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https://chelseanow.com/2017/09/in-dads-journey-of-aging-we-both-found-community/

Rebecca Neuwirth and her father. Photo courtesy the Neuwirth family.

BY REBECCA NEUWIRTH | My father was a very proud man. But aging and arthritis, combined with the body’s payback for a half-century of leading a bachelor’s life — with all its Sardi’s cocktails and 3 p.m. breakfasts of olive and cheese — took its toll. When he reached 80, he was a frequent visitor at the doctor’s.

But though Dad often accepted help gracefully and increasingly sought it for the small things in life (shopping as the heavy bags became unwieldy, crossing the street as his stride slowed down considerably), he did everything on his own terms and fiercely defended his independence to decide.

Would there have come a time when I would have had to force more help on him?

I often wondered where the lines were. When should I insist on taking action, and when should I stand by and respectfully watch? There were a million small questions: Do I buy him a walker, even if he doesn’t want it? (I bought it and he used it, and it felt good to be of help.) Can I insist that Dad eat healthily, or even just regularly? (I could not, especially when his ideas of health included the firm belief, abetted by a slew of ridiculous health articles, that diet soda was better than fruit juice.) Can I help with finances when they are getting complex? (That was an absolute “No” and must have touched on some very strong emotions, as I could not even bring it up without strife.)

There were selfish considerations too: Would I have been able to manage more help, financially and physically? And philosophical ones: Would it have killed my father’s spirit to insist against his will?

A few days before he died, I urged my dad to move even closer to me so I could provide him with more care: warm meals, daily visits. “Maybe in a few years, we can think of that,” he told me, and not because he didn’t like those things. His death spared me the hard decisions.

My story is not unique — it has made me part of the vast club of people who have watched their parents age and for whom this is, suddenly, deeply personal. And it’s impacted the way the world looks: I saw a man the other day whose gait was so slow that he ended up in the middle of the street when the light changed, dangerously turning his small frame to the oncoming traffic. How we treat the elderly, and if we even notice them, seems like a good a test of character.

It turns out that with all the challenges, my dad was neither unique nor unwise in wanting to stay at home. Decades of research show that “aging in place” — which means getting the help that makes it possible to continue to live at home — has real advantages. Emotionally, it allows aging individuals to retain their sense of independence and dignity, which in turn keeps them healthier. And financially, it is almost always more affordable for the individual and the government by very real margins, even when taking into consideration significant home care.

Still, staying at home requires a level of ongoing engagement, and many, many decisions.

And that takes a village, to borrow the phrase, and three key conditions that I believe need to be in place.

First, my father was blessed to live in a community that understands what it means to be supportive of aging people and their families. Our local Senior Center plays an outsized role in that. Ours is run by JASA (Jewish Association Serving the Aging) under the auspices of Penn South Social Services, and was founded 30 years back by UJA-Federation of New York, that offered seniors help in the residential community in which they lived. Today, the Penn South buildings we live in have a plethora of programs, from yoga to movie night, and social workers to help with individual questions and cases.

We availed ourselves of these services in different ways. My dad suspected he was too young for the classes, but he enjoyed the ping pong table — and while he usually didn’t take the advice of the social workers, he liked telling them jokes and they joyfully responded with the laughs and human contact that meant so much to him. It was me who availed myself of the service, asking the social workers for their wisdom on what was “normal” or a source of concern, and getting information on available options.

Second, at least as important as the services was the sense of connectedness that my father felt in his older years. Working at the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, a Jewish relief group that cares for people from children in poverty to elderly Holocaust survivors, I’ve witnessed the overwhelming importance of human contact, spiritual connection, a sense of meaning — all of those play an outsized role not only in mental but also in physical well-being.

We are fortunate that across our local Penn South community, there is an awareness of the challenges of aging that manifests itself not only in physical amenities, but also in attitudes. People stopped to help my dad all the time, and to talk with him; and he had the time to listen too, which they valued.

Our local synagogue, Congregation Beit Simchat Torah, and my dad’s other synagogue from his Upper West Side days, Congregation Habonim, were exceptional as well in creating a warm community that welcomed my dad. I will never forget the Kol Nidre service I attended with my dad less than a year before he died. I insisted on bringing him in a wheelchair and a prime area had been reserved for us to sit — and so we sat together — just us without my kids — singing and praying in the tragic, hopeful way of that holiday, until late into the evening.

