Tag: Mom

Voting with my dad

I slide the newspaper toward my dad.  It’s the League of Women Voters guide to the local elections.  My father is three months away from turning 90.  He sits at the dining room table, his coffee cup to his left, his glasses on his nose, and a slightly confused look on his face.  My sister has been taking care of him for the past two weeks, since my mom fell and broke her hip.   

I feel bad about my sister’s burden.  Her days are not so different from those of the remote-schooling parent.  A judge, she gets up before 5:00 to do some of her work.  Then she scurries around setting up things for my father (meds, meals, clothes, music). Starting at 8:30, she conducts remote legal hearings from the room that has become her office, hoping she doesn’t get any interruptions or intrusions from a slightly confused or distressed gentleman.   It’s stressful.  My father sometimes wakes up at 2:00 a.m. On occasion, he has gotten dressed, turned on all the lights and proceeded to the dining room to await breakfast.   She escorts him back to bed and suggests that “daylight” is a good clue that it’s time to rise.

This weekend, when I visited, she tried to head off one added stress by asking me to help my father with his absentee ballot.  It seemed like the least I could do.  

So I sit to my father’s right, at a safe social distance.  I pass him the voting guide.  “What’s this?” he asks.

“It’s the voting guide.  I thought I’d help you with your absentee ballot.”

“What?”  My father has not heard well for the past 25 years.  He has hearing aids, but his hearing loss is pretty profound.

“I found the paper that has the position statements by each candidate.”  I remember a time when his hearing loss was just the f-sound and the s-sound.  We used to try to craft sentences without those sounds. I think of what I would have substituted for “found” and “statements.” Now he really misses all of the sounds…except musical notes.  My daughter nearly fell out of her chair last month when my father, who seemed not to be hearing a word of the conversation, lifted his head at the very first note of an opera overture, and said, “Oh, Don Giovanni.”  What?!

 “It’s the League of Women Voters publication, Dad.” He’s used this for years, but it doesn’t register today.

“I beg your pardon?”  Hearing this, takes me back to when my nephew, then about five, asked why his morfar was always talking about some person named Piggy Parton.  We explained that he needed to talk much louder.  Then Morfar would stop saying, “I beg your pardon.”  My nephew just turned 30.   

“Here, read this,” I say, pointing to the top line. Of course, all of this spoken communication is made more challenging by the fact that I have a mask over my face.  It’s hard for the youngest kids in school.  It’s also really hard for people who have grown accustomed to lipreading. I’m remembering the times my dad took me to the polls, leading me into the curtained booth, letting me watch while he clicked the levers, then lock in the vote with a dramatic swing of the giant handle.  No standardized testing bubbles in those days, just clicks, cranks, and curtains.

Today, we have a pretty easy time with the presidential choice, and my dad really likes his congressman, so that too goes smoothly.  Then comes the fun stuff.  There are six candidates for school board in Montgomery County.  You can vote for four.  This was a bit tough to get across.  I have to admit that my father has also experienced some cognitive loss in recent years.  Oddly, it shows in anything mathematical.  “Choose four out of six” requires some patience.  He recognizes one of the names and fills in a bubble.  I point to the words, “choose four.”  He shrugs and eventually fills in three more.  

Then come the judges.  So many judges.  I know it matters to him, so I give him plenty of time to read all of the statements.  I really  do understand why they don’t want judges listing their party affiliation (We’d never want a judge with political views, of course!), but it would have been so much quicker if we had those clues.  As it is, we read together, me with my socially distant binoculars, he with what I am just now noticing is a brand new fashion statement for him.  He has placed his reading glasses over his regular glasses.  Nice look, Dad.  I am sure this is not ophthalmologist-approved.  However, it seems to be working.  Ten minutes later he has made his decisions.  He appears to have decoded the subtle language and found the judges he likes.  You say judges need bias training?  “Yes, that sounds promising,” he mutters.  

