It was the week after Christmas and all through my house, there was the usual activity, the usual grouse. I was snug as a bug when my cell rang, “Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo” but it wasn’t Cindy-Lou or any other Who…..it was the manager of the storage facility in Kansas City calling to tell me my unit had been robbed.
She was sorry to tell me that while on her morning rounds she discovered that my lock had been cut and when she opened the 10 by 25 foot unit I rented she could see that for such a big space there was very little in it.
I was then and I am now still in a state of disbelief-denial being a safer place to live than Missouri I’ve come to learn, too late. My initial reaction was ”Oh no!” and “Fuck!”(I think I said that a couple of times) then I reminded myself out loud not to take out whatever I was feeling on this woman who was just doing her job and concentrated on listening to what she was telling me. I asked a few questions and hung up knowing that I’d be talking to her again along with the police.
My first call after I hung up was to Chad and not the police, I wanted his comfort and I needed his help. Poor puss, I think he took the news harder than I did when I told him. Thank God for Chad, though, he was (and is) there for me, agreeing to do whatever was needed in my stead.
Funny, I used to write that I “left” my life in KC to join my mother’s here in Maryland, but at the time I thought that what I left was safe and sound on Southwest Blvd in a 10 x 25 foot space, neatly packed on “pause”, just waiting for me to return and hit the “resume” button that was my life.
Since I was in the middle of shaving when Joyce, the manager called, I saw no reason to not finish my toilet so I proceeded shave and shower so that I could be fresh for whatever hell was in store for the rest of the day.
I didn’t know what I felt, but I knew I didn’t feel like sitting around the apartment so I went to the Mall-what better place to clear your mind after you’ve heard that everything other than what you could mail to yourself or load in your PT Cruiser was probably gone.
I walked the Mall aimlessly for a while, no clear path or destination in mind. Truth be told the local Mall has seen better days-as have the shoppers that frequent it. Nothing piqued my interest until I found myself in Target, the familiar feel of a shopping cart and the noise of a catty-wompuos wheel that was rattling. I walking up and down the aisles perusing the after Christmas sales and in no time I had a cart full of crap, 1/2 priced Xmas decorations and candy (bags of marked down treats). I even managed to justify a flat screen TV (on sale!), DVDs and some accessories for home I just “had to have”-after all I “don’t have” as of today, so, shop I did.
I even managed to drum up a little “after Christmas” spirit and put a pack of Nathan’s Hot Dogs in the cart for Miss Cathy. She loves Nathan’s Hot Dogs, she considers the price exorbitant for frankfurters so to her they are a delicacy and a “special treat”-much the way others would view caviar. Well, if I could have a tin of cashews dipped in chocolate while I watched something banal on a new flat-screen then she should have a treat, too!
An hour or so into my shop-a-thon I headed for the check out, stopping an aisle or two away, coveting my orgy of purchases. I looked at all that I’d picked up, carefully scrutinized and selected (these were no random, impulse items) I comparison shopped, selected the best of what was left on the sale racks and satisfied with my selections I went to the check out.
I left with the Nathan’s Hot dogs as my sole purchase. The shopping cart, I’m ashamed to say because I believe in department store etiquette (putting things back where you found them if you’re not going to buy them) was left abandoned for some clerk to find and have to re-stock.
In the parking lot holding onto my weenies while I looked for my car, I thought about what the universe was trying to tell me-again. Unfortunately, this is not my first experience with theft. Back in the late 80’s my apartment in New York was robbed of all my jewelry. At the time I had a lot of unique, expensive antique and original jewelry-most of which were gifts that I wore religiously, pins and brooches, on my lapel, fingers, on my hat, sweaters and vests. I was “known” for my eccentric style and the jewelry was an important part of giving me an identity that I could hide behind long before I had one of my own. What that loss taught me was not to covet ‘things’ so much as to enjoy possessions for what they are and not what they represent. The theft also forced me out from behind the accoutrements, to be me-sans decorations, unadorned, flaws and all. So, the universe had an important lesson for me to learn and I think I got it.
I lived that lesson for several years, but as time accumulated so did new possessions and obsessions (antiquing and collecting) and my ego for a time was stocked as full as my wine cellar. So, the universe stepped in, once again, to give pause to my life so that I could reevaluate what was important.
In 2004, what the papers called a “100 year rain” hit the small rural town where I once lived and owned an old farmhouse. After it’s sale the town in which it was located became the location of the storage facility for all that housed my life; antiques, furniture, archives of my life’s work up until that point (about 20 years worth of original art, sketches, notes, serigraphs and sketchbooks) books, clothes and all of my childhood possessions including pictures, yearbooks, comics and all my old “diaries” and adult journals.
