Out My Window

The Further Adventures of Bijou the Cat

Dear Reader

I apologise for the long absence. I have been flying back and forth from Paris to New Jersey in order to be of support to my Uncle Stan and my cousin, Joan. I say support because Joan has done the lion’s share of the work to get Stan moved into Skilled Nursing and packing up, cleaning out and closing up his 2 bedroom apartment. I was there for the final week of closing down the apartment. Anyone who flies a lot across the ‘pond’ knows that going up and down, crossing time zones really does take a lot out of you. So although I’ve had many ideas for my blog, I just didn’t have the energy to do anything with my ideas.

Until last night. When Bijou disappeared for about four hours. As the old Joni Mitchell song goes: “You don’t know what you have till it’s gone,” I thought my heart would stop a couple of times.

So I’ll back up. The sun has been shining in Paris. The temperature has gone up. For three days, it has felt Spring like–although many of us feel too superstitious to actually say Spring has come to Paris. As I’ve reported in an earlier blog, I have a huge terrace. It is a third room that is mostly accessible in warm weather. There are two large sliding glass doors in both the Living Room and the Bedroom. That is my access to my terrace. Yesterday, I had both doors completely open and was inspecting all the plants that I’d put on the terrace last summer and fall. Bijou followed me in and out. She is a very social cat and likes to be around people. Where I go she goes and makes herself comfortable. If there happen to be pigeons or other flying objects near the terrace, she will sit on the couch or perch herself on the outside table and chatter away as only a cat can do. This is not meowing for you non-cat people. This is a true chatter. The sound is like a far away typewriter going at full speed.

Bijou not sure she likes being photographed

After six plus months in this apartment, Bijou knows not to jump up on the terrace guardrail. When we first moved here, she would jump up and discovering it was six inches across, go walking along happy as can be. She would visit the next door neighbour’s terrace and come running back when she heard the fear in my voice as I called for her.

I don’t want her on the terrace guardrail. I don’t trust in her sense of balance and assume there is a reason for the saying “A cat has nine lives.” When I can’t find her, the first thing I do is look down eight flights to the courtyard below to see if there is cat splatted on the concrete.

Last night, I was catching up on e-mails (for some reason, I think it is actually possible to catch up! Silly me). I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen Bijou in an hour or two. I closed the living room doors and went from room to room looking for her. I couldn’t find her in any of her preferred sleeping places. I stood outside on the terrace and called her name. She usually comes running when I call her. She is under the impression I might feed her. Nothing, no sign of her. I told myself to calm down, she would show up. I turned on the TV and watched a BBC mystery in hopes that my mind would not obsess on where she wasn’t.

Thirty minutes went by. I did my rounds of the apartment again and stood on the terrace again calling her name. Nothing. I watched another half hour of TV. Did the rounds again, this time, I pulled out some wet food that she absolutely adores. I don’t give it to her as a rule because she then will go on strike and not eat her regular dry food. As I tore open the envelope of food, the smell seemed to fill the apartment and the terrace. I walked to the dividing wall between me and my neighbour, calling her name and holding the smelly wet food towards his terrace. Nothing.

I looked down into the courtyard again. It was dark. So I took the elevator to the RDC, went out into the courtyard, climbed up into the garden and called her name. Maybe it’s true. That cats can fall and land on their feet. I was walking on dirt not concrete so I guess anything is possible. Nothing. I peered into the next door courtyard trying to catch a glimpse of the concrete to see if there was a cat. Nothing.

Up the elevator I went trying not to cry. I was sure this time I had really lost her. Anyone who has followed the escapades of Bijou knows she was especially precocious as a kitten. When she turned 18 months old, she turned from her “monster” self into a very sweet kitten. When she stayed with my friend, Melinda, during my California trip and surgery, she gave that family some heart stopping moments. I haven’t had to worry about her since it turned cold in November and I have had the doors only cracked open for air.

I opened and shut every closet door calling her name. I closed all my bureau drawers, found my flashlight and looked three and four times in the exact same place. There are just moments when the mind will not take in information. I find myself repeating an action over and over until finally acceptance moves me to some other action.

Three hours went by while I tried not to give in to the thought that this time was really it. I had really lost her. While I tried to get interested in something else and give my mind a rest from it’s end of the world scenarios.

Around 11:30pm, I was stepping out onto the terrace from my bedroom when I heard a tiny ‘meow’ from far away. I ran to the dividing wall calling her name. Nothing. I came back to the doors one foot in and one foot out on the terrace. Where was the ‘meow’ coming from? Was I going to have to wake up a neighbour I’ve never met because somehow Bijou managed to get herself into another apartment. I heard the ‘meow’ again.

