One Friday evening recently I went on my computer for the daily ritual of reading my email which I always look forward to. (My daughter Ingrid says this activity releases endorphins in our bodies which of course give us a high.)  But no endorphins this evening.  The first message to greet me was from Click/Pay saying it had rejected the monthly payment of carrying charges for my co-op apartment, a transaction that is dealt with by our Management Office.  I should have known something was wrong with my bank checking account when the day before I had tried to withdraw some money from a neighborhood bank, not my bank but it had never rejected my withdrawals before.  But now it was Friday evening, our Management Office was closed until the following Monday.  I immediately thought someone had gotten into my account and withdrawn all the money!  I had heard many times of this happening to others, but here it was now happening to me.  I was in a state of panic, and immediately called my daughter Ingrid in New Jersey, who agreed with my deduction, but assured me the bank would restore all the money. My neighborhood Chase branch was open only a few hours on Saturdays, and since the bank would make good and Ingrid was coming in Tuesday anyway to take me to a doctor’s appointment, it was decided I could wait. I was doubly reassured when my granddaughter Sarah said this had happened to her and that the bank had restored all the money. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the mail I had received over a week before from Chase saying it was closing down my account! I had, however, ignored the notice since several weeks before Chase had sent me a letter saying they were shutting down my Amazon card for lack of use but this was quickly followed by another notice saying to ignore the previous notice. I had never paid much attention to my accounts, not even checking my monthly statements, and so when I glanced at the most recent notice, I thought it referred to the last one.  I had been blasé all
these year about my bank and credit cards; this will teach me!

Tuesday Ingrid took me to the nearest Chase bank which is on 125th Street and B’way.   I was reminded why I avoid going there.  Four lane traffic on this mammoth street and the traffic light changes to red when one is only midway.  Ingrid literally stood there with her hand raised to halt the cars so that I could make it across with my walker!   At the entrance of this miniature branch, a bank clerk saw us immediately and when delving into my account, came up with a copy of a check that I had sent to my accountant for $350.  The check was signed by me, but the accountant’s name and the amount had been whited out and a woman’s name written in and the amount changed to $7,590!  The Chase branch where she tried to cash it must have become suspicious and kept it, probably saying they would call her. The clerk did not know at which Chase branch she tried to cash it.  It was now almost 4:00PM and we were told to get in line so we wouldn’t forfeit our place, so Ingrid left me there sitting on my walker’s seat while she
went to the 26th Street Precinct on the next block to report what was now termed  “attempted grand larceny.”  She returned in about
a half hour saying the police informed her that what’s been happening lately in all the boroughs is “fishing.”  A thief gets a
fishing line, attaches something sticky (like a glue trap meant for mice!) at the end with which he fishes out mail from the mail box, looking for envelopes that likely contain checks. If the fisherman gets lucky, the check is “washed,” and a new payee’s name is inserted, along with, in my case, a boosted dollar amount. The altered check is then taken to the bank to cash.  We spent at least two hours with the bank clerk, Bianca, trying to put the pieces together, changing my bank account number, and attempting to notify Social Security and the NYState Pension System. Dealing with all of this was too much for my brain which shut down completely; I could never have dealt with it without my daughter.  I more or less just sat back while Ingrid talked with the bank clerk
who was extremely helpful, giving us the information we needed when getting in touch with the organizations and companies, and
of course, the Co-op’s Management Office, to give them my new bank account number.  When she asked if she could get me at such and such a number, it turned out to be incorrect, because the message said the phone was disconnected. So that’s the number the bank must have called when trying to get in touch with the person who tried to cash the check, and that’s why the bank closed down my account. We came home during rush hour with Ingrid once again stopping traffic on 125th St. to walk me across and then made more phone calls with long waits to clear up the problems.  We both welcomed mightily having a glass of wine.  It was especially hard to reach Social Security. That evening four policemen came to my apartment.  Four policemen just for “attempted grand larceny?”  If the thief had actually gotten the money, would that have brought the whole 26th Precinct to my door?  They too told us about the Fishing that was going on.  The following evening came two detectives; I was getting good at recounting my story.  They took a photo of the bogus check saying that they would trace the Chase bank branch where the thief tried to cash the check.  Evidently this has become quite a racket.

Several days later a policewoman called me to say she was giving a talk about senior safety at MRHS, our social services, the following day; she had read the report of my case, adding she had
heard about Fishing going on in some of the other boroughs, but mine was the first she heard about it happening here.  She hoped to get a good audience.  She needn’t have worried; the meeting room
was overflowing with seniors.  She gave an excellent speech, during which I recounted once again my experience, about the precautions we should take and then introduced two policemen who have been patrolling this area for the past two years because of increased crime against seniors.  We each received a nice shopping bag with a night scene of the lower Manhattan sky line and the words Senior Safe NYC in bold letters and which contained pamphlets, a whole one devoted only to Fishing,  plus a pen whose ink cannot be erased and a bracelet with a gadget which
when pulled emits a deafening sound, hopefully scaring away the possible assailant.  I like to think that this program was the result of my Fishing experience, but the police told me they go around to lots of places giving such talks. So where would it be safe to mail? Why at the post office itself. Since I can’t get to it, I’m opting for a mail box on our premises which is diagonally across from our guard booth. Surely no thief would dare, but then again, thieves are usually one step ahead of the rest of us!

