Lester

My father is 70, and not in great health; he had that little bout with congestive heart failure a few months ago, then got fucked up by the one of the medicines (Zocor), which broke down the muscles in his legs and put him in the hospital for three weeks (pay attention to warnings on new prescriptions, friends) and, not incidentally, totally eroded his sense of himself as a capable individual. He had to turn over control of his bills to me--turn over control of everything related to his body. He couldn't even wipe his own ass. Today, he's nearly 50 lbs lighter, which is good. And the feistiness factor is about what it was before he got sick. But he feels frail--he doesn't trust himself to go to the store alone, etc. He walks with a cane. He sort of wobbles when he stands up. He's been encouraged to exercise, but he does not. I don't fight with him about it; it is--in the fullest, best sense--his life to spend as he wants.

Jim--my Jim--died when he was 69. Which I mention to note that 70, in my frame of reference, is old.

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There's a guy putting in a new bathroom in my house. He works with my uncles, both of whom build houses. This was a slow week, so my uncles told me that Lester was free to work on any projects I had here. He showed up Monday morning at 7, and though it's been in the 90s and terribly humid this week, Lester's been showing up and plugging away all week.

Lester is 87.

He is a master framer; he puts two pieces of wood together and you don't see the seam. I love the work he does, but I feel so much guilt, watching him work in this heat, knowing how I'd be feeling--I, 45 years younger--if I were doing the same thing: dead in 10 minutes--sore knees, aching back.

Lester bought his daughter a house. Gave it to her--outright, no mortgage. Daughter married a bum, and shortly after, daughter and bum took out a huge mortgage on the house, and then spent the money. Now they can't afford the mortgage, and so Lester, at 87, hauls his body out the door every morning to swing a hammer to pay for his daughter's house a second time.

Imagine that. It's hard to know where to begin or stop screaming about boundaries.

The kids bring him lemonade and water, and we toast bagels for him and slather them with homemade gooseberry jam, which he loves. I swallow my guilt: keep the air conditioner running on high, and know that if he must work, then at least we can make it as pleasant as we can.

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NPR reported that 4-500 people die in the US every year from the heat--that heat, in fact, is the number one killer among natural disasters globally. Old people are especially vulnerable because families disperse in the post-agrarian economy, and there's nobody to keep an eye on them. Check in on your family. It's hot.