I pulled open one of the bureau drawers that I’d slammed shut while I was so nerve wracked. I saw a tail. I called her name but nothing happened. I took everything out of the drawer and out came Bijou. She didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. She had gotten stuck behind the chest of drawers when I shut the drawer. I was so happy to see her I gave her the entire envelope of wet food.

Jonquils: a sure sign that Spring has arrived

When a tourist comes to Paris, one of the first things they see are the millions of postcards, greeting cards, trinkets, etc of cats on Parisian roofs, cats in front of beautiful doors, cats with their tails wound into a heart. Parisian cats! It’s almost as emblematic as the Eiffel Tower. If I really wanted to scare myself, I could spend some time wondering how those cats got on the roofs, whose cat exactly is in front of the door. But I won’t do that. I do think I’m in for a long Spring/Summer wondering how many escapades I’m going to be dealing with as Bijou drums up more things for me to write about.

A bientôt,

Sara

More snow

Paris woke up this morning to the most snow, 15cm, since 1987. Here are photos taken by different people of the morning of February 7, 2018

IMG_0343 2.jpg — Last night from my terrace

7278aff22e8488160463dc00c7177660d6771f727a8bde4cdfb8d093348d6163.jpg — Skiing at Sacre Coeur

ac74992ab8708266f6b35bd92b009079d9718a2179887705680815d5c187271a.jpg — Champs de Mars

Let It Snow!

Today is the second day of snow in Paris. Today it is sticking to trees, to plant life and bushes, roof tops and bus stops. It is glorious.

When I was a young college student, there would always be snow in winter here in Paris. Six inches to eighteen inches. Then and now, it is other-worldly. Men with roasters and large platters of roasted chestnuts would stand at the end of any of Paris’s many bridges. They would take a page of newsprint, double it over then roll it into a cone. Into the cone would plop fifteen or so hot chestnuts. Holding them would be warmer than your glove. Imagine a twenty year old American girl who loved to daydream crossing the river Seine, hot chestnuts in hand, snow flurries adhering the fantasy daydream.

Today, I have to go to one of the many French administrative offices to deal with my impots d’habitation. I don’t believe we have a tax for renters in the US. They are similar to what cities require hotels to tack on to our bills (and now, of course, AirBnB has to do the same thing). I could take the metro and be warmer or I could walk a little further and catch the 63 bus. I’ve been here four years and three months. I haven’t seen snow in Paris until today. This choice is a no brainer.

It is very grey and the closer the bus gets to the river, the less the snow is sticking. The Eiffel Tower was large and dark in the grey sky. The bus moves through the city easily. There isn’t much traffic today.

I thought perhaps I was the only one enchanted by the snow falling. I hear it has mucked up traffic outside of Paris and tourists cannot take any boat rides on the river because of the flooding. At least they could walk around all day. Probably not today unless they want to get very cold and very wet.

I met my friend, Fatiha, at St. Sulpice where my administrative office is. She assured me that I was not alone. She loved the snow. Just not enough to walk outside a lot. When I arrived home, I was very wet and very cold.

One of the Wallace Fountains — Wallace fountains are public drinking fountains designed by Charles-Auguste Lebourg that appear in the form of small cast-iron sculptures scattered throughout the city of Paris, France, mainly along the most-frequented sidewalks. They are named after the Englishman Richard Wallace, who financed their construction.

A bientôt,

Sara

Two Books

Two books have come to my attention lately. Both are about a boy growing up below the poverty line and getting far enough away to write about it. Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance is his chronicle of being raised by an alcoholic mother and his grandparents in Appalachia. The blurb on the front of the book says it is a ‘must read’ in order to understand Trump’s America. The End of Eddy (En finir avec Eddy Belleguele) by Edouard Louis is the memoir/novel of a young man growing up gay in Hallencourt, France and “has sparked debate on social inequality, sexuality and violence.” Quote from the back of the English translation.

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My book group chose Hillbilly Elegy as the January book. I don’t think anyone in the group accused it of being good writing. However, most of us thought of it as extremely educational. I, personally, am one of those people who has been going around confused and baffled as to how Trump won the presidency. Russian collusion aside, what was his appeal? He was clearly a liar, a womaniser and a supremicist. Yet, when those who voted for him were asked why, they said “We know he is all of those things but he speaks for us and we are willing to overlook those details” Vance’s book helped me to understand who those people are and why they hated Obama not to mention liberal white people like me. Trump’s way of talking and being wasn’t offensive because that is the way most everyone in Appalachia and working class White American talks.

