Notes from the Home - April 23, 2016

I have been picked up off the floor three times in the last month. The only injury was to my pride. My right leg caused the first two falls. Well, a few other body parts might have been involved, but the irresponsibility of the right leg is what I noticed. Until a year or so ago, the right leg was darn near normal, or so it seemed to me. The doctors told me several times that the right leg was stiffer than the left leg. Perhaps. But, stiff or not, the right leg did as it was told, which the left leg had stopped doing years earlier.

These days, the right leg won’t straighten up – literally. When I stand, my right knee remains crooked, and I can’t get my right foot flat on the floor. The heel stays two inches above the floor. If I press on my knee hard enough, the right foot will get closer to the floor, maybe even make contact with it for a few seconds. As soon as I quit pushing on the knee, it bends and I’m on tiptoes again.

As a result, transferring from the wheelchair to the bed is tricky business. To get into bed, I get the wheelchair about a yard from the bed, place my hands on their respective armrests, and push myself up into an unsightly standing position. Leaving my right hand on the armrest, I lean forward just a little and reach out with my left arm to get a hold of the fitted sheet. It isn’t easy to get a firm grip on a fitted sheet. It is worth the struggle, though. Unlike the other sheet, or the blanket, the fitted sheet stays put, and I can bring myself forward by pulling on it. As I edge forward, I push with my right arm, then let go of the armrest, bring my right arm forward as quickly as possible to brace myself as I fall on the bed.

Twice in one week, the right leg gave out before I got my right arm down to brace myself. Both times I slid off the bed and found myself between the bed and the wheelchair.

The first time it happened, I was up late for some forgotten reason and fell as I tried to get into bed at midnight. My call for help was answered by the man working security that night. He is a tall, muscular man. He looked at me lying on the floor, bent over, and told me to put my arms around his neck. When I did, he stood up, taking me with him, then put his hands about my waist and sat me on the bed. After asking if I was OK, he rode off into the sunset, or more accurately, walked out the door and went about his business. I still don’t know the gentleman’s name, but given his size and strength, I’m sure “Sir” will do.

One day the following week, I gave a repeat performance as I attempted to lay me down for an afternoon nap. This time I knew the folks who came to get my carcass off the floor. Cherie, from home health, came to make sure I hadn’t injured myself, and Cepeda and Lucas, from food service, came to do the heavy lifting.

Two days later, my bedside bar arrived. Rob, an occupational therapist, had suggested I get one when I told him about the first incident. “They’re around thirty dollars,” he said. Rob knows his stuff. James, one of the maintenance men, brought the package from the UPS guy to my apartment.

Russ had said he’d be over the following morning to take me grocery shopping. My plan was to ask him then to help me assemble the contraption. But after staring at the box for fifteen minutes, it dawned on me that I should get the instructions out to see what tools we would need. I don’t have much in the way of tools, and whatever tools the job required, Russ would have to bring with him.

Once I opened the box, I had to take everything out, because the instructions were conveniently placed at the other end of the box. When I found the instructions, I discovered that no tools were needed. And looking over the parts strewn across the floor, it looked like a project I just might be able to do myself. Going forward in my own inimitably inept fashion, I got the darn thing together. There are two horizontal bars that go between the mattress and the box springs. The instructions said to take the mattress off the bed, position the horizontal bars, and put the mattress back. Fat chance. Instead, I put a stack of books between the mattress and box springs and pushed. When I could push no further, I put the wheelchair into switch-engine mode and pushed.

Russ came over the next morning, and I let him push the assembled apparatus the final inch between the mattresses. Then I had him retrieve a small part that rolled under the bed when I doing the assembly work the previous afternoon. In a highly technical sense, I didn’t complete the project on my own. But, boy, it felt good to damn near get ’er done by myself.

 I'm still trying to find an easy way to get into bed using this thing. But I haven't fallen since I put it up. And it does make getting out of bed much easier.

