KQED Perspectives

(July 21, 2008) Hear the audio version

Like many baby boomers, I’ve been helping to care for my parents just as my kids are leaving home. Some older people, like small children, require a lot of medical care. Bones break, systems fail after eight or nine decades of use. The inclination is to do anything possible to fix whatever’s broken. After all, we have modern medicine. We did that for my mother for most of the last year of her life, until, while lying in the ICU, she looked up at her favorite surgical resident and said clearly and with a sound mind, “Enough. No more operations. Take me off life support and let me go home to die.” Which Mom did, with dignity and the chance to say goodbye to those she loved.

Now I’m trying to care for my dad with my mom’s wisdom. It hasn’t been easy, especially after Dad had a heart attack. The chaotic pace during a four-day stay in our local, high-tech university hospital made me dizzy. Eventually, however, his daily report changed from “lousy” to “pretty good, thank you.”

That’s when the time came to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n the specialists eager to perform follow-up tests and procedures. Some geriatricians call it slow medicine – that is, the practice of not doing everything we can just because we can, and because older people can pay for it, for they’re covered by a great government-funded universal health insurance program, Medicare. Dad’s internist, a perceptive physician I’ve worked with the past year, prefers to call it “thoughtful medicine.” What are the real goals? The benefits? Side effects? Potential harm? Why subject Dad to a complicated procedure if we could not – or would not – do anything about what we might find out? What if doing so caused new complications? Deciding not to do something is a decision in itself. Dad, after all, is feeling “pretty good.” We need to listen to him instead of focusing on how long we might be able to get him to live.

My father’s 83. He’s slowing down. When I take him somewhere he’ll tell me to run along ahead of him. “Nope, Dad,” I say. “I’m right here beside you, all the way.”

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

In loving memory of my dear mother, Lavon Elaine Johnson Duncan, July 24, 1925 – February 15, 2008. I miss her every day. She was my biggest fan.

(June 9, 2008) Hear the audio version

My youngest is graduating from high school this week. Thus it is, to borrow a phrase from a wonderful commencement address by Adlai Stevenson, the last of my springs. For many – and perhaps most parents, this would be a melancholy moment, filled with musings about the impending empty nest and laments along the lines of “I can’t believe my baby is graduating!” But for me it’s Hallelujah, hooray, and pass the cabernet! Or as Bob Dylan put it, “I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.”

I have been a public school parent for 18 years. Though I’ll always be grateful to my daughters’ teachers for providing a solid education, I will not miss waking my child up early for school when I know she needs more sleep. I won’t miss observing a morning meltdown over a missing stamped first draft of an English paper, or having to track down the elusive ingredient for a final Spanish project. Like her sisters, my youngest will face academic and personal challenges in college. I’ll hear about some of them via cell phone or email. But I won’t have to witness the daily struggles. I’ve done that. I’m still relieved my daughters survived middle school mean girls, high school expectations and college entrance exams and applications. My classic stress dream of finally finding my high school math class the day of the final (it was up the down staircase) is occasionally replaced by my nightmare of the power going out in our house the night before SAT’s, and everyone oversleeping.

I miss my kids when they go off to college. But if they’re doing well – wherever they are – so am I. I don’t need to hold on to my children to feel good as a parent. In fact, if I’ve done my job right, I’ll work my way out of a job as my daughters become self-sufficient, independent adults, the sort of grown-ups I’d want to have as friends or colleagues.

So I don’t expect to be sad on this final graduation night. I will congratulate my daughter and her high school friends for their remarkable tenacity and achievements, and look forward to the next phase of all of our lives.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(December 13, 2007) Hear the audio version

My husband and I have worked out our “who does what” responsibilities quite nicely over 26 years of marriage and raising three daughters: he does most of the grocery shopping, I shop the farmers markets, he does the dishes, I bake the gluten-free bread, he takes the kids shopping for our Christmas tree . . . make that used to. Year before last, with two daughters on their way home from college and one husband on a business trip, I decided it was my time to pick out the tree. It is, after all, my favorite Christmas decoration. I love the smell of the tree and the ornaments I take out every year, and the light it brings into our home in the dark of December.