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Reading Hillbilly Elegy was an easy read. I never felt brought into his world but I got to know the people in his world. He described it–one in which the violence of his grandmother and the Marines in which he enlisted between HS and College made a man of him, gave him the strength to leave Kentucky and Ohio and make something of himself. He loved his violent Grandma. I cringed when he described incidents with her.

I discovered The End of Eddy because I went to a talk at the Mona Bismarck Centre on Quai New York. Mr. Louis was interviewed by a Princeton PhD as to who he was/is and how this book came to be written. Louis is a very appealing young man and a treat to listen to. His English is excellent–not only his command of words but his ability to express his deeper thoughts. I wished so much my french was good enough to read this book in French but feel grateful that I can read it in English.

Louis has nothing good to say about his childhood. The violence he suffered was also supposed to make a man out of him. But he was gay and effeminate from a very young age. He was beaten and spat on as a matter of course almost every day of his young life. His suffering was such that it has become the nugget that his books revolve around. The writing is so eloquent that the reader suffers with Eddy, feels the spit running down his face and cringes when the father or older brother are near. Yet, there is no self-pity, no recriminations. In fact, listening to Louis, I was struck by his generosity of spirit toward everyone. Although there is no excuse for violence he said, he understands that everyone is suffering.

I’ve never met J.D. Vance. Maybe he would touch me in the way that Louis did. But I suspect not. But that is not his intention for his readers. He wanted to tell us, the rest of America “This is the America you don’t see and don’t understand.” In 2016, Vance quit his job as investment banker, moved back to Ohio and is considering a run for Senate as a Republican. He is quite conservative. Louis’ intention is to get a conversation going. We live in such a violent world that we don’t even recognise it. Talk about it, tell your story, educate yourself.

Vance’s childhood home voted for Trump. Louis’s town of Hallencourt voted overwhelmingly for Marine Le Pen. Vance has gone right. Louis has gone left. Two boys, two prisons almost impossible to get out of and two very different directions. ‘For Louis, the tide of populism sweeping Europe and the United States is a consequence of what he, citing the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, calls “the principle of the conservation of violence.” “When you’re subjected to endless violence, in every situation, every moment of your life,” Louis told an interviewer, referring to the indignities of poverty, “you end up reproducing it against others, in other situations, by other means.”’ (Garth Greenwell, The New Yorker, May 8, 2017)

Read them both. Leave me a comment. I’d love to hear what readers are touched by and think of both books.

A bientôt,

Sara

Edouard Louis: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/feb/01/the-end-of-eddy-by-edouard-louis-review

JD Vance: https://www.nbcnews.com/megyn-kelly/video/going-home-best-selling-author-j-d-vance-opens-up-about-his-painful-childhood-and-the-future-ahead-975925827899

More thoughts on living in Paris

“The more you come to know a place, in general, the more it loses its essence and becomes defined by its quirks and its shortcomings. The suggestion of something numinous or meaningful is usually available with full force only to the first time visitor and gradually decreases with familiarity”

Sebastian Faulks Charlotte Gray

I have changed the tense to the present tense because those two sentences jumped out at me when I read Charlotte Gray (a wonderful book, by the way!). I first came to Paris to live in November of 2013. I walked everywhere. I had time to walk everywhere. I was so full with wonder, awe and amazement at the beauty of Paris, at my good fortune to be able to pick up and leave California and live in Paris, there were times I thought my heart would burst open.

It has been a long time since I’ve had those feelings. I live here, have commitments here, pay bills here, run up against French administration here and unless I write it down as a date with myself, I don’t take those long walks anymore. I still love Paris but it is completely different. I have also changed apartments. I used to live on the corner of Git-le-Coeur and Quai des Grands Augustins. I sat at my table and looked out on the Pont-Neuf. I could stick my head out the window, look right and see a perfect view of Notre Dame. I understood how Monet felt when he wanted to paint certain things at every hour of the day. These two views changed all the time depending on the weather, on the time of day, on my mood. Many days it would take my breath away.

Now I live in the 16th. I have a large terrace which I said I wanted. In exchange, I gave up the view of the Seine, the Pont Neuf and Notre Dame. I look out on another apartment building. Below me is a lovely courtyard. Every hour on the hour, I see the reflected lights of the Tour Eiffle flickering on the glass of the building across the way. The blinking lights last for five minutes then I lose the reflection. That is the only reminder I have that I live in Paris. And there are no high buildings or skyscrapers. Strictly interdit in Paris. It’s not till I walk outside and turn left on Avenue Mozart to go to the metro that the atmosphere of Paris washes over me. Some days, especially days that it has been raining, it seems especially beautiful as the lights bounce off the sidewalk and glass store fronts. Those days, I take a deep breath and pinch myself. But those days have gotten far and few between.