We’re on the home stretch.  It’s only the ballot initiatives and a few proposed constitutional amendments.   One ballot initiative says that Maryland should really dive into this sports gambling thing so that New Jersey and Delaware don’t grab all the loot.  Of course, they entice us by saying that this will fund the education budget.  Bookies for Books!   Yay!  Dad shrugs and casts his vote.

Now the constitutional amendment.  They always write these so cleverly, with triple negatives, fancy words,  and compound-complex sentences, showing no consideration for the 90-year-old voter or his son.   “The state legislature may not overturn a veto of a bill wherein a governor hasn’t tried to overrule the spending amendment unless it wasn’t passed with a two-thirds majority and doesn’t exceed the spending limitations placed by the governor’s original budget proposal.”

“What?”  That’s me, this time.  

“What?” he echoes.

“My sentiments exactly.  Would you like me to flip a coin?”

“I beg your pardon.”

I know that I will soon have to swear that I have not influenced his voting in any way, so I simply slide the pen, the ballot, and a coin his way.  “You choose, Dad.”

He fills in the bubble for “No.”  Frankly, I have no idea if that was a wise choice.

This whole process has taken about 45 minutes.  My frazzled sister has watched much of it, even though she didn’t want to take part.  I think she may have felt compelled to monitor my actions in case she is forced to testify at the voting inquisition.  She compliments me on my patience.  I say it may be because I have neither had to wake up at 2:00 a.m. nor had to explain why we don’t wear our day clothes over our pajamas.

My dad signs his ballot, and I insert my “helper” affidavit.  My sister vows to put it in the mail tomorrow.  We’ve all done our civic duties…and I think it’s time for a nap, eh what?

Visits: Real and Virtual

Last week I was complaining about not being able to see my parents.  Their emails and our phone calls were gradually becoming more bleak.  I wanted to lay eyes on them.  When my mom turned 90 in April, we tried to organize a Google Meeting.  It worked for everyone in the family…except my parents.  For one thing, after many phone conversations, we determined that the reason we were not seeing my mom’s image in the trial run calls was because, well, it turns out that a camera is helpful.  I hadn’t thought of the fact that their old computer, with its separate monitor and hamster-powered processor didn’t have a camera.  That was okay, though, because we had bought them a tablet a few years ago.  It turned out, though, that talking my mom through the process of downloading the Meet extension onto the tablet was a bit stressful for both of us.  I wrote about this in April.

One might think that in the intervening months, I could have worked  out something so that we could actually see each other.  One might be wrong, though.  So, last week, after we tried unsuccessfully to purchase a Chromebook.  It turns out there’s been a bit of a run on Chromebooks lately. Something about remote school?  I don’t know.  I’d say Chromebooks are the new toilet paper, but that might be taken wrong.  Anyway, that didn’t work.  At school, though, a friendly tech guru colleague suggested a new possibility:  the Facebook Portal.  He said it was very easy to set up and to use.

Hmm.  This presented some issues, though.  Some in my extended family have sworn off Facebook on principle.  Something about lax security.  Then there was the fact that there would be a camera on in my parents’ apartment at all times.  My father has long been big on privacy.  During the sixties and seventies, he was pretty sure that because he opposed the Vietnam War and sometimes spoke ill of President Nixon, his phone had likely been tapped and his house bugged.  He was pretty normal in most other respects, but on this, he was a bit extreme.  We sometimes had to whisper when we were saying nice things about George McGovern.  This is all just to say that he probably wouldn’t like the idea of Mark Zuckerberg knowing what he had for breakfast. 

So, naturally, we bought it.