Those many small and positive interactions made his life not only possible, but also so much more pleasant. In retrospect, they also morphed the burden of his care into small blessings of connection and goodwill shared by many. Sometimes I would be angry at my father for asking assistance for many small daily tasks, but he insisted that most people were glad to offer aid, and I think he was right.

Finally, Dad’s most earnest desire was to be useful, and that made our last years together as a family fulfilling. Until the end, he babysat for my children, entertaining them with word games and stories for hours on end, even when he couldn’t easily walk or horse around.

Creating meaningful opportunities to contribute and real social connections was the key not only for my dad to remain vivid, but also for us too to profit from him and his many gifts and to form our own identities in the process.

What incredible talent we have in our communities — mentors and chess teachers and witnesses to history — and how we rob ourselves when we consign them to the past prematurely. We need to do more to harness intergenerational cooperation, not just as isolated “community service” opportunities, but as part of how we live and play.

Part of the challenge of our time is to create stronger communities across many lines, and to turn the issue of aging from a personal or family burden to a shared communal responsibility — and opportunity. We have a very real, a very personal interest in getting this right.

Rebecca Neuwirth, a seasoned nonprofit professional who is engaged in strategic philanthropy for the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, lives in Penn South with her family.

My Dad

RONALD NEUWIRTH – tribute, 6/30/2016

Dad intensely loved life. I’m certain that was the message he would have wanted us to take away today as we remember his life.

With his soft voice and gentle manner, Dad sought out strong, life-affirming moments.

Sometimes they were about nature. I don’t think many people knew this side of him, but every time we were in Long Island, Dad would insist on going to the ocean, even if only for a few minutes. I don’t think I understood at the time, but as I’ve remembered over the last days, I appreciate that Dad really sought out awe. He would walk along the sand, looking at the powerful Atlantic waves, the wilder, the better.

He dreamed of going to the Hebrides, the lonely islands off of England. The closest we got was Nova Scotia, on a father-daughter trip for his 70^th birthday. He loved the bed and breakfasts, the quaint restaurants, the farmland, but what he was most excited about was the untamed landscapes and the whales.

He looked for excitement in New York too and he knew all the best places, from Sardi’s to the Algonquin to McSorley’s. He showed me a speakeasy once in the Village and for the life of me I can’t remember the name or the location anymore – he was certainly my ticket. 

Dad was a romantic, he was a poet. The editor of the Southampton Press was kind enough to put together some of the poetry he published in that paper for us, and my son will read one poem after this. His favorite story was J.D. Salinger’s – For Esme with Love and Squalor, about a little girl with grown up words and loving ways, who reminds me of our daughter.

He loved folk music – it hit all of his registers – words, melodies, social conscience. As a kid he used to take me to concerts all the time, and I remember finding them nice but vaguely embarrassing. When I got older, I realized of course that seeing Arlo Guthrie or Pete Seeger perform wasn’t that uncool at all.

Dad loved words – the way they were able to capture and hold still a moment, the way they sounded, their multiple meanings. By the way, that was the basis of all his jokes – the double meanings of words, and it’s not a skill he passed on to me. Last night, my son was telling joke after joke from one of my dad’s books and had to stop and explain each and every one to his mom. So maybe it has skipped a generation. Let’s hope so.

He had a lot of stories- this was one about words. When he was Business Editor at the NYU paper, he was in charge of selling advertising. In order to encourage people to look at the ads, he had a creative idea -- starting a misspelled word contest in the paper; if you found the word, you’d get a prize. Hundreds of people responded, so it was a great success, just one problem. There wasn’t just one misspelled word, there were a whole bunch of them, so it turned out not that economical - they had to give out a lot of prizes.

And of course, Dad loved what words – and stories, and games – do – which is to help us to find our way to other people. In this day of distractions, multitasking, omnipresent phones, Dad was like an antidote. He was all about making the most of those moments we have together.

It didn’t matter if Dad was with people of totally different ages, backgrounds, interests… he had an incredible ability to connect. I have spoken with many people who knew him in recent days, and I’ve been so moved to understand how much even peripheral relationships he had were meaningful and mattered. Even if he only had a few minutes with someone, those were really human moments and they helped make people’s days and also lit up his life.

Of course, I was so fortunate to have  – along with my children – his most intense love, his worry and care and dreams. One of the things I liked most was watching him watch my kids. He had that uncanny ability to just sit back and enjoy, appreciate, to feel with them, find them beautiful and funny and amazing.