The “100 year rain” came so fast and so furious that the Delaware River that bordered the town became so swollen that it overflowed it’s banks and flooded the town, leaving hundreds homeless. My storage facility was in the low-lands and thus in the river's watery path so 65% of my possessions ended up buried under seven feet of water and mud. What little was let was dried in the sun and moved to higher ground, there was much pain and a long battle with the insurance company but ultimately, another lesson learned in “letting go” and moving on.
And now the universe is speaking to me once more, but, damn, does it always have to be a punch up side the head instead of a soft tap on the shoulder to get my attention, robbed of about 80% of what I’ve accumulated since starting what I thought would be a new, quiet life in the Midwest.
And so I ask, what is the measure of a man? In years gone by property, possessions and children were what were left to judge a life lived well. Well, we all know I have no children (that is if you don’t count Miss Cathy), and although I’ve owned two homes and possessions worthy of being photographed for a life-style magazine I find that I have nothing more than the memories and a magazine.
Here I am at the close of 2010 living in Maryland with my mother, the Midwest forsaken for selflessness. For the first time since I was seventeen years old I find that I do not have a lease with my name on it, so I have no “home” to call my own and now only a few possessions that represent the life I’ve lived. What I wonder is what am I to gain from this? What is the universe is telling me, showing me?
Part of me feels that what I have to learn (again) and be reminded of (again) is that nothing is tangible, to enjoy what you have when you have it, and that our memories of what we do with what we have is truly all we can ever have to hold onto. It’s the people and experiences that are important and not the “things”, although there is nothing wrong with possessions, just the importance we attach to them can be suspect.
And maybe the universe is telling me that it’s time to let go of the (recent) past-literally, for my time in Kansas City was anything but quiet. I was tested and judged, and learned a lot about myself and grew in ways that I could only learn having been there, in that time, under those circumstances. Suffice to say it was one of the most challenging chapters of my life. So, maybe now the time has come to be free, and in loss there is much to gain.
I’d also like to believe that at the end of this decade, after all that I’ve been through in the “aughts” and now 2010, that the new decade ahead holds so much abundance for me that I had to make room for all that is to come.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Christmas day
We spent Christmas day here, just the two of us. I didn’t ask her if she wanted to go to Tony’s- I mean, what’s the point after she was so adamant about NOT wanting to be there for Thanksgiving. I’d thought to call and ask them to come here for the day but first I procrastinated, probably because knowing my brother he wouldn’t have wanted to and I was feeling guilty about putting him in the position to have to say “No”. But, in the end it didn’t matter because when I called Suemi was just getting over a cold, Tony was sick and although Nile was there, Zachary had just left for a trip to Japan to visit relatives.
Late Christmas morning Miss Cathy told me that one of her girlfriends had invited her to dinner and that I was invited, too. I didn’t want to go (and said as much) but I would gladly drive her whenever she was ready.
I was actually excited for her, thinking that she’d get dressed up and have fun hanging out with her friends but she put a kibosh on that right quick. She said that she didn’t want to go either and when I asked if it was because I wasn’t going she said “No”, that she didn’t want to go “regardless” (and her friend had even offered to come pick her up!).
I gotta say, I was pretty miffed. I told her that I don’t understand how she can just sit in this apartment all the time and not go out (sometimes for more than a week) and not do anything or see her friends. “Well,” she said, very satisfied with herself, “I talk to my friends on the phone all the time.”
My first thought upon hearing that was, “Well fuck! If all you want is talk on the phone and never go anywhere I can go back to my life and put your happy ass in an old folks home.” I’m starting to understand how people can beat the elderly-not that I condone or would ever do anything like that. Again, I would NEVER touch Miss Cathy (or anybody for that reason) it’s just that it gets sooo frustrating sometimes that you think all sorts of crazy things.
I’m also starting to understand how old people become shut ins-and the sad part is that she’s NOT that old.
I just don’t get it and I’m trying too. First there was the panic about going to Tony’s, okay, that’s an easy one because of my brother’s house being associated with sickness and being away from home for a long period of time-I get that (kind of). But now there’s this “it’s too cold to go outside” excuse-which pretty much means she’s justified (in her mind) of NOT leaving these four walls until sometime in March.
Speaking of the weather-actually I’m still talking about Miss Cathy (what else is new) but today as I was washing her hair she told me she was thinking about making an appointment at a beauty parlor but her concern was not about the weather but the fact that there are “20 stairs” she’d have to climb to get inside the building.
“So.” I said,” you’ll just walk a little slower. It’s not like you have to walk the stairs everyday. Besides, you could use the exercise.”
“Nah,” was her response. I told her that I don’t understand why she even bothered to have the knee replacement surgery if all she’d going to do is be afraid to walk anywhere.
“I’d like to give YOU a knee replacement surgery and see how you’d like it.” She said.
