I Had a Minute

I had a minute to myself yesterday.  After yet another visit from the home care company, the third in which they did nothing but "evaluate" her for insurance purposes, so they say, each from a different arm of the same company--occupational therapy, nursing, and rehab--I was able to leave my mother alone for a bit.  I needed to do some grocery shopping and I wanted to buy a book.  I decided to pop into the cafe for a cup of jasmine green tea, too.  

Exciting?

Not so much. 

The day was gray and cold and damp.  I stopped at the cafe first, but since upper respiratory infections and plain old flus are at an annual high here right now, I decided to sit outside to reduce my chances of catching something that might infect my mother.  It was chilly, though, and I was wearing a light sweater and shorts.  I wrote for about a minute and drank my tea more quickly than normal.  The crowd was bland, but I saw little of even that.  Rather, my gaze fell over the parking lot and the dirty side of the building that housed the 7-11 next door while the grey light rained down about me.  

I popped into the hipster record and CD store across the street to pick up McCarthy's "The Passenger."  I was surprised at how busy the store was on a Wednesday early afternoon.  I don't think many people have jobs they go to anymore.  I retired and Covid came and the world changed, or at least it changed in the USA, and people got to stay home.  My replacement at the factory hardly ever went to work, and I, coming from a generation of "report for duty" workers, was truly and deeply pissed.  

Selavy.  

I wandered over to the book section.  I love the book section.  It is hip.  It is exciting.  But not that day.  It looked picked over.  Luckily, they had a single copy of the McCarthy book, but no "Stella Maris."  They had yet to replace it since I bought it.  I thought to buy something by Pynchon that I had not read like "Mason Dixon," but they hadn't a Pynchon book on the shelf.  Indeed, the pickings were looking pretty paltry.  I was grateful, however, to get the book I came for.  

After that, I headed to Fresh Market.  I thought I might buy one of those frozen packages of lasagna that they make right there in the store--or somewhere--but I was on a fool's errand.  All I could find was some small frozen lasagna meals that you heat up in the microwave.  I bought apples and avocados, and then I hit the bad/good part of the store.  Pumpkin bread.  A big piece of chocolate cake.  Some baked fruit/oat bars.  Again, as in the record store, things looked picked over or depleted.  I wanted to buy a good, rich chocolate bar, but the selection looked like that of every other grocery store, waxy and unsatisfying.  I carried my bags out into the grayer world and drove back to my mother's house.  

The jazz radio station was playing shitty music.  The road was full of morons who stopped at green lights and made dangerous, stupid lane choices as they drove side by side for miles.  I tried to tell them how idiotic they were, but they didn't seem to hear me.  

It was going on four when I got back to my mother's house.  I had a lot to do before making dinner.  I promised her I would wash her hair and give her a sponge bath.  I had laundry to do.  But first, I wanted to sit down with a faux cocktail and a cheroot and chill.  She decided to join me.  When the across the street neighbor with whom we have eaten many dinners saw us, he came over bearing a dish--chicken and dumplings.  It was getting really chilly now and I had finished my cheroot and faux cocktail and was ready to go inside, but neighbors being what they are, he stayed for a long while to chat.  By the time he left, I was chilled to the bone.  

I was getting things together for mom's bath when there was a knock on the door.  It was the neighbor.  He'd forgotten to bring the bowl of lima beans.  O.K.  Thanks.  I didn't want any of it.  He is not a good cook, and he does not make healthy meals.  The chicken and dumplings had no dumplings but rather flat noodle-like things.  The chicken was shredded to the point of invisibility.  The invisible chicken and doughy noodles were slathered in a most dominant thick white pasty liquid for which I had no name.  Not quite gravy, maybe.  I was certain that the lima beans were from a can.  

I sat them aside and got wash cloths, towels, soap, shampoo, and a small tub to put in the sink.  I had to get down under the sink to untangle the sprayer hose from the nutty mess of plumbing someone had done long ago so that it was long enough to spray into her hair.  She bent over the sink and the cleaning began.  

I gave her a good scrubbing and dried her, then got the hair dryer and played hair stylist.  

I gathered all the dirty laundry and put it in the washer.  

"What are we going to do with this?" I said motioning to the two bowls the neighbor had brought.  "Do you want to eat it?"

We did out of a feeling of obligation.  I steamed the Brussel's sprouts and heated up some bits of left over chicken.  Out of these things we made a really lousy meal.  

"That wasn't very good."

"No.  It was nothing like your cooking."

We both felt queasy.  We hadn't eaten much.  I pulled out the chocolate cake.  It looked rich, but it tasted like birthday cake.  Too much flour.  It pissed me off.  The entire day had been off.  If I'd had a bottle of scotch. . . . 

Somehow, the kitchen was a mess of dirty dishes, pots, and pans.  I got to work scrubbing and cleaning.  When I finished, I turned off the jazz station so my mother could watch "Gunsmoke" or whatever.  I was going into another room to read.  

"You need to put the clothes in the dryer."  

Yea, yea, yea.  That was urgent.  

Later. . . "The clothes need to come out of the dryer."

Of course.  No point in letting them sit for a minute.  

I folded clothes and hung up my mother's things.  I made a cup of tea and left my mother to westerns.  

By nine-thirty, I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.  I said goodnight, took my supplements and meds, brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, and read the first page of one of the New Yorker articles before I turned off the lights and fell into what I hoped without hope would be a long, restful night.  

It might have been, but I woke up with a light in my eyes.  My mother was up and down all night.  She is not doing well in many ways.  93 is an obvious hellscape of infirmities.  It just doesn't look like much fun.  

Today, eight days after the accident, I take my mother to see the ortho.  We will know more about her skeletal fate then.  

With each day, my mother becomes more dependent.  She's given up, for instance, getting up to get a glass of water.  

"Could you. . . ."  

We are heading in a bad direction.  

I had a dream last night about a woman who may have liked me, the one who almost asked me out.  She has a boyfriend now and has quit texting and almost inviting me to things, so I am inclined to think that it might have been something more than befriending an old colleague, but I will never know.  In the dream, however, I did know.  It was a long dream, I think.  

Last year, I went to a music festival in Grit City called Porch Fest at her invitation.  All the grand old houses with their deep porches host musical groups.  It goes on from morning late into the night.  There is music everywhere.  Crowds, too.  This year, the gymroid group wants to go.  Such is my lot.  

Red, however, is texting me supportive messages and promises to send me expensive medicines that will make me young and help me live forever.  I could use the first part, at least.  

The books are good, though, as is the music.  And usually the food is, too.  We'll get back on track with all that today.  I'm hoping to get in a long walk after the visit to the doc, but the weather will be a carbon copy of yesterday.  A stroll in any kind of weather, though, is usually good for the soul.  

And so. . . let's dance.  

The music selections right now are from my evening meal preparations listening to the university jazz station while I dance and cook.  Trying to stay mellow.  I don't need no jive right now.