I want to thank you all so much for being here. In Jewish tradition, Tikkun Olan is the gathering together of pieces of shattered holiness in an effort to repair the world. Over these last intense days, I feel like I have been so lucky to glimpse pieces of my father that reside in many of you, it has been a great comfort to collect them and to hope that they at the same time stay with you too, and in that way, though I miss him dearly, he is still here, connecting us.

Thank you – my colleagues and friends – so many people from JDC. It means so much that you are here and that I can share this with you. 

To my Dad’s friends at Habonim and CBST, to family friends, to his very dear friends and our family  – I am so grateful for your care for Dad, for the long talks, the beers, and the memories. To Rabbi Kleinbaum – Dad was so inspired by you and I am so thankful that you are with us through this time.

To Karsten, my mom, and my children – your love was sustaining for him and it is for me.

May his memory be a blessing. 

POEM
Joy Personified
No recession could erode the strong silken ocean waves,
Lovely, shining, dancing powers that be.
As we skipped securely along a still vibrant universe's edge.
My 4-year-old grandson; joy personified- (& me) along the sea.
- Ron Neuwirth, September 3, 2009, in The Southampton Press

Moving

We are in the moving end game right now. The apartment we are leaving is a mess and I hope I'll be able to locate my winter shoes again in a few months when they are needed (or even a second pair of shoes in the next two weeks would be nice, not to mention other, more necessary articles of clothing!).

But with a few days still left, I've tried to take some parts slowly. And that's been quite wonderful, not only for the aspirational better-organization, or even the benefits of what I call "shopping at home," but also for what I am looking at and remembering.

I have looked through the cards I received when we were married and on every major family occasion. So many thoughtful wishes, so much time invested in preparing, writing and sending. I know back then I was grateful too, but I wonder whether I had the time and peace of mind to realize just how lovely those greetings were. Some were from colleagues with whom I had no contact outside work: how extraordinarily kind of them to reach out across that boundary and share personal good wishes. With most I haven't kept up contact, and that doesn't seem surprising, but how much I'd like to reach out just one more time to say 'thank you' for their intention and their action-- and to tell them that it meant something then and it does now again.  

Some letters came from people - often from work as well - whom I knew much better but with whom I am no longer in regular touch. Some of them live in other countries, spread across the world. A few of them may even read this blog, which was what motivated me to stop the packing and write again after a bit of a hiatus (how nice to find a way to procrastinate that gets me to stop procrastinating something else!).  Some of those notes were so deeply touching. I had often forgotten the strength of our experiences together. And how movingly these friends articulate what it has meant to work and learn together. It's revelatory for me to realize that while the work we did together is long gone, those human connections were the lasting elements all along. If you are reading this- I hope you know who you are and how much our connection still means to me today.

There are notes from my superiors. I had forgotten how much encouragement I've had over the years. How lucky I am, how motivating those letters are to read even now. As a boss, I need to internalize that lesson. How meaningful it is to feel thanks, and how deeply that can inspire. 

There are a few notes from older friends, parents of my friends, friends of my parents.... How kind that you thought of me and us, how much I appreciate now what it meant to choose to be part of my life as I grew older and changed, and when there were no outside expectations to do so at all. As a kid, I certainly took this for granted, as an adult- I'm afraid I did sometimes too- caught up in my own life as I have been. I hope as an older adult I'll can tap into some of that same ability to care that you have shown.

Some of the notes are from family and dear friends. We've largely stopped writing letters now and I'm sorry about it. There is a permanence, a thoughtfulness, even a literary, storytelling quality that cannot be recovered in other forms. For a few years now I've also begun to appreciate what old friendships and relationships really mean, and why they are so categorically different than new connections, even when they too can be strong in the moment.

Some of the letter writers have passed away. Just a few - but I cannot bear to throw those notes away. Death is such an absolute barrier that it almost seems a miracle to have slipped out those pieces of paper from under its nose. Different from pictures or memories in my own mind, these speak quite literally to me in the voice of the person. I can't even read most of them now, but I'm glad to keep them for later.

I keep my father's notes. He often expresses himself in poems and small rhymes and they are beautiful.

Finally, my dear mother always wishes to be mentioned here, though I don't as a rule write about family, even if my gratitude belongs to them before any others. Here, though, I can say that I have more letters from her than from any other person in the world and that surely means something! My mother's letters document the major and minor hurdles of my life - the births and the birthdays, the successes and the disappointments, and also the small disagreements and the nice afternoons. 

In the end - my pile of letters is smaller but my head more full. And above all, The emotion I experience through this really strong experience of going through letters is that I am so very grateful.

And now... Back to packing!