Next week marks my 3,652 day as an assisted living resident – my ten-year anniversary as a member of America’s Institutional Aging Community.

Statistically, only 1 in 25,000 residents over 55 survives that long. And when you  factor into this equation my Young-Onset Parkinson’s, Congestive Heart Failure and two Pulmonary Embolisms, the odds become astronomical. (My first order of business upon waking every morning  is to acknowledge, with gratitude and astonishment,  that I actually woke up!)

Yet, here I am, after 63 years, still inhaling and exhaling. Still setting my quality-of-life indicator at its highest setting — indicating that despite ravaging tremors, excruciating pain and a failing heart that often makes me fight for each breath, I not only refuse to lay down and die — I  still squeeze what joy and inspiration I can from these ten-trillion cells called Martin Bayne.

And how do I continue to put one foot in front of the other in this often-disappointing and painful journey I call my life? In a word: purpose.

Purpose is the magic elixir that trumps pain, transcends any notion of limitation and opens our minds and hearts to possibility.

It is also the single most accurate predictor of joy and fulfillment in an aging population.

Which brings me to the reason I wrote this post — to share my anniversary with you in a format of “incremental victories.”   To openly share the ten-faceted jewel of knowledge and wisdom I’ve been given in exchange for all the pain and tremors.  Guard it well.

1. With stillness, we lay the foundation. 

When the mind settles, we become clear.

2. With courage, we move forward-despite our fear.

An authentic warrior recognizes fear as an ally.

3. With forgiveness, we discover true freedom.

One-hundred-years from now, what difference will it make?

4. With insight, we accept the change of life’s seasons.

We come, we go.  Can you remember the face you had before you were born?

5. With gratitude, we honor our elders.

Who determines who is “young” and who is “old?” Why, you, of course.

6. With tenderness, we turn the stream of compassion within.

She who has herself as playmate, coach and advisor, is a fortunate woman.

7. With faith, we learn surrender.

Give your heart away completely. It will always find its way home, bearing gifts.

8. With mindfulness, we do just this thing, now.

Life in the past and future — the cruelest prison of all.

9. With generosity, we make ourselves available to serve.

When duality drops away, who is serving and who is being served?

10. With purpose, we acknowledge our mission.

Purpose is our map; determination the vehicle.

Copyright 2013 Martin Bayne

You! That’s right, you, the author of a new book on elder care, or “long-term care expert,” or Assisted Living CEO…

It’s shower time!

What I’m about to say may not seem important to you, but I CAN ASSURE YOU it’s damn important to me, and millions like me. (But don’t worry, your time is coming.)

Next to toileting, showering  it’s one of our most intimate and private moments. And here’s how it works, for example, in an assisted living facility.

You’re a shy, reserved, 86 year-old recent widow with episodes of syncope.. With the exception of your husband and doctor, you’ve never disrobed in front of anyone. Suddenly, you find yourself  stripping down in front of  a  twenty-something year-old man whose name you don’t even know.

Want to have some real fun? In our example, let’s mix up the genders and ages. And don’t forget about the “trainees” who pop in during your shower to observe.

Now, here’s the worst part: just when you’ve finally become comfortable with someone undressing/washing/dressing you, that person gets sucked into the Great Personal Care Attendant Revolving Door.  Why?  Because these  angels of mercy — many are women of color, doing their best to raise young children — quickly discover you can’t pay the rent and feed the children on $8.50/hr.

Could you?

    When the plane had climbed to 13,500 feet, I checked the wind one final time and nodded to the pilot. Then, with the usual mixture of terror and exhilaration, I slowly pushed off the wing mount and into the stuff of dreams. Within ten seconds my body had reached terminal velocity, the speed at which air resistance equals the force of gravity. I was in free fall.

Unfortunately, human language skills – only 160,000 years old – are inadequate to describe my experience during the next minute, but sufficient to say that I now understand why sky divers routinely risk their lives for those precious sixty seconds. I broke the free fall 3,800 feet above the target or “jump run” by deploying my pilot chute, which in turn caused my main canopy to unfold and grab a piece of the early morning sky. As my feet touched solid ground, I pondered the realization that I was now irrevocably stuck between earth and the heavens.

For a moment, let’s imagine another scenario. One in which something goes wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Same skydiver, same free fall. But this time, when he reaches for his pilot chute to deploy the main canopy, he discovers to his horror that there is no chute assembly. No pilot chute, no primary chute and no reserve. There is only panic. And waiting. In his last moments of consciousness, hurtling toward a Mobil Mart at 160 miles/hour, he glances skyward. Planes as far as the eye can see. Jumpers leaping through twin-prop bay doors fill the air like locusts; their numbers so great they virtually block out the sun. He wonders how his obituary will read, as the sky rains a steady downpour of terror and flailing limbs.