There are no tourists here where I live. I only hear French on the streets. Am I saying I would trade all this to be back in the centre of Paris where tourists abound, walk incredibly slowly driving me nuts. Where all the photos of Paris postcards originate? Good question. One I ask myself every day.

People ask me if I think I will stay here. I always have to think out my answer carefully because it changes all the time. Last Saturday when someone asked me, I responded that I thought I was a more interesting person living here in Paris. I like having to walk to the metro. I like that I can go to morning matinees of movies once a week. I like that I never have to drive a car. I like that I can jump on the TGV and be almost anywhere in France in less than five hours. And that’s only because the train stops everywhere on the Cote d’Azur taking an extra two hours. Marseilles is three plus hours away. I adore Brittany and that I can go there and not have the tremendous crowds that Mendocino and the Northern California coast attracts. I love going to the American Library and hearing wonderful speakers and authors one or two nights a week. Does it really matter where I live in Paris? The fact of the matter is that I LIVE IN PARIS! How many Americans have the luxury of pulling up their lives and roots and move 6,000 miles away just because?

As they say in Twelve Step rooms, More Will be Revealed.

A bientôt,

Sara

La Compagnie

On Friday, Jan. 12, I flew to New Jersey to attend a Care Conference for my Uncle. I flew a new airline. Over the past couple of years, I read about this airline that has only business class seats at slightly more than economy price seats. Since, I mostly fly Paris–San Francisco and back again, it wasn’t an option for me. La Compagnie only flies Paris–Newark and back.

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Because a friend raved about it last June, I decided this was a fine time to find out for myself. So I booked a round trip ticket that cost about 1500 euros total. Sometimes I feel held hostage by United. I have many miles, enjoy using miles to upgrade to a very luxurious Business/First seat and love all the perks that come with having Premier status. I wanted to free myself. Maybe I won’t have Premier Class anymore. Tant pis!

My friend was thrilled that I was going to give La Compagnie a try. She warned me to get to CDG early as LC check-in was tucked away. So the night before I left, I went on-line to see if I could find where LC check-in was. Terminal 1 but after that I had to wait. Some blogs popped up in my search. They turned out to be “horror” stories. They were written in 2014, I held my fears in check. Whatever wasn’t working in 2014 certainly has been ironed out now. From the time I left my apartment to the time I landed in Newark, everything went smoothly.

When I arrived at Terminal 1, the digital board told me that my flight was on time and that check-in was in Hall 3. I walked slowly looking left and right and there it was right next to United. Since there are only 84 seats, the line to check in went quickly. One can have two bags at 70 pounds/32 kilograms each. I left with a fast access through security card and could wait in the iCare Lounge. Unlike other airlines, the check-in doesn’t open until two and half hours ahead of take off. This again is because there are only 84 seats.

The Lounge was one floor down from the United Lounge, plenty large and set up for a continental breakfast.

I still had to go through security so it was suggested to leave the lounge forty-five minutes to an hour ahead of departure. Boarding the plane takes only fifteen minutes again because of so few seats.

The immediate impression upon boarding is of lots of space and very airy. There are two seats on each side of the aisle. Three attendants took care of us. There are no frills and whistles. No one asked to hang my coat. I folded it up and put it in the overhead along with everything else. Nothing is allowed on the floor during take-off. As you can see, there is no barrier between the two seats as with other Airline’s Business Class seats. I didn’t find that a problem. If privacy is high on your priority list, this isn’t the airline for you.

My “horror” story blog described the flight bags as made of tire like material with no toothbrush. He was appalled. The flight bag was perfect and there was a toothbrush. The hand creme and lip conditioner were from the French company Caudalie.

The attendant only offered champagne before take-off. But fairly soon after, a drinks trolly came rolling by. Everything was on offer. This was followed by lunch (take off was at 10:30am). I always bring my own food but my neighbour let me take a photo of his tray. This is before the hot entree was brought.

My only complaint is that the seat does not turn into a flat bed like most business class seats nowadays. It would have been ok except the foot part didn’t rise and I found that hard. Going to Newark was not a problem. I wasn’t sleepy and watched two movies, read my book and did some writing. My flight back to Paris left at 7:30pm and I was exhausted. I slept on and off the whole way but the discomfort of my feet kept me from sleeping completely. As the other blogger said, for the price I paid and having so much room, I thought everything was good.