It took my daughter and me a month to deal with all the contacts; I have a thick bank folder of papers, a copy of the bogus check, and the calling cards for Bianca and a detective.  So the next time you hear about fishing in NYC , you’ll know it will not be in the Hudson River!




  I WOULDN’T HAVE MISSED IT FOR THE WORLD!      At 89 ½ years of age (we’re counting half years again), except when I broke my kneecap many years ago, I had never suffered extreme physical pain.  Last August when I broke my right hip and shattered my right elbow, oh, my God, did that hurt, especially when I was transferred from the ambulance stretcher onto the hospital bed.  But that was nothing compared to the truly excruciating pain caused by a stage four open bed sore on my coccyx gotten from lying in the hospital bed day after day.  Fortunately, due to the pain medications oxycodone and oxycontin, I was able to stay sane, although not totally pain free, but spaced out mentally and physically.  In conversations, words and phrases eluded me.  For weeks, aside from one and a half hours daily of physical therapy, I would spend hours sitting in the wheelchair in my room at the nursing home, my head resting on a pillow on the tray table to lessen my coccyx’s contact with the seat.  Of course, I had to sleep on my side.   I couldn’t focus on reading anything.  My family showed me how to listen to Podcasts and how to read books on my Kindle, and to watch movies on my iPad, but to no avail.  My mind was not capable of dealing with anything except existence.   Plus the constipation due to the oxycodone was a continuing problem (the solution: warm prune juice).  And then came the pneumonia, the congestive heart failure, the A-fib and MRSA! Recovering, I was so weak I couldn’t even button my shirt; my fingers wouldn’t work and I needed help brushing my teeth.  I did marvel, however, at how I could eat soup with my left hand without ever spilling a drop.  Thank God for my pocket radio and for NPR!  They were my constant companion day and night.  I wonder how people with chronic pain can go on living. I know now what extreme pain is and have compassion for those who suffer. I wouldn’t have missed these experiences for the world!      My family members and the few friends whom I notified (I did not particularly want visitors, reminding myself of my cats who when ill hid under the living room couch) were wonderful to me. My granddaughter Sarah and her husband Chris came to see me practically every night after work.  Of friends, I single out Feli.  She, from the Philippines originally, has been with my son and his family ever since Sarah was born in Paris 33 years ago.  She has continued to live with them ever since, mostly in Japan.  During my stay at the nursing home, Sarah invited her for a month’s visit with them.  Every evening at 6:00 Feli would bring me dinner she had  prepared that afternoon.  She followed no recipes, concocting her own which were always delicious.  One evening, after I had returned to my own home, my left foot was swollen as it had been for days.  Feli warmed some olive  oil, got down on her hands and knees, and massaged the oil into my foot until it returned to normal.  This was her home remedy and it worked.  A  real live angel had come to help me.  I wouldn’t have missed these experiences for the world!      Election night I was very depressed, thinking this is no life, lying in the  nursing home with no future.  I still thought Hillary would win, but I began to have doubts when the nurse who came in to give me my sleep and pain  medications said despondently that Trump was winning in South Carolina.  I went to sleep but woke up at 2:00 am and with trepidation turned on my  trusted pocket radio.  Trump had won.  The outcome fitted so well with the despondency I had felt earlier.  I went back to sleep with gloom settling over me.  What would become of our country and what would become of me?  I wouldn’t have missed experiencing this despair for the world!      “Shit, shit, everywhere shit,” my aide exclaimed, first in Spanish I was guessing, and then in English.  It was the day after I had returned to the nursing home after surviving the pneumonia and other afflictions in the hospital.  The bedpan was overflowing as she cleaned up the mess on  the bed, the floor, and me.  “Yup, it’s all of that and more,” I said at which she chuckled.  Upon soiling everything again the following day, I meekly said,  “I couldn’t help it.” “I know,” she replied gently.  I grew to become quite fond of her.  The hardworking aides hurrying from one patient to another are the unsung heroines of these institutions.  At 5:00 am, the aides working the night shift change our diapers and wash our bottoms with soap and warm water.  In my half sleep I wonder how they feel or what they are thinking while doing this gross job.  There were two evening aides, Carmen and Mirla, whom I loved, because they treated me as if I were their beloved grandmother.   Another favorite of mine among the staff was Dr. Lansey, who oversaw the healing of the wound on my coccyx.  He said they take weeks or even months to heal.  In my case, it was the latter. However, he did cure a digestive problem that had plagued me for four years by prescribing Beano before meals, so I’ll always be grateful to him.  It was always a pleasure to see him, because he wore the most gorgeous ties, which he bought in Paris. I wouldn’t have missed these experiences for the world! My stay at the nursing home lasted until December 5th, the maximum Medicare would pay for  (100 days!).  