Of the Seven Deadly Sins none
is deadlier than Sloth for the would-be scribbler. The writer immersed in Pride
can fill reams and reams with accounts of his wondrous accomplishments; one of
which is perhaps marginally factual, the rest all poppycock and balderdash. But
true or not, it’s grist for the inordinately proud writer’s mill. Gluttony is
another Deadly Sin with potential. The porcine wordsmith can go through gallons
of ink providing the details of his various repasts. If there weren’t any
epicurean delights, he can still share the misery of eating too much, too fast.
Lust is by far the best sin to be lost in for two or three weeks. The details
of a romp in the hay or two can fill a lengthy tome.
The writer wallowing in
Sloth, however, has little to say. “I sat around all day thinking I ought to write
something, but I finally said, ‘the hell with it,’” isn’t much of an essay,
despite the economy of words. All of which explains why the last entry appeared
on May 20. I am, however, feeling less slothful now and will forge ahead. Or
not.
A woman pushing a walker moved
to the side to let me go by in the long, up-hill hallway. “I wish I had that,”
she said, eyeing the wheelchair. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. The
hallway with its grade was not designed with septua-, octo-, or nonagenarians in
mind. Much of what is now Covenant Woods was once condominiums. Perhaps the
people responsible for designing the hall didn’t envision a bunch of old farts going
up the hill to fetch their mail or have dinner. I admire the folks who struggle
successfully day after day to make it to the top.
But I don’t like people
telling me they wish they had my wheelchair. Every time it happens I have
stifle the urge to say, “And I wish my legs worked as well as yours.” That
would be an appropriate response to some of the people who envy my wheelchair.
The ones whose tone suggests that I am a fast-talking malingerer who convinced
the doctor to prescribe something I don’t need and the insurance company to pay
for it.
More often these days the
anger, the frustration, comes from the knowledge that MS is a degenerative
disease. And I’m degenerating. Other than a few steps here and there, I don’t
walk any more. When I arrived at Covenant Woods, with the aid of a walker, I
could make it to the bathroom on foot and go out on my porch. Now my pedestrian
activity is limited to a few steps a few times a day. Three steps out, three
steps back; that sort of thing. Otherwise, I can do everything I could do when
I came down here two years ago. Doing those things, however, is becoming more
and more difficult.
There are days when something
as simple as getting dressed is a dicey affair. For the most part it can be
done sitting down. But, sooner or later, a man must pull up my pants – the
authorities at Covenant Woods insist we must. To do it, I must stand up, which
isn’t a problem. Keeping my balance is.
When pulling up my pants I
stand between the bed and wheelchair. If I feel unsteady, I grab the chair to
steady myself. To do that, I must let go of the pants, which then drop to my
ankles and I have to start again. On a typical morning, I start again three or
four times. The frustration is preferable to having someone dress me. I don’t
like to think about that. But one of these days I suppose I will have to.
Once I get my pants on, the
day is filled with other tasks that are no longer as easy as they once were.
Russ took me to a shoe store Sunday and then to their place for the Father’s
Day lunch Karen was preparing. I had to transfer from the manual wheelchair to
the car, or from the car to the wheelchair six times. Until last fall, the
tough part was getting my left leg to go where it was supposed to go. Once it was
there, the right leg did what it had to do in the manner which it had been
doing it for over three score years. Now, the right leg is nearly as
intransigent as the left. Russ doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he worries
that one of these days I’m going to fall and he’ll have to pick me up off the
Target parking lot. Some day he will, and I’m not looking forward to it. There
is a lot these days that I’m not looking forward to.
The men of Covenant Woods
were invited to join Roger, the general manager, at Carrabba’s Wednesday for
dinner. Five of us took him up on the offer. The original invitation was for
dinner at Hooters, but Jim’s objection, on the grounds that the food is better
at Carrabba’s, was sustained, and the plans changed at the last minute. It was
just as well.
Thursday morning, while Wes,
the new driver, was getting me off the bus, William, the town drunk, came by
and said, “You didn’t go to Hooters last night.” I thanked him for the update.
Wes said, “Hey, William, your name was on the list. Why didn’t you go?” William
told Wes he’d signed up to go to Hooters.
I have no objection to
curvaceous, scantily clad young ladies flaunting their hooters. But, William at
Hooters would have been one boob too many.
I’m not sure if Ron has
stopped taking his medication, or started taking it. The usually quiet man of
few words is suddenly loud, opinionated, and given to coarse language. At
dinner one evening, he asked me if I was going to go to the Town Hall meeting.
I said I wasn’t planning to, but I hoped he’d come back from the meeting with
all the gossip. He smiled and said he would. The next day, however, he announced,
“I’m not telling you what happens at the meeting. If you want to know what goes
on, you’ll have to get your lazy ass up there.”
The next morning, Ron was
sitting in the lobby talking to Irene. Pat came by and showed Irene a pair of
shoes she’d just bought. Ron took one look at the shoes and announced, “Those
are the ugliest damn shoes I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.”