“I’d do a helluva lot better than you, I know that.” I replied. “You talk like you’re the only person this has ever happened to, there are people older than you having this surgery and they’re jumping out of planes, running in marathons, dancing and rock climbing!”
“No they aren’t either.” She said, her voice muffled by the towel she had wrapped round her head as she dried her hair and toddled away, “I’ll bet they wish they were doing as well as I am. I think I’ve come a long way.”
Yeah well, I know you do and that’s the problem.
I don’t know, it’s been nine months since her surgery and you’d think (I thought) by now she’d be much further along than she is; better balance, more speed and less afraid of a fall- maybe that’s just my “wish” for her. The truth is, before I moved in with her five months ago I had no idea what her day-to-day life was. I didn’t know how large or small her world was.
Of course I had impressions of what I “thought” her life was like but that was based on twice weekly phone calls from twelve hundred miles away. Now that I’m here, part of me is like a parent with a child, trying not to impose my vision of who/what they should be, rather I’m trying to hang back and let her “be”.
Late Christmas morning Miss Cathy told me that one of her girlfriends had invited her to dinner and that I was invited, too. I didn’t want to go (and said as much) but I would gladly drive her whenever she was ready.
I was actually excited for her, thinking that she’d get dressed up and have fun hanging out with her friends but she put a kibosh on that right quick. She said that she didn’t want to go either and when I asked if it was because I wasn’t going she said “No”, that she didn’t want to go “regardless” (and her friend had even offered to come pick her up!).
I gotta say, I was pretty miffed. I told her that I don’t understand how she can just sit in this apartment all the time and not go out (sometimes for more than a week) and not do anything or see her friends. “Well,” she said, very satisfied with herself, “I talk to my friends on the phone all the time.”
My first thought upon hearing that was, “Well fuck! If all you want is talk on the phone and never go anywhere I can go back to my life and put your happy ass in an old folks home.” I’m starting to understand how people can beat the elderly-not that I condone or would ever do anything like that. Again, I would NEVER touch Miss Cathy (or anybody for that reason) it’s just that it gets sooo frustrating sometimes that you think all sorts of crazy things.
I’m also starting to understand how old people become shut ins-and the sad part is that she’s NOT that old.
I just don’t get it and I’m trying too. First there was the panic about going to Tony’s, okay, that’s an easy one because of my brother’s house being associated with sickness and being away from home for a long period of time-I get that (kind of). But now there’s this “it’s too cold to go outside” excuse-which pretty much means she’s justified (in her mind) of NOT leaving these four walls until sometime in March.
Speaking of the weather-actually I’m still talking about Miss Cathy (what else is new) but today as I was washing her hair she told me she was thinking about making an appointment at a beauty parlor but her concern was not about the weather but the fact that there are “20 stairs” she’d have to climb to get inside the building.
“So.” I said,” you’ll just walk a little slower. It’s not like you have to walk the stairs everyday. Besides, you could use the exercise.”
“Nah,” was her response. I told her that I don’t understand why she even bothered to have the knee replacement surgery if all she’d going to do is be afraid to walk anywhere.
“I’d like to give YOU a knee replacement surgery and see how you’d like it.” She said.
“I’d do a helluva lot better than you, I know that.” I replied. “You talk like you’re the only person this has ever happened to, there are people older than you having this surgery and they’re jumping out of planes, running in marathons, dancing and rock climbing!”
“No they aren’t either.” She said, her voice muffled by the towel she had wrapped round her head as she dried her hair and toddled away, “I’ll bet they wish they were doing as well as I am. I think I’ve come a long way.”
Yeah well, I know you do and that’s the problem.
I don’t know, it’s been nine months since her surgery and you’d think (I thought) by now she’d be much further along than she is; better balance, more speed and less afraid of a fall- maybe that’s just my “wish” for her. The truth is, before I moved in with her five months ago I had no idea what her day-to-day life was. I didn’t know how large or small her world was.
Of course I had impressions of what I “thought” her life was like but that was based on twice weekly phone calls from twelve hundred miles away. Now that I’m here, part of me is like a parent with a child, trying not to impose my vision of who/what they should be, rather I’m trying to hang back and let her “be”.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A few observations from the peanut gallery
Miss Cathy and I have played the card game 3-13 several times now and while she seems to be getting the hang of the game there are a few challenges. She’s caught on to the basic premise of the game but she’s having difficulty with the subtleties of how to win a round. As minor as these things appear I do think they are significant in that they show a break down (however slight) in her problem solving and cognitive skills. One of the reason I’m so happy she likes playing cards (aside from the camaraderie) is that the game gives her an opportunity to exercise her mind “muscle.”
After playing a few hands she confessed that she didn’t know how to shuffle the cards very well so I thought I would teach her, easy enough-or so I thought. When she didn’t “get” my verbal instructions I tried showing her what I wanted her to do and it didn’t help much, if anything I think it confused matters. This was most apparent when I asked her to “mirror” my hand movements as I demonstrated how to mix the cards together.