I chose to avoid pricey lots on the Peninsula and tried something different. That Saturday, my youngest and I drove over the hill and through the traffic to Half Moon Bay and a Christmas tree farm. Of course I had no idea how difficult it would be to saw through a tree trunk. Molly and I took turns for an hour and had gloriously sore muscles to show for it the next day. We dragged our tree to the stand where a stocking-capped helper put netting around it and tied it to the roof of the car. That part was easy. And I know the tree was cheaper than Bill normally paid. So, Molly and I went back last year . . . and chose a skinnier tree.

After spending much of this year trying to be “greener,” I worried I was making a big environmental boo-boo. Perhaps a fake tree would be a softer touch on Mother Earth than hacking a tree from the land and sticking it indoors for a few weeks, then depositing it curbside – to be recycled. But still . . .

Happily, I don’t have to go faux. Most fake trees come from China. We know the reputation those imports have earned this year. While fake trees can be re-used, they are not recyclable. My tree farm tree is only a 13-mile drive away, while the fake tree has a 6,000 mile voyage. Plus, I’m supporting a Bay Area farmer, and I can see for myself the smaller trees planted to replace those we take away. I did buy new LED Christmas tree lights this year, and vow to put fewer presents (all “wrapped” in reusable bags) under this year’s tree that will smell just like Christmas.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(April 3, 2007) Hear the audio version

D: Molly, you’re a Giants fan.

M: Yeah, Mom.

D: So today’s Opening Day.

M: Yep.

D: Back in the 60’s –

M: – the old days.

D: Right, the old days. San Francisco Giants fans knew who’d be on the team every year.

M: Who?

D: Mays, McCovey, Marichal, Cepeda, and an Alou –

M: – or two or three.

D: Right. But these days fans need a cheat sheet to know who’s on first.

M: Richie’s on first.

D: Rich Aurilia?

M: Yep.

D: But Richie’s a shortstop.

M: Except when he’s on first. Omar’s at short, Ray-Ray’s on second, and Pedro’s at third.

D: Hey! I know them. This isn’t so hard –

M: – except when Klesko’s on first.

D: You said Richie was on first!

M: Except when Sweeney’s on first.

D: MAKE UP YOUR MIND, MOLLY! Who is on first?

M: Lance Niekro?

D: The Giants have FOUR first-basemen?

M: Yep.

D: I don’t get it. It wasn’t that long ago when we needed only one first-baseman, the great J.T. Snow.

M: We HAVE J.T. Snow.

D: Then why do the Giants need anyone else on first???

M: J.T. retired, Mom. He’s a coach. And broadcaster.

D: Okay. Who’s in left?

M: Barry.

D: Barry Bonds?

M: Yep.

D: For one more year?

M: At least.

D: Okay . . . Who’s in center?

M: Dave Roberts.

D: The guy I call the jackrabbit, who ran around the bases for the Red Sox to come back against the Yankees in the ’04 playoffs? He’s a Giant now?

M: Yep, and he’s batting leadoff. He should get ON first a lot.

D: When he isn’t playing center.

M: Yep.

D: I like it. Who’s in right?

M: Randy Winn.

D: But he’s a center-fielder.

M: Roberts is in center. Winn’s in right.

D: Who’s pitching?

M: Barry.

D: You said Barry was in left!

M: Barry BONDS is in left, Barry ZITO is on the mound.

D: Barry Zito the A’s pitcher?

M: No, Barry Zito the Giants’ pitcher.

D: He left the A’s –

M: – and signed with the Giants.

D: Good! So who else’s gonna help the Giants win games this year?

M: LOTS of guys: Matt Cain –

D: – who’s your sister’s age.

