Loneliness in the Retirement Facility

February 3^rd, – by Howard

Most people living in such a retirement facility in their 80s have already experienced many losses. The most significant of these losses include husbands or wives or mates or life partners of some sort and are now living alone. And find this style of existence a lonely one. I recall one resident, here, HK, a 90 year old widow, who said it directly, “I had a wonderful husband, whom I miss dearly.”  But she then went on to say squarely, “When I moved here, I was hoping to find a replacement for him.”

Unfortunately, this was an impossible dream which she attempted to realize by making herself visible constantly, by sitting in the hallway chairs, greeting all who entered or left. But the greetings exchanged never went beyond disinterested greetings; “ Hello, how are you, good, good, goodbye” Poor woman, but the only other opportunities to meet her neighbors were during meals, because the scheduled Discussion Groups with 30 people represented only an opportunity to listen to some professors spout forth their wisdom, and hardly a place to meet a friend, who you want to know and share ideas with. Where then to meet and make friends?

What Constitutes Good Health?

Feb 2^nd, – by Howard Sachs, MD, PhD,  howardsachs@rocketmail.com

There are great contrasts in the beliefs as to what constitutes good health in this retirement facility in Easthampton with residents aged 68 to 100. I’m a retired neurologist, aged 83, divorced and living alone with the help of 2 aides, one in the morning one at bedtime. My morning aide awakens me at 7:30 AM, helps me with a shower, and dressing. She then makes sure that I take my morning anti – epileptic pills, have a glass of orange juice – I tend  to be hypoglycemic; then bundle me into my cold weather gear before shoving me out the door. I usually walk for 15 to 30 minutes regardless of the temperature, rainn, sunshine or snow. Upon return to my apartment a lovely breakfast of coffee, eggs with a bagel and cream cheese, lox and onions usually awaits me. Often, I’ll lift a 20 pound weight before eating for upper body exercise. This, plus the vigorous walk in the cold plus a low-fat diet free of red meat, I believe constitute a lifestyle designed to avoid obesity, high BP, and heart disease. The cardiovascular exercise, good for the heart is also good for the brain.

Needless to say, this is not a lifestyle, generally accepted by most residents in this retirement community. It’s readily apparent that at least 75% have BMIs in the obese range, and very few engage in cardiovascular exercise, but prefer to delude themselves into believing that the chair – stretching exercises or housework they do, constitute cardiovascular exercises.

The problem of obesity is a forbidden subject for discussion. Unfortunately, the same applies to another mental health problem that overlays life at Lathrop. Here, I refer to an atmosphere of loneliness which encloses the single, divorced or widowed residents. But here again is another forbidden subject for discussion. What I find amazing is that these highly intelligent, successful professionals in their 80s, are unable to discuss or explore deeply aggravating problems about them, or make any effort make the world they live in a happy one.

In Memory of My Brother Bill, Who Died 1/29

My brother, Bill

By Howard Sachs, MD, PhD.

Bill was my big brother, eight years older than me and a role model.  He played a special part in my upbringing as our parents were illiterate immigrants from Eastern Europe, attempting to maintain a traditional, orthodox Jewish way of life – speaking Yiddish at home, maintaining Kosher and observing Jewish holidays and traditions. This family life felt completely at odds with what I needed as a young boy growing up in New York City and it was Bill who made sure that I became “American.”

Because our parents spoke only Yiddish at home, when my brother started public school that was the only language he could speak. Most of the other kids at school were of Irish or Italian descent.  Bill was taunted and ridiculed and subjected to discrimination that left him scarred for life, yet he was never deterred from his intense interest in academic studies. And he made sure that I would never suffer the same fate, teaching me English before I entered public school.

These were the early 1930s, depression years and my father’s sweatshop factory job in the garment industry barely paid the rent for our dingy top floor apartment in the slum section of Brownsville in Brooklyn.  We all contributed by working at various jobs; I shined shoes and delivered newspapers, my sister cleaned apartments and my brother Bill, who was also clever, contributed the most by running errands for an organized crime gang.  This almost got him killed.