Things went to crap again Tuesday evening when I went to take a crap. To pass the time until my bowels did their job – they usually take longer do to their job than the U.S. Congress takes to do its, and the results are strikingly similar – I took a crossword puzzle with me. Three clues into the puzzle, I dropped my pen. I reached down to retrieve it, lost my balance, and fell off my perch.

A yank of the emergency pull-cord got Teresa’s attention at the front desk. Via the intercom, she told me she would find someone to help her get me up. A few minutes later, she was back on the intercom: no one was available to help. The nurses assistants in personal care were all busy with people whose needs are greater than mine. “Would it be OK if I called 911?” she asked. “Sure,” I said.

Teresa and three EMTs came in my door a short while later. There was the take-charge guy, who looked around for a second and said, “I’ll get around here, you get his legs, and we’ll get him out of here.” There was the sensible guy, who said, “Shouldn’t we move the wheelchair out of the way first?” “Oh, yeah,” said the take-charge guy. The third guy must have been the boss. He had the disgusted look of a man who wanted to be home in his recliner, drinking a beer and watching TV. Instead, he was watching his crew pick up a clumsy old guy who’d fallen off the toilet.

*     *     *

There was a setback on the wheelchair front. Lou from NuMotion called Tuesday. He said Humana doesn’t think I need a wheelchair of the sort I am hoping to get. He said he was going to fax the information Humana sent him to Dr. Verson. I will see the doctor on Wednesday. With any luck he’ll be able to reword things to the satisfaction of some clerk who has never laid eyes on me.

I had better luck with catheters. My order was delivered on the day the email informing me it had been shipped said it would be delivered. So now, I can at least piss around until I find out about a wheelchair.

*     *     *

Chances are more than a few people in the Cleveland area turned off their TVs in anger as Jeopardy ended the other night. The Final Jeopardy category was the origin of city names. The clue: “This city, which has an NFL franchise, is named for an 18^th Century British prime minister.” None of the contestants knew which city, and after the third one revealed his lame guess, Alex Trebek said, “No, the correct response is Pittsburgh – the city of champions – named in honor of William Pitt the Elder.”

Springing in to Spring

Spring came in with the rain, the almost constant rain that fell Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Under the gray, dripping sky, flowers sprouted, leaves appeared, and suddenly all was green. Even from the inside looking out, it was beautiful. And it was even more beautiful yesterday and today, when the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky.

What glorious days they were. A gentle breeze and mild temperature. It was pleasantly cool in the shade, and pleasantly warm in the sun. There will not be many more days like this. In a few weeks, the heat and humidity will rise to the stifling level and remain there for six months.

Today was a day to enjoy, to be appreciated. And I did.

Notes from the Home - March 25, 2016

The quest for a new wheelchair is underway. Paulyne, a physical therapist from Amedisys, the home health place Dr. Verson set me up with, and Lance, an assistive technology professional, according to his business card, from NuMotion, got things going last Friday. They spent nearly two hours in the apartment assessing my needs and trying to put them into words the insurance company’s miserly bean counters will find acceptable. While they were here, I felt as though I were in an office. Paulyn and Lance sat across from each other at the table, their laptops open in front of them, and their phones ringing more than a few times.

If all goes well, the new chair will help me to, as Mom so often told me, “Sit up straight!” My left side is weaker than my right, and I list to port as soon as I sit down. I have used books, pillows, a laptop case, and sundry other items to help keep me upright, without much success. It would also be nice if the wheelchair had a gizmo to lift the footplate and raise my legs a little. The chair doesn’t have to recline, but it sure would be nice if it enabled me to change the position of my legs. They do cramp up now and then.

According to Lance, if the insurance people are agreeable to the proposal, those two extravagant features will end up taking about three thousand dollars out of my pocket. I’ll do what I have to do, and pay what I have to pay. But, you’d think in this presidential election year, the insurance company would be willing to fork over at least a few dollars to keep me from leaning to the left.

Yesterday, Russ and I spent an hour in Dr. Verson’s office. The people there were delighted with the completeness of the assessment Lance and Paulyne did. They did the assessment the same way the assessment for my old chair was done at the Cleveland Clinic, with the PT and the person from the company working on it together. Apparently, that’s not the way folks in the Columbus do it – NuMotion is in Tifton, Georgia, which is south of Atlanta, along I-75. “This is great,” the nurse said of the assessment. “Everything is here. Dr. Verson will sign it and we’ll send it out right away. I’ll have to see if we can get NuMotion to give some business cards.”

Now, there is nothing left to do but wait.

*     *     *

Rob, an occupational therapist who also works for Amedisys, came to give my arms a workout Monday morning. He keeps up a good line of chatter and along the way he asked me where I was from. When I told him I grew up in the Pittsburgh area, he had some stories to tell.

When he was in college, Rob became friends with a guy who had played high school baseball for Upper St. Clair. “I went home with him once, and we hung out Gordo. Gordo played ball for their big rival. Who was there big rival?”

“Bethel Park?”

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Maybe, Mt. Lebanon?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Rob said. “Gordo was from Mt. Lebanon.”

Rob then told me about another trip to Pittsburgh during his college days.

“I met this girl from Pittsburgh; she went to Carnegie Mellon. I went to see her once when I was up there. Her parents lived on the side of a hill, and you could look out and see all the buildings and the rivers. There was some sort of regatta going on, and we could see all the boats.

“I took her to dinner one night. I think the place was called O’Reilly’s – I’m not sure, I know it was O’ something. Anyway, I got the check. I figured it would be about fifty bucks, but when I looked at it, it was almost eighty dollars. I looked again and realized they had charged me over and over for my iced tea. I must have had eight glasses, and it wasn’t even sweet tea. I had to put sugar in it. Then I noticed an asterisk at the bottom of the check: ‘We charge for refills of everything but water.’

“I told the waitress I was a student, didn’t have much money, and besides, I didn’t know I was being charged every time I asked for more tea. She got the manager. I told him, ‘Look, I’m from Alabama. Down there, we drink tea like water.’ He said, ‘I know what you mean. I’m from Atlanta.’ And he took all the refills off the check.”

*     *     *

Tuesday, Beth sent a picture of the weather conditions in the greater Orofino area.

Good father that I am, I thought it my duty to snap a picture of the weather conditions outside my window.

Notes from the Home - March 14, 2016

     Signs of spring are springing up everywhere in these parts. The landscaping folks have filled the flowerbeds with petunias and other spring plants. On our way to see Dr. Verson, Friday, while Russ watched the road, I kept my eyes on the trees that are beginning to bloom, and there were more than just a few. What kind of trees were they? Heck if I know. I’m no arborist. But I do know the tree outside my window is a dogwood, and it appears ready to burst forth in all its springtime glory any day now.

     “The sun feels good this morning, doesn’t it,” I said to Russ, as he pushed me through Publix parking lot, Sunday morning.

     “Yes, it does,” he said.

     “But soon, the sun won’t feel so good.”

     “Oh, it won’t start getting really hot until next month.,” Russ said.  “Don’t rush things.”

     I nodded and smiled, as if to say, “Yes, Russ, you’re right.” Then, with more than a little help from Russ, I got in the car and we returned to Covenant Woods. He pushed me back to my apartment, went back out and got the groceries, put them away, and took my wall clock down, set it to Eastern Daylight Time, and popped in a fresh battery.

     I waited until he left before setting out to satisfy my need to always be right. On a quick visit to Yahoo Weather, I saw that Tuesday’s predicted high is eighty-seven. That is “really hot,” at least to my Yankee sensibilities. And Tuesday is the Ides of March, no less.

*     *     *

     My appointment with Dr. Verson went well. We talked about the difficulty I am having doing even some very simple things. Transferring from the wheelchair to the bed is getting dicey. My uncooperative legs and questionable balance make hitting the sack just that. I get the wheelchair as close to the bed as possible while leaving enough room for my feet. Then I stand up as best I can, put my left hand on the bed to brace myself, and keep my right hand on the wheelchair armrest to make falling back into the chair a little less likely. Then I do my best to fall forward onto the bed. The challenge is to do it without missing the bed or getting my feet and legs tangled up with the wheelchair. Getting them untangled without me ending up on the floor is always a struggle.

     We also talked about my need for a new wheelchair. We had discussed it when I saw him in December. The order Columbus Home Medical Equipment got from him, however, was for a scooter. I called Dr. Verson’s office several times to explain that I need a chair. It would take all my remaining strength and coordination, and a heaping helping of good luck for me to get on a scooter. Each time I called, the person who answered said they would pass the message along, and someone would call me back. They never did.

     After Dr. Verson put his hands on my knees and told me to lift my legs, checked my arms for strength and coordination, and asked me to close my eyes and touch my nose, first with the index finger of my right hand, then with the index finger of my left, we were led to a small waiting area. We had not waited long when a nurse came in and told me that Amedisys, a home health outfit would be contacting me. That afternoon, Anne from Amedisys called to ask if I would be home Saturday. I told her, “Sure.”

     When Anne arrived Saturday, she was full of questions – the usual questions: When were you diagnosed with MS? Are you in pain today? Do you have bladder issues? How often do you have a bowel movement? When was the last time you had a bowel movement? Can you walk at all? From there the questions turned to the difficulties I am experiencing now. I told her what I had told Dr. Verson.

     When she ran out of questions, Anne asked me to get on the bed. Nothing makes an already difficult process nigh on impossible quicker than knowing you are being watched and that your effort is being critiqued. I didn’t see her stifle a laugh as she watched me, but I bet she did just before she grabbed me by the pants and helped me on to the bed. Anne then asked me to move my legs – lift them, spread them apart, things like that. I could not do most what she asked me to do, and what I could do, I did feebly. Although, I honestly think I did extremely well when I was asked to wiggle my toes.

     After I got off the bed – which I managed to do on my own – Anne told me they will have the Hughston Clinic, an orthopedic place here in Columbus, determine what I need in a wheelchair. That was a relief. My left side is very weak, and I am constantly leaning to the left. Anything that can be done to keep me sitting up straight will be greatly appreciated.

     Then Anne said she would return Sunday, the following day. When she got here, she told me to get on the bed. Then she started on my legs. She pushed, pulled, stretched, and made my legs do things they have not done for years. After that, she had me go to the sink and pull myself into the standing position. That was not too bad. I pull myself up several times a day in the course of doing what has to be done. The hard part came when Anne told me to stand up straight, to stand with my chest out. When our time was up, she told me she will be back on Thursday. I am going to have to get in shape by then.

Notes from the Home - March 9, 2016

     I got my dinner to go Sunday. As I waited for Styrofoam containers filled with soup, salad roast beef, mashed potatoes, beets and black eyed peas, I had a chance to talk to Ruth, who was also waiting for her meal. Ruth is an always smiling, spry eighty-six-year old, who loves to joke and banter. Once she gets going it is easy to forget she has memory issues.

     That wasn’t the case Sunday. The first thing she said was, “My grandson and his wife had a baby boy this morning.” She told me about her grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, and we joked with the servers while the cooks were filling our orders. And four times in the five minutes we waited, Ruth said, “Did I tell you my grandson and his wife had a baby boy this morning?”

*     *     *

     Back in the 1950s and 60s, Mom, Dad, and countless teachers constantly told me I was out of line. I don’t know about that, but I was off line for three days recently. One afternoon, the secure Wi-Fi Covenant Woods began offering its residents six weeks ago went out. The problem, whatever it was, didn’t affect the entire complex, just the hallway where my apartment is. As far as I know, only Mildred, who lives across the hall, and I noticed. A few days later, a knock on the door interrupted my afternoon beauty rest. It was Johnny, the maintenance supervisor, who came by to tell me the Wi-Fi was back.

     Life without constant access to the Internet was a learning experience. I learned that I spend far too much time on-line doing nothing much. And I learned that life without immediate access to the Internet is not so bad. It is just too easy to waste time checking and rechecking my email and Facebook. The email stops, though too frequent, are quick: I don’t get much. Facebook, Huffington Post and a couple other sites are killers. I scroll, scroll, scroll away the hours looking for interesting posts. Not that I spend much time reading them when I find them – usually nothing more than the headline and a paragraph or two. Then on I go looking for more.

     I have resolved to spend less time wondering around the Internet. The vast majority of the resolutions I have made in the last nearly sixty-eight years have come to naught. Time will tell.

     It is now a week later, and I must report, it is easier to resolve to do something than it is to do it.

*     *     *

     In the summer of 1974, I moved to Ashtabula County, Ohio and remained there, except for a brief time in San Antonio, until the spring of 2012. During those thirty-eight years, I undoubtedly purchased something from Griffiths Furniture. What it was, or when I bought it, is a mystery to me.

     It is good to know, however, that Griffiths has not forgotten me. In among the other junk mail a few days ago was a card touting Griffiths’ upcoming customer appreciation sale. Yes, Thomas Harris or Current Resident here on Woodruff Farm Road in Columbus, Georgia, 31907, is invited to go to Griffiths on Wednesday, March 9, and get the “largest discount we have ever offered on all furniture and appliances.” And they are offering free delivery.

*     *     *

     Saw Dr. Miller, the primary care guy, for my annual checkup last week. After he poked, prodded and declared that I am in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in, he handed me a sheet of paper and told Russ to take me to the check-out window. The woman on the other side of the window, who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, glanced at the papers and asked me how long I have had MS.

     “I was diagnosed in October ’06.”

     “They told me last week, I have MS.”

     That short conversation took me back to the MS Walk at Mentor High School in the fall of 2007. Nancy and I stayed inside and manned a table brimming with literature from various organizations. During the two hours we were at the table, three or four women of the same age as the lady at the check-out window and who also had MS stopped by.

     There is one thing in my MS experience that I am thankful for: MS didn’t begin interfering with my life until after Russ and Beth were out of school and building lives of their own. In 2006, when I was diagnosed, Russ was 28 and Beth was 22. My left leg began acting funny in the late ’80s or early ’90s. It was a very occasional thing, and it never lasted long. Usually, sitting down for fifteen or twenty minutes got things back to reasonably normal. Until 2005, when the problem became more pronounced, I was sure there was nothing much wrong.

     When the kids were growing up, I did all the things fathers are supposed do with the kids: played ball with them, took them to Lake Shore Park to swim and sled, raked leaves so Beth could jump into the pile, and took Russ to see the Indians play ball.

     MS is a bitch at any age, but I feel so sorry for who must contend with it when they are young adults and probably have active, young children running about. There must be way, way, way too days when those young MSers, even those with relapsing-remitting forms of the disease, have to say, “Not today. Mommy doesn’t feel good.”

*     *     *

     To complete the checkup, I needed to pee in a cup and let a nurse take blood from me. Because of some confusion in scheduling, I went back to the Columbus Clinic yesterday to git ’er done. Actually, Dr. Miller gave me a cup to pee in when I saw him last week. I am unable to pee on command these days, and the cup made it possible for me to pee in it in the comfort of my own home before Russ arrived to take me to the Clinic.

     This afternoon, a nurse from Dr. Miller’s office called to tell me about the results. My cholesterol is just a bit high, she said, and I should really start watching what I eat. I consulted the Internet and got a list of foods that help lower cholesterol. I don’t have a problem with any of them. This should be a snap.

     Then I got a list of foods to avoid. YIKES!!! Butter, ice cream, cheese, cookies, pastries, muffins. On the bright side, liver is on that list, and I won’t have a problem giving it up. But does it count as giving it up if I never ate in the first place? 

     One evening two years ago when liver in one form or another was an entrée on the Covenant Woods’ dinner menu, I overheard Catherine telling Lucy, the food service manager, that the liver that night was better than sex. I told them, if I had heard anyone say that when I was an impressionable lad, I’d still be a virgin.

Notes from the Home - February 29, 2016

The always curious Randy had a question Saturday: “Why is it the C-side garbage is always full of shit, and the B-side’s isn’t?” By shit, Randy meant shit, feces, excrement, crap, poop, doo-doo and the like. Randy is one of the maintenance men.

During the week, James gets the large cart that sits beneath the garbage chute in the C-building, pushes it outside and throws its contents into the dumpster. John, the third maintenance man, does the same thing with the B-building garbage. While James and John are dealing with the garbage, Randy circles Covenant Woods in a golf cart, picking up scraps of paper and whatever other trash is spoiling the beauty of the place, firing up the leaf blower when necessary and tending to the doggy-doo collection cans.

The the three maintenance take turns coming in on Saturdays, when only one of them works. That man starts the morning by doing all the garbage chores. Thus, every third Saturday, Randy carefully observes how B-building garbage and C-building garbage differ. “The C-side is always full of shit. They don’t even bag it. They just throw the dirty diapers down the chute. What’s going on?”

I entered a plea of ignorance. Al used to discuss his bowel movements in graphic detail, but he did his business on the toilet. He did wear a diaper, but that was more for Number 1 than Number 2. When he did “shit in the goddamn diaper,” he would tell us how long he had spent cleaning himself up. I think he always disposed of the diaper properly. I am sure he did. I mean, he did live in the B-building.

*     *     *

Russ had to pick his old man up off the floor Sunday morning. He called at quarter till nine to ask if I needed to get groceries. I did, and he said he’d be over in an hour to take me to Publix.

As the appointed time neared, I made myself presentable, got my wallet and transferred from the motorized wheelchair to the manual chair. Well, not quite. 

The problem is, the manual chair needs a brake job. The chair, which I got late in 2007, carted me – with Nancy pushing most of the time – around Paris, Lucerne, Florence, Rome, Venice, Munich, Amsterdam, and several intermediate points before it was a month old. By the time it made the trip down here to Columbus in March, 2012, it had also been to London, San Antonio, the Grand Canyon, Montreal, San Diego, Boston, and here, there and everywhere in the greater Ashtabula area and Northeast Ohio.

The old chair just ain’t what she used to be. Sitting in the motorized chair, I leaned forward, took a firm hold of arms of the manual chair, counted to five, said, “OK legs, let’s go,” slowly raised my posterior off the seat of the motorized chair, braced myself on the arms of the manual chair, which started moving backwards, and I went ker-plop. A few minutes later Russ arrived and gave me a lift.

That’s my story, and I am sticking to it. I will not mention my balance, which has gone from iffy, to questionable, to doubtful, to if there is nothing solid to hold on to I am likely going to fall on my face. And I refuse to discuss how weak my legs are these days. Nor will I acknowledge that my right leg, which functioned normally until a year or so ago, is now as ornery and uncooperative as its partner on the left.

But, I suppose I ought to mention those things when I visit Dr. Miller, the primary care guy, this week, and Dr. Verson, the neurologist, next week.

*     *     *

 Alas, the legs aren't the only problem.  When I saw Dr. Verson in December, I told him I was ready for a new wheelchair. A few days later, the phone rang. The phone was in my pants pocket. It is so easy to slide the phone into the pants pocket, and, all too often, it is impossible to get the stupid thing out of the pocket before the caller is directed to voicemail. 

When I finally got the phone out of the pocket it told me I had one missed call. A moment later, it told me I had a voicemail message. The message was from Columbus Home Medical Equipment; a gentleman said that they had received an order for a scooter from Dr. Verson, but unfortunately, they are not in network with my Humana insurance. "I have notified Dr. Verson's office, and they should be contacting you," he said. 

Several days went by without a call from the doctor's office, and then a few more. I started to call them one day, then I closed the phone and put it in my pants pocket. "Look," I said to myself, "you're going to have different insurance in January. (I always talk to myself in the second person.) Why don't you wait until after the holidays? By then you'll have all the information, all the numbers they'll need." Sounded good to me.

I called the Columbus Clinic in January, and asked to speak to someone in Dr. Verson's office. The call was transferred to someone who listened as I told her about the call from Columbus Home Medical. My biggest concern wasn't the insurance, my biggest concern was that Dr. Verson's order was for a scooter. "I need a wheelchair, a motorized wheelchair. There's no way I'll be able get on a scooter without falling." I told her. "I will pass this along, and someone will be getting back with you," she said.

No one got back to me. A week later, I called them and went through the same routine and was told that someone would get back to me. Another week or two went by without a call from the doctor's office, so I called again. It was a replay of the other two calls. A few days later, I did get a call from the Columbus Clinic. The information I had given them had been passed along, the caller told me, and someone would contact me soon. Ha!

By this time, giving the subject of a new wheelchair a break seemed to be the wiser course. The wheelchair was working fine. And I am scheduled to see Dr. Verson on March 11th. Better to talk to him face-to-face than try to reach him through a maze of telephone answering people.

What do they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? On the evening of February 11th, after enjoying a meal in the Covenant Wood's dining room, I flipped the wheelchair's on switch, gently pushed the joy stick, and nothing happened. Well, nothing good happened. A message on the control unit said the second motor was disconnected, and when the chair moved, it moved slowly, always circling to the right. Lucas was kind enough to push me and the chair back to the apartment.

The next morning, Russ came to take me shopping. Before we left I had him push me to Al's apartment. Isabelle, who died almost two years ago, told Al she wanted him to have her wheelchair in case he ever needed it. After Isabelle passed, the wheelchair sat in Al's apartment collecting newspapers, magazines and junk mail. "Why don't you use the wheelchair?" people asked Al when he started having trouble walking. "I can't drive that goddamn thing. I'd probably kill someone." And once or twice a week, Al told me I needed to take Isabelle's wheelchair. "I don't need it," I'd tell him. "I already have a wheelchair. Give it to someone who really needs it."
But that morning, I was the one who really needed it. Al was unaware of this last gift to me, but with the blessing of his nephew Harry, I rode away in Isabelle's wheelchair. If all goes well, it will get me where I need to go until I can get a new one.

You Out There, Al?

     Al has been gone a week, and to my great regret, I never taped him fulminating about whatever or whomever upset him at that moment. Al had a gentle, understanding side, of course, but it was his ability to combine anger, disgust, common sense, humor and an endless supply of expletives into marvelously pithy, off-color diatribes that made him such an unforgettable character. 
     Covenant Woods is filled with whiners and complainers whose bellyaching is beyond boring. Al, however, did his griping with brio, elan, dash, and spirit. He was never boring. But in those moments when I am bored, I would love to be able to press a button and listen to Al lambasting the fools du jour.  
     Al also had a very analytical mind. He was always searching for meaning in life. "What are we here for? What are we supposed to be doing?" he would ask. As a teenager, Al read Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, and he told me I should, too. I never did. 
     On a more concrete level, Al analyzed even the simplest but frustrating tasks. One evening a couple weeks ago, I visited Al. We talked for a bit, then Al said he was going to bed. In the process, he managed to get his oxygen tube entangled with the wire to the controls for the hospital bed hospice had provided him with. When he saw that they weren't going to separate easily, Al sat up, put the mess on the floor, took a good look at it, and set about the task at hand. It was a slow, frustrating task, which Al accompanied with some color commentary: "Son of a bitch. You bastard. Come on, Al, don't be a shit ass." 
     The whole time, though, he was focused on the problem, trying to figure out what he needed to do to untangle the mess. He never resorted to my preferred method: wildly pulling and tugging on the wires until they separated or, more likely, became detached from their respective machines, thereby creating a bigger problem. It remains to be seen if I learned anything from his example.