Splitting Morning Pills Proves Tricky for This Fumbling Senior

The crowd of physicians that monitor my body, inside and out, grow every year. Now at my age of 86, they have swelled as if they were suiting up for a competition with a streaming TV medical show.

 While I am grateful for their 20-minute per appointment for me, I am becoming distressed at the amount, cost, and difficulty of swallowing medications each one prescribed. I doubt if I’m alone with this predicament.

 This is my current kvetch. One of the pills that I had been prescribed after a heart attack scare (Tachycardia) requires splitting. No matter that its current size is miniscule, it still must be cut in half. To do this, I remove my eyeglasses, bend my head so I can see closeup, and then maneuver my tiny beta blocker pill to the exact location where the splitter will hack the medicine directly into two doses.

 I am a bombardier, aquiver, but determined to make a direct hit. If I succeed at my mission, my qualms will be mollified. But if I fail, for example, helplessly stare at the tiny half as it jumps from the splitter, lands on the floor, and escapes under the refrigerator, I am a failure.

 Who can I blame for this difficulty, that resembles more a test of skill, than an essential part of my personal caregiving? A younger person may easily accomplish this daily ritual. Alas, at my age, this is a contest I, and other members of my cohort, approach with trepidation.

 Let’s look at the list of culprits guilty for turning my daily task into a trial:

 *My cardiologist who should have realized splitting a wee object might be difficult for someone my age.

*My primary care doctor who is apprised of my daily medications and their instructions.

*My pharmacist who has been providing my medications for some six years and is aware of my age.

*Me, for not alerting the above trio of my difficulty and asking for a remedy.

 Let’s charge all the above with indifference:

 Fortunately, I can count out and place my pills – intact, or in half, in a slender container that hints (faded) the names of the days. But what about my pals? Some have eyesight problems. Others, finger dexterity, A few muddled and unable to remember to swallow them.

 And what if they live alone? No spouse, partner, adult child, caregiver to assist?

 To answer that question, I learned that my local Senior Services Hotline on Aging “can help seniors with their pills and other needs.”

 This was encouraging. But alas, after being switched to various resources, then put on hold, I was asked the name of the senior needing help. But I just wanted information, I answered. “We do not have services for this.”  was the response.

 Undeterred, I posted on Facebook a query on the subject, and several friends pointed me to a service called PillPack, which unsurprisingly is offered by Amazon. It is an option that sorts medications by time and date into tear-and-go packets and delivers to your address monthly.

 With an imagined fedora on my head, I played detective. I started listing medications that the service would swipe from my current pharmacy and covertly become my new and improved provider.

 With the feeling I was having a liaison behind my spouse’s back, I handed over the address of my drugstore. Yes, the one who has served me at least 10 years. The same one that willingly switched impossible-to-open caps to simpler versions. The one who sent me texts my prescription was ready for pickup. I cheated on that one.

 But “latency,” the time data takes to make a round trip from the destination and back halted my duplicitous behavior. PillPack had found my pharmacy but regretted the search would take too long and I should identify another nearby store.

 That was enough for me to ditch the infidelity, whisk off my hat and swear allegiance to my current chain.

Although I had mastered pill splitting, I had lost multiple battles when I attempted to swallow a pill with water. My usual stance was throwing my head back, with water and pill lounging, rather than sliding down my throat. I threw my head back so often, and returned to its rightful place with pill unmolested, that I required a search.

 This is what I found, and it works!

 The lean forward method for swallowing capsules:

Put the capsule on your tongue and take a medium sip of water – do not swallow yet.

Bend the head forward by tilting your chin slightly toward your chest.

Swallow the capsule and the water with the head bent forward.

My addition: paste your chin to your chest while attempting this maneuver.

 And if that doesn’t quiet your mind, there’s a pill for that.

𝗥𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗴𝗼 𝗔𝘁𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗚𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗦𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗘𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗦𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗛𝗼𝗹𝗺𝗲𝘀

Friends of Robert Sharfman, a retired attorney living in Chicago, have expressed concern. “I knew he was a fan of Sherlock Holmes, but now he has long been missing,” said a stalwart chum who had last shared a pint and cigar with the 89-year-old retired attorney. “Could his adoration for Holmes be tied to his disappearance?

Sharfman’s three adult children were queried about their parent’s absence, but they brushed off the elder gentleman’s worries. “Father would never leave us without notice, " they assured the wo​rrier. He is a man of honor and responsibility. He surely will turn up soon.”

Alas, Sharfman, a member of the heralded Bakers Street Irregulars, could be found in flight. Another meeting, to be attended by his group of intellectual mates, beckoned.