The suffering of the poor and the discrepancy between the “haves” and “have-nots’” was very evident in New York and deeply troubled my brother, such that he found the writings of Karl Marx hopeful and inspiring. I did as well, reading at age 12 the books Bill gave me.  In our neighborhood, communists were viewed from a different perspective. I recall coming down into the streets and would witness neighbor families sitting amidst all their belongings, dispossessed from their apartments because they hadn’t paid their rent.  But soon, a group of men would arrive and move them and their belongings back into their apartment. My mother would explain that this group was communists, regarded in our neighborhood as saviors.

My brother was intellectually brilliant. In fact, in college after his sophomore year, he was only allowed to take graduate level courses, the undergraduate level being too easy.  He got a doctorate in Economics, and became a professor at Brown University. This was a remarkable recognition of his scholarly genius, and even more remarkable, considering that there were no books in our home when we were growing up other than a few schoolbooks.

Sadly, my brother finally succumbed to the hatred and discrimination he faced as a Jew.  His way “out” was denial, to no longer be Jewish and he created an alternative life as an Episcopalian.  I stayed Jewish yet remained his favored kid brother.

Bill inspired me with his intense desire for knowledge, his caring for the downtrodden and his guidance through what was a brave new world.  Farewell dear brother.

Haiti — Prevention Worth a Pound of Cure

January  20th  -by Howard Sachs, MD, PhD. howardsachs@rocketmail.com or leave a comment below.

I would like to comment on the daily, daylong news commentaries on the disaster following the first Haiti earthquake and likely to follow today’s earthquake. The disaster that I’m referring to was the inability to deal with the damage and injuries, which occurred during the quake itself. Dramatic TV pictures showed children dying of simple crush injuries, from infections out of control, the latter due to lack of medical supplies that we take for granted, such as sterile washes, bandages and antibiotics. The aid organizations throughout the world are now pleading to collect cash to purchase all these items, which we regard as essential for life in the Western World.

Haiti always was an impoverished land, considered as part of the third world. This third world is known to be devoid of a modern medical infrastructure, common to the West, capable of dealing with such an earthquake crises. But before the CNN news displayed the corpses lining the streets of Port Au Prince, nobody gave a damn about the needs of Third World Medicine.

When Obama mentioned aid for the third world to build infrastructure for a modern, civilized society, he was met with the comments, “There go our taxes.” Small price to pay compared to the billions now required to save the Haitian people.

I witnessed the same on a smaller scale when I did a medical internship in Sri Lanka and in my travels  elsewhere in the third world. Mothers would carry their children on their backs for miles to our hospital to receive treatment for a throat infection, which developed into pneumonia in the hospital, where sick children had to share cots, and again, for lack of simple antibiotics, the mothers could witness their children die.

I often felt useless and stupid in my white coat and stethoscope, when what was needed were common medical infrastructure and supplies. Perhaps had someone in Washington or the UN paid any attention to these needs in Haiti before the earthquake, the horrific crises would not be ravaging the country today.

Hope, and Aging Gracefully

January 14, 2010. by Howard Sachs, MD, PhD –howardsachs@rocketmail.com

Our weekly discussion group attempted to examine this topic, rather unsuccessfully. This is due largely because of the difficulty in framing the question and “for whom?”

For example, “aging gracefully” for seniors already jolted into old age, confined to a wheelchair or already damaged mentally or physically, as compared to the 90 year old who is mentally and physically intact.

In my early 60’s, after two brain surgeries, for the removal of an AVM – arterial venous malformation, I emerged from the hospital after a post-surgical stroke, in a wheelchair.  Even though my brain was relatively intact, I felt that since I could no longer walk and engage in the wonders of nature, that death was preferable. However, if all this happened today, with me at age 83, I think that I would feel differently with an intact brain and neural sensory apparatus. Yes, I could no longer relish that early morning walk, but the great light was not extinct. And here, I refer to that great light of creativity, by which I mean, I could still read and write and delve into and marvel at the wonders of nature, and still interact and love other human beings, even from that wheelchair, I could still experience “that sweet breath of life.”