Every seat has an iPad. They are turned on about fifteen minutes into the flight. One has a choice of about 20 movies, 3 audio books and 4 special videos. The map with the flight progress is on four screens overhead.

Everything went smoothly. Even the bumpy parts of the flight were fine. We landed early and taxied to the gate right on time, to the minute.

My return flight was very similar except that I have very little idea what happened after I closed my eyes. Did they serve a dinner? Don’t know. Don’t even remember a drinks trolly. The check-in was just as smooth except it was in English and there were four people doing the check as opposed to two in Paris. The Lounge was before security and very elegant. It had the feel of old world glamour. The food was better than anything I’ve ever seen. An entire dinner was laid out so I suspect that dinner was not served on board.

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When you go on-line to book a flight, after picking your dates, four different prices come up. Each price has conditions. The cheapest is called promotion which is what I got. Since turning 65, I always get flight insurance now. As they say in many countries, Shit happens.

If my opinion counts for anything, I recommend this airline for the price, the space and the ease of travel. You do need to be going to Newark or Paris or be willing to land there before the next lap of your flight. Happy Flying!!!

A bientôt,

Sara

Happy New Year from Paris

France is the only country that I know of that does not send Christmas cards as a rule but instead sends New Year’s cards. We have the whole month of January to get the cards out. Ergo, I feel just fine wishing you all a Happy New Year fourteen days into 2018!

I took quite a bit of time off from this blog–I spent two wonderful weeks in London. I’d heard for many years about the lights and store windows of Harrods, Fortum and Mason, Selfridges and was looking forward to a festive time. I exchanged homes with a wonderful family from Finchley, North London. They stayed in my home in Oakland, Calif and I stayed in their home 25 minutes by underground from the centre of London. For the Christmas season, it felt like the best of two worlds. London centre was alive with tourists, shoppers, lights, thousands of people swarming the sidewalks while Finchley was quiet and peaceful.

The first week was very cold. My friend, Meg, from Antibes joined me. A Brit by birth, I had the luxury of just hanging on to her coattails and following her as she led me all over the place and we never got lost! On Saturday, Dec. 23rd, we had tickets to hear the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at Westminster Abbey. It seems that a tourist must pay 22 pounds to visit Westminster. However, with this ticket, I entered for free and heard the beautiful Westminster Boys Choir.

The next evening, Christmas Eve, Meg took me to dinner at a long time friend’s home. The family couldn’t have been more welcoming. They gave me presents and thanked me so much for joining them for dinner. Hello, shouldn’t I be thanking you?? The Brits are quite a people.

Christmas Eve dinner with our paper crowns from the crackers

Meg told me that for Christmas Day, every good Brit stays in their pjs and watches TV all day long. It must be true because most of the channels had movies – of which we watched quite a few.

Meg took off on Wednesday to stay with her brother in southwest London and I prepared for my Paris friend, Barbara, to join me for the second week. One of Meg’s friends introduced me to Todaytix.com which sells tickets to West End shows for a discount. We got excellent seats for An American in Paris for 20 pounds each. Barbara struck up a conversation with the couple next to her and found out about two more sites Lovetheatre.com and Amazontickets.com, that sell discounted tickets. Through Lovetheatre.com, we bought terrific seats for a new West End production Girl from the North Country, a show based around Bob Dylan songs and Kinky Boots which I’d heard wonderful things about and Barbara was willing to go along with.

Twenty years ago, coming to London to go to the Theatre was probably the best deal in the world. Prices were extremely low and even more so if you were willing to stand in line at the HalfpriceTix stand in Leicester Square. No longer true. I saw the prices in black and white but had a hard time adjusting to the extraordinary fees for tickets. The Book of Mormon ran 200 pounds a person and were only slightly discounted on the good sites. So I was so happy with Rush prices and discounted prices.

New Year’s Eve, we had planned to go to a movie and watch the Fireworks on the Thames on the TV from the comfort of our couch. As it turned out, we picked a movie that was playing at Piccadilly Circle.: Call Me By Your Name. We both wanted to see it as it was receiving nominations already and there were (still aren’t) no signs of it coming to Paris in the near future. As far as I’m concerned, it deserves all the rave reviews it is receiving. Reviewing it will be another blog! We left the theatre at 11:15pm and were told that all the underground stations nearby were closed for the Fireworks show. So we walked to Oxford Circle. Regent Street was closed off to car traffic and we, and thousands of others, were walking in the middle of the street. There is something so freeing and lighthearted about walking on a main street in a busy large city and there is no traffic.