And not a parachute among them.

The American long-term health care system is caught in an uncontrolled free fall – plunging to earth in a death spiral. And each day, thousands of individuals – rich and poor, black and white – stand on line at 15,000 feet, sipping a glass of Chardonnay or reading a book, only to find themselves moments later plunging towards earth and their inevitable destiny. And it is all so unnecessary.

There are times, however, when skydiving metaphors let us off the hook. They take us miles from the ugly, nauseating, wretched, truth of what we really do to our chronically ill and our frail elders – and, thus, to each other and ourselves. So I will help us remember. Not from some misguided sense of benevolence, but of necessity. I, too, am one of the walking wounded; a 62 year-old resident of an assisted living facility, Read more →

By Martin Bayne

Imagine you are 70, your spouse has just died and your children have decided it’s no longer safe or prudent for you to live alone. It’s your worst nightmare—complete with memories of the insecurities and trepidation felt in the first days of school, but this time it’s an assisted living facility, and, like you, the other “kids” are in their 70s, 80s and 90s. For many assisted living residents, the first days and weeks are the most traumatic. 1VIany arrive in a surreal haze—some, just days after burying their spouse; others following years of steady losses to a chronic illness like Parkinson’s. And then there are the legions of poor souls with cognitive disorders, who neither understand why they’re sleeping in a different bed nor know who just served them breakfast. And every resident is susceptible to the ambient despair that conies with the recognition of their community’s unprecedented levels of dementia, disability, depression and death.

Rethinking Assisted Living At age 52, I entered an assisted living facility because I had young-onset Parkinson’s disease. But my knowledge and experience of long-term care go beyond living in an assisted living facility As the publisher from 1993 to 2001 of the website, MrLTC.com, I have had the opportunity to interview Hillary Clinton, Jimmy Carter, Clint Eastwood and a number of other prominent Americans about long-term care.

For many assisted living residents, the first days and weeks of residency are the most traumatic.

After nearly a decade as an assisted living resident, I decided it was time to create the next generation of assisted living communities. I developed a program called Therapeutic Assisted Living, which I believe will change the way Americans think about institutional aging. My vision of Therapeutic Assisted Living is made up of two immutable truths, eight principles and five interventions.

A New Vision, Parsed The two immutable truths are that aging and death are natural attributes of being human, and love and compassion are the most powerful forces in the universe. The eight principles of Therapeutic Assisted Living, which originated in my practice as a Zen Buddhist monk, are that with stillness, we lay the foundation; with courage, we move forward—despite our fear; with forgiveness, we discover true freedom; with insight, we accept the change of life’s seasons; with gratitude, we honor our ancestors; with tenderness, we turn the stream of com-passion within; with faith, we learn surrender; with mindfulness, we do just this thing, now.

The five interventions make up a set of instructions, or an operational guide, for a Therapeutic Assisted Living community. First, there should be a Welcoming Committee—each new resident should be greeted by a group of existing residents. The interchange is simple, yet the rewards are often profound for new residents. There should be a Peer Support Group, a weekly, residents-only meeting. This provides a safe, supportive environment for honest exchange between community members on myriad issues. This group is the heart of the community, and its objective—purposeful living—the soul. A Crisis Team, made up of residents, should be available to other residents around the clock. This team is composed of three or four residents who agree to be available at all times for any resident who asks for their help. A Crisis Team member is not a therapist, psychologist or professional healer, but simply some-one willing to listen, comfort and demonstrate compassion to a resident in trauma. To anyone who has ever suffered a panic attack at 3:00 a.m, and just needed a kind and reassuring voice to walk them through the rough spots—not an often-ambivalent ambulance crew or 10 hours in an emergency room—this concept needs no explanation.

Community Volunteering is a key component as volunteering says to the world, “I am worthwhile; a fellow human being with something to offer, regardless of my age.”

A Peer Support Group is the heart of the community, and its objective—purposeful living—the soul.

And finally, there should be Legacy When a resident dies, the community should come together to honor and pay respect to one of their own as the fallen resident embarks on the Great Adventure. Therapeutic Assisted Living says “dying is completely safe,” and if all goes well, the residents can expect to be greet-ed by another Welcoming Committee, albeit one with a bit more spirit.

Martin Bayne, who lives in Pennsylvania, has been an assisted living resident for more than 10 years, and credits many of his ideas to his experience as a Zen Buddhist monk and an MIT scholar. His website is TheVoice0fAgingBoomers.com and his literary journal—showcasing authors ages 60 and older—can be found at TheFeatheredFlounder.com.

