My Published Articles for ViewsHound: My Senior Citizen Neighbor Lives Alone and the AOA

Saturday, November 19, 2016

My Senior Citizen Neighbor Lives Alone and the AOA

Our beloved 84-year old and Italian-American neighbor has been living alone after her husband died about 5 years ago. According to the 2010 Census, there are more than 11 million Senior Citizens in the US who lives alone majority of them are women. These senior citizens living alone are lonely and we should not forget their needs. The Administration on Aging (AOA) should not forget these senior citizens living alone.

Macrine and I feel sorry for her so Macrine nags me to check on her twice a week just to be sure she is Ok. Since she no longer drives we invite her every week for an afternoon of relaxation at our local Indian Casino. Every now and then I drive her to our nearby grocery and pharmacy stores. Her other friends and neighbors drive her regularly to the grocery store, doctors and dental appointments and to church every Sunday.

Going to the Casino is her only relaxation besides her gardening hobby, she informed us. She is very grateful that we take her to Casino with us. As a return, she cooks us some of her favorite Italian dishes and gave us fruits from her home orchard. Yesterday, she harvested a few oranges and shares a couple fruit with us. This morning she cooked me my favorite soup- a tripe soup with garbanzo beans, cubed potatoes and spiced with parsley in tomato sauce.

For the last couple of years she had vented her loneliness on living alone to both Macrine and I. We suggested she hired a companion and maid to help her with the house hold work and the cleaning of her 4-bedroom and 2-bath home with a big yard planted with more than a dozen fruit trees. She said for the moment she is strong enough and do not need assistance. We also suggested she sells her big house and moved to a 5 star assisted-living residence so she will have the company of other seniors. She did not like this suggestion. She said if the time comes when she is no longer healthy she will rather go back to Italy instead of living in a senior home.

Her situation of living alone inspired me to do some internet search on the disadvantages of senior citizens living alone. Here's an excerpt from my web search.

Physical Safety: Elderly people are often subject to falls. Medical conditions common in elderly people, such as hypertension, diabetes, and heart disease, may affect balance and physical strength. Also, chores requiring the use of a stool or a ladder are best left to non-seniors; however, elderly people living alone often attempt these tasks alone instead of waiting for a friend or family member who can help. In addition, while living with someone may not prevent a fall, it usually means that the victim of a fall gets immediate attention.

Financial Security: Seniors living alone are subject to financial fraud and a variety of scams. Offers that are clearly too good to be true come in the mail. Phone callers fish for personal information and administer a variety of con games that may deprive seniors of their life savings in one fell swoop. Even the Internet, which can connect a lonely senior with the outside world, can be the source of e-mail messages that "phish" for personal information and make fraudulent offers. A companion can help monitor these scams. In addition, a senior living alone may find it costly to live alone.

Nutrition: People who live alone are less likely to prepare nutritious meals than those who share meals with others. They may opt for quick snacks and empty calories, especially if they have a health condition that makes meal preparation tiring or difficult. Social interaction with other people makes it more appealing to sit down for a complete meal. For details visit: http://seniors.lovetoknow.com/disadvantages-elderly-people-living-alone. For more information about senior citizens read: http://www.ioaging.org/aging-in-america

Finally I urged the Trump transition team to appoint a Filipino-American as Director of the Administration of Aging (AOA). I can suggest names of qualified individuals for the job. For more information on AOA read: http://www.aoa.gov/

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

My Senior Citizen Neighbor Lives Alone and the AOA

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