I realized, however, that my sanity and sunny disposition would be in grave jeopardy if I sent this Portal to my parents and tried to guide my mother and father through a remote installation.  This led to a drastic decision on Thursday.  I would get in my car and drive to Maryland (not on the restricted list!).  I would not go alone.  As this operation required both technology and social media savvy, I was required by law to be accompanied by someone under the age of 25.  Sarah agreed to join me.  Our plan was straightforward, though probably not simple:  wake early on Saturday.  Email my mom to tell her we were coming. ( A “morning of” email is required so that both parents are able to sleep the night before and neither will attempt to talk us out of the maneuver.)  Drive swiftly to Maryland.  Don masks.  Enter apartment.  Engage in socially distant conversation for approximately one hour.  Open Portal to the 21st Century.  Install and set up.  Train parents.  Look for any small projects to accomplish.  Apply socially distant hugs.  Depart and drive back to Connecticut.

All went relatively well on the way down.  We listened to an Audible book. Sarah noted that my phone was nearly out of power.  My phone was plugged into a charger, which Sarah, using sophisticated carbon dating techniques, determined was from an earlier century. It was not successfully charging my phone, though it did plug in nicely. Neither Sarah nor I had brought a functioning charger.  We were taking this “zip in-zip out” operation very seriously.

We arrived around noon, engaged in the planned conversation, most of which revolved around the disappearance of my mom’s friend from the apartment upstairs.  She was nowhere to be found after venturing on an errand to the farmer’s market.  My mom was worried.  After all, at 92, her friend was more elderly than my mom.  Sarah and I checked her apartment and didn’t find her.  She later turned up bearing a jug of cider, having arrived late to the market and missed all the good veggies. She did not recognize me with my mask, and therefore handed me the cider and dashed off.

We transitioned to step 2.  The installation went smoothly, my mom quickly locating both the wifi code AND her Facebook password.  I allowed as how I would have taken much longer on the latter quest.  Now came the part we had dreaded:  step 3, training.

Portal works in the same way as Alexa and Siri.  All you have to do is remember to say, “Hey Portal…”  This, however, is not as easy as it might seem.  It turns out that Portal has pretty good hearing..  Here’s how training went:

Sarah:  Grandma, if you want to call Dad, just say, “Hey Portal, call Peter.”

Portal:  Calling Peter.

Mom:  What?

Me:  Oh, crap, my phone is ringing.

Sarah:  Hey Portal, hang up.

Portal:  Hanging up.

Me:  So, Mom, why don’t you try it?

Mom:  What do I do?

Me:  Say, “Hey Portal, call Peter.”

Portal:  Calling Peter.

Me: Oh crap. No.  Hang up.

Mom:  What?

Sarah:  Dad, you forgot to say, “Hey Portal.”

Portal:  How can I help you?

Me:  Hang up!!

Portal:  Hanging up.

Sarah:  Okay, Grandma, here’s what you do.  You start by getting its attention.  You just say, “H-E-Y   P-O-R-T-A-L…”

Mom:  Okay, “Hey Portal.”

Me:  Keep going…

Mom:  I said it.

Sarah:  Right, you said “Hey Portal–”

Portal:  How can I help you?

Me:  Shut up!  Will you?

Mom:  Me?

Me: No, the darn Portal.

Sarah:  But Grandma, after you get its attention, you have to tell it to do something.

Mom:  Okay.

Sarah:  So, go ahead and try it.  Say, you know what, and then tell it to call someone.

Mom:  Okay.  Hey Portal…

Sarah:  Keep going…

Mom:  Call Peter, even though he’s right here.

Portal:  I can’t find a contact named Peter Eventhoughesrighthere.

So, the training was not quite as easy as the box might make it seem.  In the end my mom shrugged.  “Mmm…  I still think the phone is a pretty good way to communicate.”

It was at this point that I began looking around for other chores.  

The next morning we had a nice Portal conversation with my sister in North Carolina (not an approved travel destination!) and yesterday evening we chatted with my parents, who were able to answer the Portal’s chime, though my father was out of the room when the camera came on.  I was worried that maybe he didn’t want to have Facebook peering into his dining room, but my mom assured me that that wasn’t the problem.  The Portal’s chime had confused him. He was answering the door, the real portal.  No one was there.