Eight days ago, I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. An Emergency Room physician told me I nearly bought the farm.

But it was not to be. Not this time. Not this farmer.

Let me tell you  a little something about dying  and The Farm.

First and foremost – DYING IS COMPLETELY SAFE!

And The Farm is home to every human being that ever existed, and will ever exist.

Where does that leave Heaven and Hell. Nowhere . . .

The existence of Heaven was created for children to lessen their fear of death. It was sublime poetry meant to lift the soul and soothe the spirit. And like Santa Claus, most kids who made it to adulthood, understood that although its presence was a myth, it was a beautiful myth, worth passing down to their children and their children’s children.

But then religion changed everything.

Today, most folks need to believe in Hell, because it’s easier to create eternal  punishment than it is to embrace the concept of forgiveness in the present moment.

This morning, at approximately 6:00 a.m., I fell while attempting to make my way to the bathroom.

The position I landed in – because of my Congestive Heart Failure – made it almost impossible to breathe.

After activating the emergency pendant I wore around my neck, I knew my top priority was to get my breathing panic under control. I systematically began a series of deep inhalations through my nose, then I would hold it for a second, and exhale through my mouth.

It was a strategy that immediately paid dividends. I began to slow down physiologically and emotionally.

Turns out, I had plenty of time to ponder my situation — not one of the personal care aides responded to the emergency beacon for almost a full half-hour.

In fact, if it wasn’t for an aide, starting her shift, who’d  heard my screams, I might still be lying on the floor.

By the time someone did respond, I was enraged — but NOT at the aides or any of the staff — no, I was enraged at the owner.

The owner, one of the largest private  real estate developers in Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley,  despite the fact he is a well educated, savvy business man, seems to have a fatal flaw in his business acumen when it comes to the top-down management system he’s created for the assisted living facility where I reside. He doesn’t seem to “get it” or just doesn’t care about the very real problem of employee turnover in the three facilities he owns. If this was just a problem “on paper,” that would be one thing — but it’s not. By paying his Personal Care Aides (PCAs) substandard wages, he creates a revolving door system of confusion and resentment for the residents. 95-year-old residents don’t appreciate the legions of new caregivers that come and go, day after day. And the decision makers for the residents (usually a child or children) aren’t usually around the facility enough to notice the changes in employees.

(to be continued)

In June 1968, I attended my high school’s senior prom. My date was Joan, the Captain of the school’s cheer leading squad. Frank, my best friend and Dariel, his long time sweetheart, also attended. My father had agreed to let me use his new Oldsmobile Delta 88 – with its camel leather interior, power seats and five speaker sound system – it was a rather dramatic step up in luxury from Frank’s three-cylinder SAAB, and thus his decision to accept my offer to “double date” took all of two or three seconds.

Four years later, after returning from a ten month retreat at a Catholic Benedictine monastery, I met Dariel by accident. Our relationship had always been solid, yet strictly platonic. That would all change that summer.

With Dariel’s parents in Europe, her parent’s home quickly became a place to hang out at the end of a days work. We even went shopping together for food and would prepare meals together. Platonic, soon gave way to what we both called the “thunderbolt,” and our newly found passion and romance seemed as natural as a spring shower.

After the third or fourth week of thunderbolt intensity we decided to consummate the relationship. It was an important decision for both of us – neither of us took it lightly. After a dinner of pasta and broccoli, we listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, both working up the courage to expose ourselves, not only physically, but emotionally and psychologically as well.

We spent about an hour in her bed talking, holding hands, and letting nature take it’s course.

Which it did.

It was like watching a nitro-burning funny car go from 0 to 250 miles per hour. Clothes were flying this way and that and the passion of the moment made everything else irrelevant.

Our bodies came together as two flames. Our lips fused together as we prepared to become as one.

And then it happened . . .

The bed and box spring broke in half, the mattress collapsed and we were left in the middle of a mattress sandwich looking into each other’s eyes.

We exploded in laughter.

In fact I can’t remember ever laughing as hard as I did that night. We laid together on the broken bed, amazed at the turn of events, and aware that although a physical relationship was not in the cards, a beautiful friendship was born that evening – one that has continued to grow for 40 years.

My mother, who is now 85 and living in a skilled nursing facility, told me a story when I turned 60.

She said that in 1972, when I was 22 and living in a monastery in California, she walked into the kitchen of her home in upstate New York one day and found herself in tears, unprepared for the depth of loneliness she felt for me, her first-born of seven – then, nearly 3,000 miles away.

Later that day, while cleaning her bedroom, she explained, she looked out a window and saw the sky, and an immense feeling of peace washed over her: “I knew that you could see the same sky,” she said. “I knew that we were connected.”