Actually I think it was time for me to come home, although I had misgivings as to how I would fare.  In the nursing home all my needs were met, but my daughter Ingrid thought that made me too dependent (the main concern of nursing homes is that the patient not fall so they’re overly protective).  She had arranged for furniture to be moved or discarded so I could get around the apartment more easily and making room for a hospital bed.  She arranged to have more bars installed in the bathroom, bought doughnut cushions for the chairs, and all the gadgets that would help me cope with my new life: a cordless phone in every room, a lamp over my bed which can be turned on and off by a remote control, and a paging mechanism hanging from the bed railing which, when I press the button, plays Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Flowers” very loudly from the speaker in the other bedroom.  For the first few weeks, my daught stayed most nights (on other nights a lovely woman covered for her), taking me to doctors’ appointments, arranging her lawyering schedule and working on her cases on the computer.   My darling son Christopher came from Japan when Ingrid went on a hiking tour in Europe, a trip arranged months before.  He made my life even easier by getting a remote control for all the lights in the living room.             However, Ingrid was determined to make me independent.  I didn’t know at the time that her husband, who is a doctor, told her that if I were not to walk and do things for myself, I would die.  It was an effort to dress myself, especially pulling up the pant’s leg up my right leg, which was still stiff from the operation.  It would take me two hours to get ready for bed.  For weeks Ingrid had been my spokesperson for calls to doctors and agencies.  I remember the day she told me that I should do the calling to one of the doctors myself.   Please, you call.  No, you call.   It seemed like an effort, but once I did it, I felt empowered as I began reasserting my independence. I soon came to value her approach, which she later termed bullying.  But she always applauded my accomplishments, thereby encouraging me to continue making strides.  I am now able to do almost everything for myself except take a bath, and I credit my daughter for my progress.  And I have loved her stays with me; she brings good cheer, optimism and stability into my life.  I wouldn’t have missed the greater closeness that has developed between us for the world! Fast forward to early evening on Easter Sunday.  My granddaughter Sarah and I arrive at Columbus Circle and Central Park headed for Rotisserie Georgette on 60th and Fifth Avenue.  Sarah thinks I need to get some fresh air (I haven’t been outdoors for a week) and exercise. “But that’s all the way to the East side”, I whine, “I could never make it that far even holding on to my walker with both hands.”  Two blocks to my neighborhood Starbucks has been my limit up till now. “Well, when you get tired, Granny Lydia, we’ll exit Central Park and take a taxi to the restaurant.”   You’d think I’d be onto Sarah’s ruses by now.   We keep moving along slowly while Sarah keeps up the conversation, even resorting to knotty family problems.  I look up and ahead.  “Fifth Avenue is so far away,” I say.  “We’re half way there.   Do you want to rest on the seat of the walker?  Shall we take a taxi?”   “No, let’s see if I can make it a little further.”  “Chris has been wanting to take you to this restaurant for Easter.  It has the best chicken.”  I still can’t believe there’s a rotisserie on Fifth Avenue, but maybe by adding the French name “Georgette” it was deemed acceptable. “ Well, it’s a little off 5th.”  “How far off?” The park is overflowing with picnickers and with people now heading home, all dressed in casual attire, the Easter Paraders having left long ago.  Sarah and I must be a sight to behold, dressed in our finery; she, young and beautiful in a long black dress with flared skirt, flowing black hair and dangling green earrings, steering my walker through the crowds. I, old, gray haired and stooped over, but in my best silk chiffon jacket over black, trying to avoid the cracks in the pathways as I keep plodding along.  I can’t believe we’ve rounded the corner at Fifth Avenue, but now I can’t take another step.  Sarah gets me a bottle of water from a food vendor.   “Only two more blocks to go.”  We get to 60th Street, but no Georgette sign.  I thought so. “It’s just a little further east.”  Which turns out to be almost to Madison Avenue!  Chris comes out to help me up the stairs of the restaurant, which are a piece of cake now.   Sarah is jubilant that I have made it so far.  As always, she gives me the credit, but I know by now that it is due to her encouragement  (and psychological manipulation).  Still, I am in awe of having walked over a mile.  Seven months ago the medical team said I would be confined to a wheelchair 24/7 for the rest of my life.      For months, I wondered why I had to endure all that I went through, especially all the pain and the adjustment to starting life all over again at the age of 90.  Now I know the reasons why.  Looking back on all I have learned and experienced, all the wonderful, caring people I have met, and spending precious time with my family, I wouldn’t have missed it all for the world!