If this cluster of friends used observation and deduction, techniques perfected by the famous detective created by Arthur Conan Doyle, they might’ve first secured Sharfman’s daily calendar, and on the day in question, learned that their venerated friend and father was on his way to Tokyo.

Perusing Sharman’s study on a ​recent visit to his flat, led me to this plaque on a wall, “The Baker Street Irregulars literary society is dedicated to the study of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Victorian world. Founded in 1934, the BSI is the oldest Sherlockian society in the world.  Membership in the BSI international group is by invitation only. We do not take membership applications.”

I remember reading the words, Sharfman watching my reaction, likely disappointed that I failed to register sufficient awe.

The writer of this piece is a friend of the person under scrutiny. In a meeting, prior to the current mystery, with recorder capturing the protagonists’ words, she learned that Sharfman, a voracious reader not only of Holmes, but also scribblers of politics and diplomatic history, had been a fan of Doyle’s for many years. But it was only more recently, with retirement and age factoring into the equation, that Sharfman had been engulfed. It was as if he had found a paradise and packed his suitcase to retire there surrounded by like Doyle aficionados.

“I learned the Bakers Street Irregulars were some of the smartest people I’ve met,” he confessed. His eyes bright, his voice wistful. He had appeared to happen upon a buried treasure. “I figure if I could hang out with them, maybe I’d get smart, too.” I chuckled, realizing it was whimsy.

Not satisfied with the answer, I plunged ahead. “But what is it about the books, 56 stories and four novels in all, that has drawn you in,” I said, relentless as a bloodhound on the scent of a serial killer.”

“It’s good literature,” he responded firmly. Was I a simpleton who couldn’t understand the language? Noting my silence, he continued, “The noble language, the themes, justice, fair play.”  He didn’t say it, but from the chagrin look on his face, he surely seemed to think me uneducated.

But despite Sharfman’s judgment, I could imagine the atmosphere of 19th century London. I saw fog, the River Thames, cobblestones. There were villains in gangways. Pickpockets scanning their marks. All sorts of dodgy souls darkening the scenes.

“Holmes use of forensics placed him ahead of his time,” Sharfman said, rousing me from my trance. I felt a kindergartener first learning the alphabet. I realized I’d have to up my game to gain this fan’s tolerance.

He leaned back in his chair, sighed and told me of his latest activity related to his fervor. “I’ve been granted access to papers at the Newberry Library,” he said, referring to our city’s prestigious independent research library. He was puffed up like a recipient of the Nobel.

“Can you imagine,” he said. “Me and intellectual nerds. Going through boxes of pages. Some so delicate, you must wear gloves.” I did imagine, and in my mind’s eye, saw a friend growing younger.

I could visualize him, in the same cohort of age (I am 86) engrossed in the writings of likely the most famous detective in the world. I could see Sharfman’s smile, his sense of importance, and the satisfaction of discovering a pastime and people that will be his favored companions as he edges closer to age 90.

Instead of a man of advanced age, I saw now sitting across from me a young man. Handsome with the love of a new liaison. Was I jealous? I am not ashamed to admit the pages of “A Study in Scarlet” have led me to “The Sign of Four.” Only two more novels and 56 stories to go.

I’m 86. Am I Too Old to Resurrect My Dormant PR Company?

The business cards had been sitting on a shelf in my closet. The checkbooks nestling in their plastic folder. Both office products assuming they could snooze for the long haul.

Unfortunately, the long haul turned out abruptly shorter than either of my left-over office supplies expected.

As I’ve written previously on this website, I recognized that my children, transformed from coddling in my care, were now being elevated to MY caretakers. Not physical. I am gratefully shallow on wear and tear. It’s the need called Money.

I know I’m not alone on my self-pity. I had fallen into the well and am awaiting Lassie or other first responders to rescue me. In my case, that would be my adult children.

But I’ve begun to realize that if I’m hauled out of the depth, I would be unrecognizable. Pitiful. Sullen. Accusatory. Drenched in my own disappointment. Is that me?

This morning, though, I awoke with a thought: instead of finding a cheaper apartment to cut expenses, instead of depending on my children for support, instead of embarrassing myself by crawling to my ex-spouse for help, I could resurrect my once successful Elaine Soloway Public Relations business, which I launched in 1980 at the age of 52.

And to bolster my plan, I did some research to learn if I was an outlier at my age or was I trending. An online search revealed I was hardly unique. According to the Feb.  27, 2024 US Census Bureau, “…the 80-plus worker is now becoming a recognized feature of the workforce. As reported by the Los Angeles Daily News, 650,000 Americans aged 80 and more are still working.