Regent Street close to midnight New Year’s Eve

I found myself on January 4, not wanting to leave London. That is what a good vacation is supposed to be. One leaves wanting more instead of dying to get home What was especially wonderful and surprising for me was that I hadn’t really wanted to go. I thought it was far too soon to travel when I’d just returned from California a month before. So to have the two weeks be so relaxing, so entertaining, so Holidayish if you will, was really a wonderful Xmas present.

Fifth floor tea shop at Fortum and Mason

I will close by telling those of you who don’t already know about the Charity Shops in the UK. I love them. I’ve been going to Newmarket every October for five years and discovered a Charity Shop every 100 yards or so. Whenever I am in London now, I look for the Charity shops first. I always walk away with something that I fall in love with. This time, I found a wonderful sweater, a pair of gloves (mine weren’t warm enough) and a little wallet for my Oyster card and UK money. These aren’t consignment shops that are almost too expensive for someone like me. I like a good bargain but also something I can use. I bought some Christmas tree balls just for a lark and got home to Paris to find that Bijou, the cat, had managed to bring down my little Christmas tree and I had less than half of the decorations I started with. The joys of cat ownership!!!!

I hope your New Year is starting off well. And may 2018 see some change toward the better for the world. With so many body blows on a daily basis, it is often hard to stay open to the hard work and action required to make this world a better place but if not us who?

A bientôt,

Sara

One foot in Paris and one foot in…..

Christmas time is a season I love….for all the wrong reasons! I love the fading light as the days get shorter, especially walking in Paris when the sky is a pinkish grey turning to dark purple then to nighttime black. I love the lights around the Champs Elysees and the Ave. Montaigne. Many arrondissements have also decked themselves out near the Mairie in an array of colours and blinking tiny little lights that tell you that FairyLand is around the corner. The windows in the Department Stores are a delight for everyone of all ages. There are tables set for Christmas Eve dinner with animals prancing around, chasing each other and having wonderful fun. Mama Bears are serving up a meal and Papa Bears are cutting a turkey. In another window, there are trapezes with more animals and dolls all sporting the the bags and clothes of the Designer who is sponsoring the window. I don’t care. It’s a treat! In front of the window are families. The adults in the back and the children up at the windows with their hands out wishing they could touch what is inside. My gardienne put up a large tree with wrapped presents under it. The lights twinkle day and night. I’ve never seen an apartment building like that before. I think I have a very special gardienne.

I’m not religious so I don’t need all the icons that go along with Christmas. I don’t go to the Christmas concerts unless it’s Sing Along Carols. Those I love. My friend, Meg, is taking me to a Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at Westminster Abbey when I’m in London. This is quite religious but at least this year, I’ll hear it in English! I can be talked in to most kinds of music with the codicil that I can leave early if I’m not happy.

I even love giving presents. I’m not the person who shops at the last minute which probably makes a huge difference in how much I enjoy gift giving. I shop all year long looking at things and thinking “my sister would love that”. I buy it and put it on my gift shelf to be wrapped at a later date for a birthday or Christmas. So unless someone tells me that their house is bursting at the seams and not one more thing can come inside, they will get a gift from me no matter how old they are.

Last summer, when winter and Christmas seemed light years away, a family in London asked if I wanted to do a Home Exchange. They would spend the month of December at my home in Oakland, California and I would spend at least two weeks at their home in London. I’ve always heard that London really knows how to throw a Christmas party. Each time I mention to someone that I’m going to London, I hear “You have to go see the windows at Harrods/Fortnum and Mason/John Lewis, etc” So more windows to appreciate.

Yet, while all this beautiful and festive time of year surrounds me, my mind and heart are partly in Princeton, NJ where my uncle Stan still lies in a hospital bed in the Skilled Nursing floor of his Retirement Home. Very little has changed. I’m told his appetite is coming back and the hope of everyone that loves him is that this will make him stronger. And being stronger, his Physical Therapy will go better. Which means he will become more mobile. Being mobile is critical as Medicare, the great American social insurance plan for adults over 65, will assess him soon and tell us and him what his future will look like as far as living conditions go. I feel strongly and passionately that I don’t want Medicare being the boss. I want to be there and with his family and friends, tell Medicare this is what we can do for him. We will make it happen. Stan needs to stay in his apartment, there is no doubt in my mind. Enid, his wife of 61 years, lived there with him and her presence is everywhere. His computer, which is his lifeline to the men who are still living and flew with him in WWII, is there. All his Princeton Basketball paraphernalia is there. He has tapes of games going back for years. He still watches them. His freedom is there. On every phone call with him he says “I am so helpless. I can’t stand it”

Cousin Joan and I are determined to create a bedroom for him that can have a hospital bed and a bedroom for a live-in aide–hopefully a strong male aide. Joan wrote a letter to Stan’s lawyer asking for some kind of contract that Stan could sign saying he won’t hold Stonebridge responsible if anything should happen to him. Even if Stan lives less months that he would if he were moved, the months would be as “good as it gets” months for him. That is what is important. That he leave this world with the things he loves and the people he loves surrounding him.

