I open the door (it's late afternoon now) to find mum sitting on the bed opposite him, just guarding him loyally. He is still asleep. She launches straight into one of her tirades, like she is continuing an on-going conversation, how he is asleep too much, won't sleep at night, plenty of "oy veys" thrown in, the usual broadcast. Eventually I show her very plainly and carefully how to wind her way home, and all is calm again. Later in the evening my brother arrives, Nir and nephew Idan arrive too, proudly carrying their helmets, having travelled on the legendary Honda Gold Dream.
Dad has had a little accident - he wet his tracksuit bottom, and the bed. I know that the stubborn old goat wouldn't ring the call-button by his bed till it was too late. Orderly comes to take him to the shower. I put the pant in a carrier bag to take upstairs later.
Mum greets me at the flat with a rant about how she cannot just pop down at any given moment: "I have to take this suppository (gee, thanks mum, needed to know that!) and I could be caught short at any given moment". I lose it: "What's all this shouting? what does it have to do with anything?" She doesn't want to use the toilet in dad's room. "Why not?" "What if dad needs it suddenly?" "So, you can't really see him at all, right?" "Aw, aren't you the clever one!".
"Mum, do you have any dark coloured washing to do?" I ask. A flurry of items start to fly out of drawers. "Do these run? Are you sure you know which temperature? What else do you think you can wash with this? You'll mess it all up. I don't want you to wash my stuff".
After I escort her back to dad's room (quicker that way) I go back up, sort out my own washing, and run a half-load. By the time she returns, unassisted this time, it is all done, clothes hanging to dry. She says nothing. I am too edgy to start any conversation with her, when she asks me who that salad in the fridge is for. I go slightly crazy! "I didn't know it was for me, or for breakfast", she pleads. I remind her what my very words were, in answer to her own question that same morning, while I was actually making it. I resolve to vent my spleen on the first unsuspecting victim. Today, dear reader, it is you.