Not only was I trending, I realized that in the years since I hit snooze on my business, I had acquired new knowledge and experiences that could broaden my client base.

For example, let’s turn to my offspring. Through their successful TV production of “Transparent” and other recognitions of their own genders, I have become schooled in LGBTQ+ issues. A client attempting to write about this awakening -- that wasn’t so evident in my first go-around -- has become an important and emotional topic. I feel more competent than others not similarly schooled to advise clients.

And because I am active on Facebook, daily sharing three paragraphs from a roster of newsprint and Substacks, I have acquired journalist friends. In my previous life, I admit to being afraid to to phone potential reporters to attempt publicity for clients. Now, with their names and contact info in my address list, I’m plucky.

Of course, my greatest gift received over the years of my company’s absence, is my own aging. I speak Caregiving, Widowhood, Grief, Poverty, and other topics clients might find useful.

But before I put up a sign and turn on the lights, I must learn why I stopped my business. If I was successful enough to have mostly non-profit clients and good results that pleased them, why did I Ieave without the possibility of growing funds?

Let’s point the finger to wishful thinking. Instead of telling the stories, accomplishments, and needs of nonprofits, I wanted to tell my own. I wanted to be an author. Someone who envisioned me at the table of a bookstore. A stack of my latest memoir or nonfiction at my elbow. A line of friends and acolytes stretching from me to the door.

Without a business to oversee, I wrote four books: The Division Street Princess; Essays: Green Nails and Other Acts of Rebellion, Life After Loss; Bad Grandma and other tales of a life lived out loud; and a novel, She’s Not the Type.

Proudly I can report I did have readings and signings at prestigious book sellers in Chicago, Winnetka, and Los Angeles. What I didn’t have was money rolling in. Oh, there were bits and pieces I had to add to my income taxes, but not enough to pave a secure road ahead.

And then I found homes for essays: Facebook, The Washington Post, The Chicago Sun-Times, Chicago Tribune, and others.

And then there was Tommy. In 2010 or thereabouts, because this illness can be undetected for years, my second husband developed Frontal Temporal Dementia. Distraction from my own company, or working for others, was too challenging. Until Tommy died in 2018, I was his parent, caregiver, sweetheart, and security guard. Taking care of clients was unthinkable. And sadly, focusing on our draining finances couldn’t find an inroad.

I realize there are many others with stories like my own who manage to be caregivers and financially safe. Alas, I championed in one and lost in the other.

So now, with only my dog Doris to watch over, and the daily surprises aging brings, will I follow through on reviving my business? Or will I lose courage? No worries, I’m sure I’ll write about it.

I think President Biden is being selfish and the Democratic Party is acting like a bully.

𝐀𝐮𝐠. 𝟐𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 I think President Biden is being selfish and the Democratic Party is acting like a bully. (Submitted to Chicago Tribune on this date, but declined. I was prescient.)

I voted for Joe Biden in 2020. I’ve been proud of his accomplishments as our President. And when Barack Obama was president, I was grateful Biden served as his Vice President.

That’s 12 years of White House service. Enough, President Biden. It’s time to step aside and let another qualified Democratic run in 2024.

I’m old, 84, so you can’t accuse me of ageism. But why are we handing over a playbook to the Republicans? They’re making no secret they’ll be focusing on Biden’s age. While Democrats will be touting all the Biden administration’s accomplishments, Republicans will be featuring his every gaff and misstep.

And why does the Democratic Party seem timid to suggest the above? The polls, with Biden behind the horrific Trump, should be evidence that a great economy, favoring access to abortion, and being a hero for those disadvantaged and threatened, doesn’t move his approval numbers upward.

It’s not as if we have an empty bench. For starters, let’s consider Gov. Gavin Newsom of California and Gov. J.B. Pritzker of my home state, Illinois,

These two leaders, who enjoy large constituent support, recently made statements that groomed each more attractive to me. Gov. Newsome declared that California would be manufacturing insulin, thereby bypassing the high and unconscionable prices of current providers. Several members of my family are diabetic and depend upon the lifesaving drug.

Gov. Pritzker announced that Illinois would be a haven for those seeking abortions but are banned by their home states. The monstrous men who have judged they know what's best for women's bodies must be stopped. Additionally, Pritzker is Jewish. What a mitzvah it would be to finally see someone of my tribe achieve the presidency.