Those of you who have read Being Mortal recognise that some of my strength is coming from reading this book, this text for how to humanise the end of life. And I’m not foolish enough to think that reading is doing. I think it is going to be quite hard to talk about this stuff with the doctors, with Stonebridge, maybe even friends and family. We Princetonites are supposed to be intelligent and educated. So we’ll see. I have planned a trip back there in January.

Meanwhile, it’s off to London. It has been a long time since I spent any time in London. More to come in these pages……!

A bientôt,

Sara

Quality of Life

A number of people responded to my blog about my Uncle Stan. My friend, Darcy, has been caring for her mom who lives in the same place as Stan. Her mom has dementia and has a small studio in the Assisted Living side of the Retirement Community. She wrote this in response to another of her friend’s whose mother is just entering the dementia stage: “that you don’t know who you are when you are taking care of your mom. This made my whole world make sense, finally. Those simple words I don’t know who I am brought everything into perspective for me. Not that I understand all the emotions I went through here in Princeton and all of the emotions I continue to feel now that I have left. This will take years. But coming back, returning to Stonebridge, threw me into the old feelings of emotional chaos and I didn’t expect this. I was quite floored by it all. I felt guilty not spending more time with my mom and yet my body simply gave out on Friday. All I wanted to do was sleep.

I think it’s impossible to know who I am when I’m taking care of her because there are so many different people involved. Internally, there is my little girl, my childhood, adulthood. I am my mother’s daughter, friend, care taker. Added to this is the great unknown, the day to day step to step into aging, the uncertainties that come with this. How will my mother be today? How and where will her mind be? When will she fall again? This alone creates a myriad of emotions. Then throw in siblings and all of their emotions, their uncertainties, the family dynamic surfacing over and over again making us all crazy at times because there isn’t one truth yet we must be looking for that one stability. But it doesn’t exist because we never know what is coming next. The same way we don’t know what our siblings will do next. It’s a constant confrontation of the complexities of the past, present and whatever may be in the future.

It’s not like when we were growing up and we had parental guidelines already established for us. Friendships had their own boundaries, too, ones we navigated on our own. When it came to those friends and the twists and turns in life, we felt we knew what mattered most, even if only at that moment in time. Now there are no guidelines, only the heart. I wonder if peoples’ best and worst qualities come out when caring for an elderly parent.”

Darcy also recommended I read a book which another friend had already suggested I read. BEING MORTAL by Atul Gawande. Gawande is a surgeon at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, a staff writer for The New Yorker and teaches at Harvard Medical School and the Harvard School of Public Health. In his free time!! he writes books. Gawande poses a question that I’ve never heard said by a doctor–“Do we try to do too much? Are we just trying to fix the next thing or are we thinking about the ill person in what may be their last years and asking them what they want?” He calls these the Hard Questions or the Hard Talk. It is a very provocative and thoughtful book. He even gives the example of his own father who developed a cancer in his spine. It is a book all of us should read, to prepare ourselves for the future and to help our elders get what they really want–which may contradict what a specialist doctor wants for them. We are all going to die but we have choices, up to a point, where that will be and how it will happen.

I’ve thought of Stan ever since I returned to Paris. He did not want to be in that bed up on the Skilled Nursing floor. He didn’t want to be poked and prodded all day long having his blood drawn, helping him sit up or lie down. What he wanted was to be sitting in front of his computer and doing whatever he enjoys doing. He doesn’t have to walk to do that. He has now got an aid 24/7 to help him get his breakfast, shower etc. But I don’t know if he is back in his apartment or still up in Skilled Nursing. Being Mortal has given me a whole new way to think about what happens next, what to ask Stan and then to listen. It’s allowed me to be really honest and say that this fall is probably the beginning of the end. Gawande says that if he can live the way he’d like to live, in his apartment, surrounded by photos of Enid and all his Princeton Basketball paraphernalia, the end may be further away. But the Stan that is up in Skilled Nursing doesn’t want to live the way he is living up there. Neither would I. A specimen under the light of nurses and doctors and aides none of whom knew him until about 2 1/2 weeks ago.

I recommend this book. Darcy calls it The bible for caregivers. Yup, it is the only one I know of that has the questions that we should be addressing now.