M: Yep. And Noah Lowry and Bengie Molina and Todd Linden and Kevin Frandsen.

D: Got it. I hate to ask this, but . . . any of them play first?

M: Uh-huh.

D: So who’s on first?

M: Kevin. When it’s not Richie or Ryan or Mark or Lance –

D: Molly!

M: What?

D: Let’s just get on the train and go to the ballpark.

M: I’m ready!

D: With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

M: And I’m Molly Duncan Stone.

D & M: Play ball!

(January 18, 2007) Hear the audio version

I was fixing breakfast when I heard the news about the dramatic drop in breast cancer rates from 2002 to 2003 – 7 percent nationwide, 11 percent in California. Turn up the radio, stop the presses! After years of attending memorial services for our friends, holding our mothers’ hands during their chemotherapy treatments, and wondering “Who’s next?” or “Will I be that one in eight who gets it?” there was an actual decline in breast cancer incidence – the first since 1945. The hypothesis? Millions of women stopped hormone replacement therapy for menopausal symptoms in 2002 after a national study concluded that it slightly increased breast cancer risk. Stop taking hormones, and the fuel supply for certain tumors is cut off. This could explain the higher-than-average breast cancer rate, and subsequent drop, in places like Marin County, where more women have access to health care, and hormone therapy was standard – until four years ago.

Fortunately, I’m not one of the thousands who took hormones and also developed breast cancer. I’d be mad as hell if I had, even if the relationship between the two isn’t yet confirmed. Doctors were far too eager to prescribe hormones for what is a normal, natural change in women’s bodies.

I take breast cancer seriously, and personally. It killed my aunt. My mother has had two kinds of breast cancer. So when my younger cousin was diagnosed with it three years ago, I consulted the oncologist I credit with keeping my dear mother alive. She recommended I begin taking tamoxifen, which blocksestrogen. So long menstrual periods, hello hot flashes! Suddenly I knew quite well why women had asked for hormone replacements. But . . . I’ve decided to live with that space-heater feeling that suddenly comes over me. So have millions of other post-menopausal women who, ten years ago, might have been on hormone replacement therapy. Be patient with us. We’re trying to stick around so our children can take care of us in our oldage.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan.

(September 12, 2006) Hear the audio version

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. No, thank you.” Everywhere these days, on the airwaves or on the street, a virtual ping-pong match of thank yous concludes every conversation, while the simple, elegant, and correct reply, “You’re welcome,” has gone the way of the Betamax. “Enough already, thank you very much.” It’s time to rescue “You’re welcome” and return it to its humble but rightful place in polite discourse.

Talking heads are among the worst offenders. They’re usually experts on the topic under discussion, so it’s their job to speak eloquently and knowledgably. By parroting “Thank you,” what exactly are they thanking the interviewer for? I don’t know. Does false modesty prohibit them from replying “You’re welcome”? Then to be honest, they should say, “Aw shucks, thanks for asking my opinion.”

Or . . . has the “Thank you” echo become a mindless habit? Clearly, it has already spread beyond the broadcast media. I’ve caught myself repeating “Thank you,” even though I object to it. Every week I thank the people who thank me when I buy organic lettuce, heirloom tomatoes, crispy apples, and other goodies at the farmers market. I am thankful they grow this delicious produce that feeds and nourishes my family. Maybe I should smile and reply, “Thank you for coming to market,” or “See you next week.” More thoughtful, less mechanical.

Repeating “Thank you” also invites that silly, repetitive gratitude loop that’s in danger of ending with “No problem,” just to terminate the dialogue. [Gasp!] Oh, no, not that! “No problem” is the other increasingly common response to “Thank you,” especially among young people.

“You’re welcome” won’t come back unless you and I bring it back. And in the process, we will be setting a good example for our language-challenged media.

With a Perspective, I’m Debbie Duncan. Thank you!