This week, on Christmas Day, I had the opportunity to hold my mother’s hand and look into eyes I know so well; eyes once bright and purposeful, now tired and resigned. Eyes that have watched three of her children die, and another bear the burden of Parkinson’s for two decades.

As we held hands, she says, “I wish I could have been a better parent.”

I asked her on the day I was born, about the instruction manual the OB nurses had given her. “Was it the one with the blue cover or the advanced edition with the red cover?”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” she said. “I didn’t receive any instruction manual.”

“Well then,” I said, “that explains  why you weren’t the perfect parent —  you never received the instruction manuals.”

She smiled, and as we continued to hold hands, she drifted off to sleep.

Thirty-nine years ago I spent Christmas Eve with 25 Nubian and Alpine goats in a barn I helped build at a Soto Zen Buddhist monastery in Mount Shasta, California.

Earlier that day, Haryo and I (Haryo was a senior monk who taught me – among other things – the strategic value of buying Craftsman tools at garage sales) had finished building a birthing pen on the east side of the barn. I took the pickup truck into the town of Mt. Shasta and purchased four 250-watt infrared bulbs from the hardware store which served as the town’s post office and coffee shop. Later, I would mount the heating lamps on a single 2×6 board, which I hung over the new pen.

Now, the only thing left to do was to lay down a blanket of new straw and test the pen’s “snoozing coefficient.” As the Goat Monk, I had to rise every morning at 3:30 in order to have enough time to milk the goats, take the milk to the kitchen, and clean up. So one of the most demanding challenges was getting enough sleep. Most mornings, it was everything I could do to make zazen (meditation) on time with the other monks in the Zendo (meditation hall) at 5:00 a.m.

This particular evening, as I started to drift into twilight, I chuckled to myself, remembering a recent incident in which Haryo took a young man in his 20s, one of the laypeople on retreat as a guest, into the town of Mt. Shasta with him, as he needed help loading the truck with supplies. After the truck was loaded, Haryo thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a cat crawl under the truck. As he opened the truck door, and both men entered the cab, Haryo said, “Is there a cat under the truck?” The young man froze, seemingly unable to move. “What’s wrong?” Haryo asked.

The man answered, “I don’t know how to respond.”

“Respond to what?” Haryo said.

“To the koan: ‘Is there a cat under the truck.’”

“Koan?” Haryo asked.

The young man, clearly befuddled, looked at Haryo and said, “You know, like the sound of one hand clapping.”

Haryo got out and walked to the front of the truck, got down on his knees, and checked. “Nope. No cats.”

On the way back to the monastery, Haryo had to bite his lips to keep from laughing.

A 20-minute snooze left me refreshed and reinvigorated. The birthing that evening went as planned, without complications. And as I lay in the pen on that cold winter night, in the midst of the miracle of new life, I realized how fortunate I was just to be alive. I knelt in the straw, said a prayer to the Baby Jesus, and prepared for another day.

… FROM RICH WHITE MEN WITH TINY HEARTS WHO LIVE ON GLACIERS OF AMBITION

About two months  ago my doctor told me clearly and emphatically, “You’ve been in a wheelchair for more than 15 years. This has not been good for either your legs (which are badly swollen and discolored) or your heart (which is enlarged because of the extra work it must do to keep my legs alive.)”

Then, after the convincing introduction, her voice dropped an octave, climbed ten decibels and she laid down the law. “I want those legs elevated for five hours a day. Got it?”

And yes, I did get it, thank you. When she left I went directly to the facility’s Director, Suzanne, a woman I have a great deal of respect and fondness for. I carefully explained what the doctor had said, and added that I had purchased a new laptop and a fancy $500 articulating arm that could be attached to the wall near my lift chair. When installed, I could elevate my legs, use my laptop to compose these clever posts I write for YOU and everyone would be happy.

Now, the only thing that remained was to screw a metal plate in the wall, and how long could that take?

Chapter Six, Lesson Seventeen of The Rich White Man’s Guide to Housing Old People For Fun and Profit is entitled,”An Effective Top-Down Management System is Your Best Friend”, and goes on to explain that the most routine of jobs can be “queued” indefinitely provided you’ve established a sufficient number of “layers”.

The real irony of this story is that because my legs were in such pain, I had already decided to do this myself. In fact, I told management back in the day, “Here’s what I’m going to do and why…”

And they said,”Nonsense, let us take care of that for you.”

Hey, I know what you’re thinking right about now: “For the love of God, does this story ever end?”

The answer, thankfully, is “Yes,” I hired a carpenter who will be here in three days.

Good. Now that that’s behind us. . .

NEWS FLASH: they just came in to give me my shower STOP this is the second day with no hot water STOP Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo