With the clock nearing 10 o'clock last night, I told myself, "It's time for bed." As I got ready to retire for the night, my bowels said, "Not so fast, Bucko, we've got some business to take care of." Once my big butt was out of the wheelchair and properly positioned on the commode, I got to work on one of the crossword puzzles stashed nearby. Twenty minutes later, the puzzle was done, and the bowels hadn't done shit. For the next fifteen minutes, the bowels received my undivided attention. I might as well have done another crossword puzzle.
Satisfied with their little joke, the bowels were now quiet. My gut now undisturbed and my eyelids getting heavy, the time had come to get off the pot and into bed. That would require getting myself from the commode to the wheelchair, and that proved to be a problem. Getting my arse off the commode wasn't difficult, getting it on to the chair was another story.
I gripped the chair's armrests, pulled myself toward the wheelchair, got my backside off the toilet, and pivoted in order to get the butt aligned with the chair. Alas, my legs were not up to the task. As soon as the old gluteus maximus got between the toilet and the chair, the legs faltered, and the butt began sinking. My arms, getting absolutely no help from the legs, were not able to stop my slow descent to the floor, and, as a result, I got wedged between the toilet and the wheelchair. On the plus side, I was able to reach the chair's controls and move it back. When I did, I ended up lying on my side, with my head against the laundry hamper. Once I got my legs sorta untangled and sorta stretched out, and my pants up far enough to avoid embarrassing myself and others, I was about as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances.
I pressed the button on the I've-fallen-and-can't-get-up pendant Covenant Woods gives each resident. In a few moments, John, the night security guy, was in the apartment, standing over me and assessing my plight. Given the lack of space in the small bathroom and my inability to be of any help, he opted to call for EMTs to get me back in the wheelchair.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door and four EMTs entered my humble abode. One came in the bathroom to take look and figure out the best way to get me off the floor and back on to the wheelchair. "Here, hold on to my arms," he said. He got a hold of me as best he could, and with me clutching his arms, he lifted me off the floor. A second EMT came in the bathroom to help, and then a third. It was a struggle, but they managed to get me back on the chair. They asked me several times if I was hurt (I wasn't) and if I needed any more help (I didn't). I thanked them for their help, and they went on their way.
They were hardly out the door when I started asking myself if I had been too hasty when I told them I didn't need additional help. But I managed to get up from the wheelchair and on to the bed without incident.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
Saturday, December 21, 2019
An Uneventfully Eventful Thursday
Thursday morning, I made my weekly trip to Publix. This week, in addition to the groceries, I needed to have a prescription filled. When I picked it up, the woman behind the counter said, "Your insurance doesn't cover this. It's normally $168.34, but we're giving you a discount: it will be $37.85."
I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.
Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.
Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.
"What Christmas card?"
"The one I put on your door."
"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."
"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."
"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."
"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."
An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.
"How nice. Thank you," I said.
"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."
When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.
"Both cards?"
"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."
"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."
Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.
Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."
In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."
The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.
I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.
Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.
Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.
"What Christmas card?"
"The one I put on your door."
"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."
"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."
"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."
"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."
An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.
"How nice. Thank you," I said.
"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."
When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.
"Both cards?"
"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."
"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."
Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.
Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."
In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."
The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Blasts from the Past
I sit down at the computer every day, sit there for hours, accomplishing nothing most days, and less than nothing the other days. It has been months, many more than a few months since I've sat down to write and actually written. With that in mind, I have resolved to write at least 250 words a day.
At least 250 Words a Day
There, that takes care of today.
* * *
Every now and then I'll hear something that sounds out of place. Not out of place in terms of propriety, but out of place in terms of time. A word of phrase that wouldn't have stirred the least bit of curiosity or garnered the smallest bit of my attention fifty or sixty years ago. In 2019, though, the words are fascinating relics of the past.
At dinner, one evening a month or two ago, Dee Dee, our server, was singing softly as she cleared some dirty dishes from the table. I thought I recognized the song. "Nah, she's too young," I told myself, "She's never even heard that song." But, I had to know for sure, and when she brought us dessert, I asked if she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera." "Yes," she said. "I really like that song."
I can't say, "I really like that song." But it was unavoidable in the mid-50s and early 60s. In addition to the DJs sending it our way at every opportunity, Dad picked up the sheet music on his way home one night so Mom could play it on our organ. As a result, the moment Dee Dee said she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera", the song became my constant companion for the next three days.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty
Will I be rich
Here's what she said to me
Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be
The lyrics moved into my brain. Over and over, repeating and repeating, ad infinitum, they pushed everything else out of my brain - not that there is ever much in my brain. Alone in my apartment, I sang "Que Sera, Sera" over and over again. The neighbors never complained, but they're all hard of hearing and probably couldn't hear me.
It wasn't long afterward that Doris Day died. Did my singing do her in? Quite possibly.
A week or two after getting back to 2019, my mind found itself wondering what decade it was again. After a morning ride through the parking lots, I was about to go inside but stopped to allow two women to come out. A middle-aged lady came out first. The moment she passed from the air-conditioned lobby into the Georgia sunshine, she said, "Mom, it's awfully hot out here."
Mom took two steps into the outdoors before issuing an emphatic "Aye yigh yigh!"
"Aye yigh yigh," where did that come from? From several decades past, that's where. At least, it's been more than a few years since I'd heard anyone say those words. Strange.
Sunday, March 31, 2019
The Wood Bee
The blimp-like wood bee
Buzzes, hovers, rises, falls,
Darts away,
And returns
To buzz, hover, rise, and fall,
Before crawling back into the fence.
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Skirting the Issue
Often, despite a slew of more important things to do, I squander an hour on the web perusing lists of sarcastic quotes and sayings. Without a gun nor an imposing physical presence, my plan is to ward off attackers with a tidal wave of biting, peppery, impertinent wisecracks.
Last night, during another search for acerbic ammunition, I was transported to the Bethel Park Junior High School. Poof! It was 1962, and I was in Mr. Lebedda’s eighth-grade American history class. He was going over the details of a paper he had just assigned.
“How long should it be?” someone asked.
“Well, I had a professor once who always told us, ‘Your paper should be like a woman’s skirt: long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting.’”
The sarcastic saying on the web that took me back 57 years? “A paper should be like a mini skirt: long enough to cover everything, but short enough to keep it interesting.” Proving once again that a quality smart-ass remark stands the test of time.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
To Bed, Perchance to Sleep
According to an article on the National Multiple Sclerosis Society's website, a person with MS is up to three times more likely to experience sleep disturbances than the general population, and nearly twice as likely to get a reduced quality of sleep. In a section titled, Are You Sleep Deprived?, it says if I answer "yes" to even one of the four questions, I might have a problem. My answers would be one "yeah, maybe a little", and a "Yes! Yes! Yes!" for each of the questions.
"Are you, sleepy, grumpy or 'down' much of the day?" I am often sleepy, but not often grumpy - in my opinion, anyway - or down. Maybe I'm wrong - I am once in a while - but when I have those feelings during the day, I'm quick to attribute them to boredom. Then I think about it and wonder why it is so difficult for me to read or write for more than a half-hour at a time. Could be my writing bores me, but the writing of others seldom did in the past.
"Do you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow?" Yes, absolutely! And I love it. Sleep never came quickly. I went to bed, shut my eyes, and my mind got busy. It overflowed with thoughts on a myriad of subjects: things that happened that day; things I had read; something I had heard; a television show; the news; the Pirates, Steelers or Penguins; the weather; wild sex; how to be a better person. With very, very, very few exceptions, I was still awake an hour after my head hit the pillow.
Now, I get in bed, get comfy, and get to sleep within minutes. The MS diagnosis came in 2006, and within three or four years, getting into bed put me on the express to Dreamland. The article says that could be a result of having to work harder and struggle more as a result of MS. Even so, I enjoy it when sleep arrives promptly.
"Do you sleep less than 7 hours most nights?" Time was when seven or eight hours sleep was the norm. Back when I was gainfully employed, I relied on the alarm clock to rouse me in a timely manner. These days, I seldom need to get up early, but I'm often awake in the wee, wee hours of the morning. Many nights, I'll get in bed at 10:30 or 11 and wake up at 1a.m. Sometimes I can get back to sleep. But most nights I can't and give up trying by 3 or 4.
"Do you still feel tired even after getting 8 or more hours of sleep?" You bet your sweet bippy I do. This body ain't easy to move, and it seldom moves at all once sleep comes. So, on those nights when I get the recommended hours of sleep, every muscle in my legs is beyond stiff and approaching rigid; my balance is questionable; my sinuses ache and I'm so tired, if my wasn't bladder clamoring for attention, I'd sleep for another two or three hours.
Until this morning, dealing with sleep and/or the lack of it hadn't caused any problems. But, it sure did Tuesday, when I had an 8:55a.m. appointment for blood work at the Columbus Clinic. I was to be in the Covenant Woods' lobby at 8a.m. to get on the bus that would take me there. I hit the sack at 11 Monday night, woke up at 1:30 Tuesday morning, tried without success to get back to sleep and quit trying at 3:30. After getting dressed and tending to my urinary needs, I had a glass of water, fired up Mr. Coffee, and reminded myself that the banana on the counter was out of the question. "This,' the person who called to remind me of the appointment said, "is a fasting lab. Nothing but water and black coffee after midnight."
While the coffee brewed, I checked my email, took a look at Facebook, and started to work on a crossword puzzle. When Mr. Coffee was done making all those funny noises, I filled my cup, set on the table, and fell asleep. I fell directly to sleep, did not pass go, and did not regain even a sliver of consciousness until Amy's voice came through the intercom.
"Tom, are you going to the doctor today?"
"No. That was yesterday."
"OK."
Why did I say, "That was yesterday"? I have no idea. I remember saying it, but I wasn't trying to make excuses for not being in the appointed place at the appointed time. It was 15 or 20 minutes later when my mental fog lifted just a bit. I realized it was Tuesday, I had an appointment, and Dennis was already on the road, taking residents to their appointments. Then, still in the wheelchair, I fell asleep again and remained asleep or occasionally half asleep until 3:30 this afternoon.
It is nearly midnight now, and I'm not tired. With all the sleeping I did today, that's not a surprise. But, I'm not hungry, and all I've eaten was a banana and a bagel. My liquid intake for the day has consisted of two small glasses of water and three cups of coffee. I should be hungry and thirsty. But I'm not.
"Are you, sleepy, grumpy or 'down' much of the day?" I am often sleepy, but not often grumpy - in my opinion, anyway - or down. Maybe I'm wrong - I am once in a while - but when I have those feelings during the day, I'm quick to attribute them to boredom. Then I think about it and wonder why it is so difficult for me to read or write for more than a half-hour at a time. Could be my writing bores me, but the writing of others seldom did in the past.
"Do you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow?" Yes, absolutely! And I love it. Sleep never came quickly. I went to bed, shut my eyes, and my mind got busy. It overflowed with thoughts on a myriad of subjects: things that happened that day; things I had read; something I had heard; a television show; the news; the Pirates, Steelers or Penguins; the weather; wild sex; how to be a better person. With very, very, very few exceptions, I was still awake an hour after my head hit the pillow.
Now, I get in bed, get comfy, and get to sleep within minutes. The MS diagnosis came in 2006, and within three or four years, getting into bed put me on the express to Dreamland. The article says that could be a result of having to work harder and struggle more as a result of MS. Even so, I enjoy it when sleep arrives promptly.
"Do you sleep less than 7 hours most nights?" Time was when seven or eight hours sleep was the norm. Back when I was gainfully employed, I relied on the alarm clock to rouse me in a timely manner. These days, I seldom need to get up early, but I'm often awake in the wee, wee hours of the morning. Many nights, I'll get in bed at 10:30 or 11 and wake up at 1a.m. Sometimes I can get back to sleep. But most nights I can't and give up trying by 3 or 4.
"Do you still feel tired even after getting 8 or more hours of sleep?" You bet your sweet bippy I do. This body ain't easy to move, and it seldom moves at all once sleep comes. So, on those nights when I get the recommended hours of sleep, every muscle in my legs is beyond stiff and approaching rigid; my balance is questionable; my sinuses ache and I'm so tired, if my wasn't bladder clamoring for attention, I'd sleep for another two or three hours.
Until this morning, dealing with sleep and/or the lack of it hadn't caused any problems. But, it sure did Tuesday, when I had an 8:55a.m. appointment for blood work at the Columbus Clinic. I was to be in the Covenant Woods' lobby at 8a.m. to get on the bus that would take me there. I hit the sack at 11 Monday night, woke up at 1:30 Tuesday morning, tried without success to get back to sleep and quit trying at 3:30. After getting dressed and tending to my urinary needs, I had a glass of water, fired up Mr. Coffee, and reminded myself that the banana on the counter was out of the question. "This,' the person who called to remind me of the appointment said, "is a fasting lab. Nothing but water and black coffee after midnight."
While the coffee brewed, I checked my email, took a look at Facebook, and started to work on a crossword puzzle. When Mr. Coffee was done making all those funny noises, I filled my cup, set on the table, and fell asleep. I fell directly to sleep, did not pass go, and did not regain even a sliver of consciousness until Amy's voice came through the intercom.
"Tom, are you going to the doctor today?"
"No. That was yesterday."
"OK."
Why did I say, "That was yesterday"? I have no idea. I remember saying it, but I wasn't trying to make excuses for not being in the appointed place at the appointed time. It was 15 or 20 minutes later when my mental fog lifted just a bit. I realized it was Tuesday, I had an appointment, and Dennis was already on the road, taking residents to their appointments. Then, still in the wheelchair, I fell asleep again and remained asleep or occasionally half asleep until 3:30 this afternoon.
It is nearly midnight now, and I'm not tired. With all the sleeping I did today, that's not a surprise. But, I'm not hungry, and all I've eaten was a banana and a bagel. My liquid intake for the day has consisted of two small glasses of water and three cups of coffee. I should be hungry and thirsty. But I'm not.
Friday, July 6, 2018
The Resident Journal
This is the current issue of The Resident Journal, minus the pictures. Chuck Baston, a Covenant Woods' resident, came up with the idea, and I was recruited to be the editor. The Resident Journal, a monthly - more or less - has been printing the work of Covenant Woods' residents since May 2015. This month's issue is a little thin, it is usually eight to twelve pages.
_______________________________________________________
The Resident Journal
Covenant Woods, Columbus, Georgia
July 2018
America
By Kate Larkins
From Maine to California
We planted golden grain,
In rich and fertile valleys
And mountainous terrain.
Through drought and depression
We’ve tilled our native land.
We fought our wars, grieved our men,
And triumphed once again.
We fought off varmints, plagues and flood
And daily fight inflation.
We’ve filled the bins and stocked the shelves
To feed a hungry nation.
So bless us, Lord, this special day,
As we bow our heads in prayer.
We thank you for the guts it took
And the guts to hang in there.
The Resident Journal July 2018 Page 2
Dresser Tops
By Chuck Baston
The subject of this little essay is unusual and can use a bit of explanation before we get into its heart and soul. “Dresser” is that wonderful piece of furniture in the bedroom, whose spacious drawers hold hosiery and underwear, sweaters and shirts, and miscellaneous items galore. Unfortunately, it seldom has room for all we try to put in it.
Having taken care of the drawers, we come to the top of the dresser, which is our subject. Though you probably do it every day, now is a good time to look at what is displayed there. A survey of dresser tops, I’m sure, would find the greatest array of items ever conceived, everything from Indian scalps to false teeth.
What are we likely to find on a dresser top? Photographs are often the No. 1 dresser top item; pictures of loved ones, of those still with us and of those who have passed. There might be trinkets on the dresser that hold loving memories of family and friends. One of Aunt Tillie’s garters might be there, or grandpa’s old mustache cup. There might also be a hand mirror, a comb, a brush, a small mirrored jewelry tray, a small chest for jewelry or other keepsakes. And maybe some souvenirs from visits to Disney World, the Statue of Liberty, or Niagara Falls.
You see! Dresser tops can be very interesting and may provide insight into the personality and interests of its owner. It may hold a major clue to a personal trait the owner doesn’t want made public.
So, it pays to be careful what we display on the dresser. On the other hand, you see the items on your dresser every day and derive pleasure from them. Be sure the items on your dresser give you a smile every morning and each night before you turn out the light and enter your land of memories.
Happy dreams!!!
The Resident Journal July 2018 Page 3
Radiating Love
By Violet Hayes Conner
How amazing is Calvary Love! When transformed by Calvary Love, the heart undergoes miraculous changes. One dies to self and discards the grave clothes of sorrow and the blemishes of unrighteousness. A new person emerges with a new joy-filled heart, full of His ever-present redeeming Love.
His marvelous Love radiates into families, creating an awesome bonding. Friendships flourish when renewed hearts share in His Presence. How amazing is this bonding and promoting love and goodwill among families and friends. The heart greatly rejoices!
Radiating Love knows no bounds. It flows from love-filled hearts clothed in flowing garments of praise. Be adorned with His glorious praise and radiate the beauty of His mantle of Love!
The Resident Journal July 2018 Page 4
The Long, Hot Summer
By Tom Harris,
Day after day the high’s above ninety,
The humidity is one-forty-four.
I’d like to say with class and nicety
That I can’t take this stuff anymore.
But daily that darn heat-index rises,
And saps my respectful vocabulary
The heat kills the nice words, and my surmise is,
What’s left will draw the constabulary.
Yes. I do try to be understanding
Of Mother Nature’s mysterious ways.
Yet, on days when I’m out standing
In Sol’s searing, sultry, scorching rays,
It is difficult to keep a civil tongue,
And polite chatting is impossible.
Within seconds I’ve burst a lung,
Shouting words and phrases reprehensible.
As Grandma said, “It’s hotter than Hades.”
One moment outside and I am an ember,
I’m wishing hard for a day in the eighties,
Which maybe we’ll have in November.
_________________________________________________________________
Help! We need writers. If you have an essay, story or poem you’d like to share with your friends and neighbors, pass it along to Alisha, Annie, Penelope, Tom Harris, or drop it off at the front desk, or email it to tharris508@gmail.com. If you have an idea and would like some help getting it on paper, please ask. We are always glad to help.
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