And in Paris….Life is cold but at the same time full of activities. I’m feeling grateful to be here right now, with good friends and activities I love. Christmas Parties bringing a lot of people all together in the same room maybe the only time all year!! And the lights!!!! The Champs Elysees is lit up and the Ave Montaigne looks absolutely elegant with lights in all the trees and little tiny blue sparkly lights flashing on and off inside the the white lights. It’s a wonder to behold.

A bientôt,

Sara

My Uncle Stan

I just finished writing a blow by blow description of my Uncle Stan, age 94, falling in his apartment and breaking his left hip. I hate what I wrote. I don’t have the writing ability to keep your attention while describing all the running around I was doing accompanied by intense wildly vacillating emotions. Some writers can grab you and put you in their shoes so that you feel the sadness, the anger, the helplessness of being the caretaker of someone who has been vital and in charge his entire life. I had hoped the writing would push me to sort through a lot of my questions of American versus French medical systems as I’m at the age where I’m asking myself “Where do I want to grow old?”

I’m writing all this from my little desk in Paris. I returned here over the weekend feeling no small amount of guilt for leaving Stan in the hands of Skilled Nursing. These are the things that have stuck to me and won’t let go. Stan was so miserable, so uncomfortable, so humiliated by his powerlessness that he sank into depression and confessed that he wanted to die. I couldn’t find any fault with that thinking. The surgeons couldn’t do a hip surgery on him, he was too old. They opted for two one-inch incisions at his left hip and placing small rods in to hold the hip together. Then it was up to him to do Physical Therapy to strengthen himself enough to be able to walk again. What I saw in front of me was an old man who was so thin, so small that he looked like a little boy lost in his twin size bed. A man whose lack of any fat on him caused him to slip far down in his wheel chair until he became so unbearably uncomfortable that I’d go looking for aides to help pull him up again. His hearing is so bad that even with his hearing aids, we had to almost yell to explain to him what was happening. Due to another syndrome, his hands and feet got little circulation and he was cold most of the time. I would wrap his Princeton stadium blanket around him as if he was a baby in a casket. It wasn’t difficult at all to step into his slippers and think “I don’t want to live like this.” He was completely helpless, dependent on me and the nursing staff. He stopped eating. He said he had no appetite, that this was the first symptom that Enid had (his wife who died six years ago) when she was sick with pancreatic cancer. He convinced one of the nurses to include a blood test for pancreatic cancer in his lab work. I knew that he was saying “I just want to die.”

The Skilled Nursing unit of Stan’s Continuing Care Retirement Community was understaffed and underpaid. I know they were working hard. But they couldn’t be everywhere at once. Sometimes when Stan pushed his call button, it would take 15 to 20 minutes before someone came in. Stan has a primary doctor in Princeton but none of the staff could take orders from her. They could consult with her. After the first day back at Skilled Nursing, I didn’t hear about any consulting. It seemed the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing. When I mentioned this to any friends, they would nod knowingly as if this was an accepted fact of the American system. Without an advocate, a person could easily be forgotten. Especially someone like Stan who doesn’t like to make waves because he’s embarrassed to be seen as he is. He made it clear he didn’t want any visitors. We had to cook up a plan to encourage his friends to visit as if they were just passing by but not stay too long as it tired him too much. No way were we going to leave Stan along with his depression.

By the time I left late Friday, the staff was going to put him on an IV to feed him. My cousin, Joan, was there expertly taking over the reins to insure that Stan didn’t get lost in the system. She wrote to say that the visits were cheering him up a bit. Though it was only mentioned a couple of times to me, I couldn’t help but think that so much of this mess is due to our lousy Insurance system. It was strongly hinted that he left the hospital too soon because insurance/medicare would pay another night. When he wanted the extra lab work, a nurse took me aside and said that insurance may not pay for it. The underpaid overworked staff remain so in order to line the pockets of those at the top of the Insurance Food chain. I’ve had the experience of having to pay more for a medicine with my Co-Pay than the entire cost is here in Paris. This is, of course, just my opinion but as I watched the week with Stan unfold, it struck me that this is one of the ways the Insurance men and laws deal with our elders–hide them and maybe they’ll go faster. I don’t feel polite about my dealings with the health care system last week. I made myself unlikeable to all the staff, sometimes even to me. But what would have happened to Stan if I hadn’t been there? It was Thanksgiving week and people were on vacation.

	janepstern on Stalls and Stories: My Weekly…
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	Vera Lappano on Stalls and Stories: My Weekly…
	Alison Brown on Happy Birthday, Sara

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