Gov. Newsome is 55 and Gov. Pritzker, 58. They are closer to the age of my adult children. I have seen firsthand how that particular stage of life can be especially creative, fruitful, and compassionate.

And if others show potential in the Democratic race in 2024 -- let's say Stacy Abrams or Pete Buttigieg -- I'll cheer for their arrival on the field, too.

So, dear President Biden, consider the alternative to running. You’ll go down in history as one of the most successful leaders our country has had. Why not take the trophy and exit the stage. And as to the Democratic Party, lay off bullying members and admit you have the same wish.

-----------------------------------

I moved to the East Coast to be nearer my children. I moved back to Chicago to be closer to me.

I moved to the East Coast to be nearer my children. I moved back to Chicago to be closer to me.

If you took bets on how long I would last in PTOWN, and selected one month, you win! Mazel Tov!

But if you’re envisioning a contrite 85-year-old, and two offspring shedding tears, you’d be way off.

The three of us had a marvelous time engaging in heartfelt talks, admitting our foibles, and sharing hugs that will keep us entwined and besotted no matter where we live.

First, the positives of life in an LGBTGQ-friendly artists’ colony on Cape Cod: the sunrises are gorgeous! The population the friendliest I’ve ever encountered. And the beach kissing an ocean is a most marvelous romp for my dog Doris and her visiting canines, Sheldon and Moose.

The difficulties, which I won’t paint as negative because the effects are particular to me: my age, and my anxiety level. But if you don’t have my conditions, you would think you had died and gone to paradise. Especially if you are a member of the six initials noted above.

Where other towns and cities may turn their backs on those who do not fit the gender norm they worshipped since Sunday school, PTOWN adores and celebrates the lifestyle. Same sex couples walking together along the commercial strip of town don’t win a second glance. Nonbinary and Transgender folks stroll happily confident of their pride and safety. Perhaps me, with nary an elderly gal at my side, draws more queries and looks. But again, the folks here are so very nice!

One primary challenge is the need for a car to get around. I relinquished my drivers license some 14 years back and never regrated. That wise Elaine, not the blunder who stirred the pot until the stew boiled over, had wisely rented an apartment a few feet from public transportation.

While taxis and Uber are readily available in PTOWN, and Doris and I never had a problem calling for one, a $26 round-trip to a hardware store warned me of budgetary trouble ahead.

My second trial was facing PTOWN’s ferocious ocean waves. As if payment for the stunning sunrises, the ocean occasionally became jealous. angry. Facing the possibility of blackouts and slippery walks added to my accustomed anxiety.

Doris, my 6-year-old rescue, had mixed feelings about this new scene. She was in rapture on the beach outside our dwelling, where she chased and was chased by other PTOWN dogs. But walking along the narrow sidewalks, where one exposes fur and flesh to passing cars, was terrifying for both pet and person. When she balked, pressing her 35 pounds to the cobbled walk, and remained as immovable as a statue, I had to surrender and turn back.

Once I made the decision to return to Chicago, I have had to face guilt and embarrassment. My children have attempted to wipe away my remorse. They are as supportive as a boxing match’s corner man. “You did nothing wrong,” they insist. They hug me. Applaud my courage for attempting my moon shot. Promise to visit more in Chicago. Think I’m amazing.

 Yet part of me believes they are stifling another reaction: relief. Joey had assigned two people to watch over me when she was out of town. Both have become dear friends who will remain so from afar. Faith watched my every step during their visit to PTOWN. “How I’ve lived this long without your surveillance is a miracle,” I would say, a bit cheeky.

To find refuge and familiarity, I am returning to the high-rise I left in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. Not the one-bedroom I departed as casually as a gourmand moving a plain bagel from her plate, but to a more affordable studio apartment.

Along with embarrassment, I must eat my words. And it is a meal packed with stomach-turning ingredients. To bolster my reason for my cross-country move, I disparaged my former neighborhood. Busy streets make crossing with tail-tucked dog a challenge, I tossed.

And I protested young neighbors who, upon entering the elevator, dodged a Good Morning and instead buried brows in palm-nested iPhones.

Further, to justify my relocation to a scenic village, I complained about daredevil pilots of electric scooters and bicycles. I will nosh on those complaints, too.

To balance my contrite and restore my once-healthy body, I’ll renew membership in my nearby health club. I prize its indoor swimming pool that enabled my thrice-weekly practice of the hard-won exercise learned at age 80.

And if you’re wondering what became of my deceased husband’s ashes, that I had contemplated scattering in the ocean, they’re back home with me. Untouched.