I watched with fascination (not frustration as you’d probably think from my usual ranting) as I would arch my hand “up” by the wrist and hold the cards with my fingers in a specific way, left hand and right. She would struggle to hold her hand “down” and to approximate holding on the cards with her fingers, never able to match either what I was doing or each of her hands.
It’s in these moments that I’m at my best; patient and kind, with an instinct as to the right thing to say and do. I went through the motions of showing her what to do several times, each time phrasing the instructions differently or altering the visuals, looking to see what would “click” with her, ultimately abandoning the lesson for another time after praising her efforts.
Because of something we’d gone through recently I told Chad that I could be counted on to “shine” in a crisis-that it was the day to day of life that I struggled with ”dully”. It’s not that I’m bragging-far from it, it’s just an observation made after bearing witness to how I’ve responded to situations in my life. I know who I am, what I’m capable of and that I can be counted on. I’m not saying I’m unique by any stretch, it’s just that I think there are three types of people: those that “show up”, those that “can’t cope” and those “that flee.”
Most of us know which we are, and if you don’t –others do.
After playing a few hands she confessed that she didn’t know how to shuffle the cards very well so I thought I would teach her, easy enough-or so I thought. When she didn’t “get” my verbal instructions I tried showing her what I wanted her to do and it didn’t help much, if anything I think it confused matters. This was most apparent when I asked her to “mirror” my hand movements as I demonstrated how to mix the cards together.
I watched with fascination (not frustration as you’d probably think from my usual ranting) as I would arch my hand “up” by the wrist and hold the cards with my fingers in a specific way, left hand and right. She would struggle to hold her hand “down” and to approximate holding on the cards with her fingers, never able to match either what I was doing or each of her hands.
It’s in these moments that I’m at my best; patient and kind, with an instinct as to the right thing to say and do. I went through the motions of showing her what to do several times, each time phrasing the instructions differently or altering the visuals, looking to see what would “click” with her, ultimately abandoning the lesson for another time after praising her efforts.
Because of something we’d gone through recently I told Chad that I could be counted on to “shine” in a crisis-that it was the day to day of life that I struggled with ”dully”. It’s not that I’m bragging-far from it, it’s just an observation made after bearing witness to how I’ve responded to situations in my life. I know who I am, what I’m capable of and that I can be counted on. I’m not saying I’m unique by any stretch, it’s just that I think there are three types of people: those that “show up”, those that “can’t cope” and those “that flee.”
Most of us know which we are, and if you don’t –others do.
Opening a can of worms
I heard Miss Cathy calling my name before I saw her in the hallway outside my room so I went out to see what she wanted. She was clearly upset, about what I did not know but I followed her into the kitchen. On the way she told me that she needed help opening some cans because she “couldn’t get the fucking can opener to work” and she was “just about ready to throw the thing out the window.” Judging by how upset she was you'd have thought she was just told she had to go over to my brother's house to live.
I asked her why she didn’t come get me “before” she tried to open the cans herself but she had no answer, saying instead,” I don’t know what’s wrong with “that” thing, it just won’t work right.” The cans sat on the counter, each with several puncture marks along the lids, looking like victims of a circular stabbing.
She was angry, agitated and started to spiral down so now was not the time for me to remind her that we’ve been here before. What I needed to do was calm her down first and then deal with the situation. For whatever reasons the simple task of opening a can with a manual or electric opener was a difficult for her. Seeing her frustration time and again (and witnessing her break two can openers already) I had talked to her and we decided (or so I thought) that she would ask me to open whatever cans she needed for cooking and she would give up trying to open the cans herself.
These are the moments that remind me that a) I’m needed here and 2) I need to take a breath and carefully consider what I say before I respond to her.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t channeling the Buddha soon enough because when she said,” I don’t want to use that thing, I’m going to go and get a new one.” I said, “You do that. YOU go right out and buy another one. You’ve broken two already and there was nothing wrong with either of them before you got a hold of them! Maybe, just maybe it’s you and not the openers that’s the problem.” Finished with my rant, I calmed down, opened the three cans she needed for cooking and went back to my room.
I’d planned on running some errands anyway so this felt like just as good a time as any so I changed and out I went; to get some fresh air, some things I needed and some time away from the apartment.
I thought a lot about “what the fuck just happened” while I was out and I came to the conclusion that she must have been tired after her outing earlier with Adele and that was why she couldn’t use the can opener properly. They had gone out shopping and to the Beauty Parlor so that’s a “big” day for her and I should have known she’d be tired afterward (just like our outings to the big grocery store once every week or so), and with being tired sometimes comes a little confusion and being quick to anger out of frustration.
I knew that and yet I still engaged. I shouldn’t have left the way I did but I went anyway. I don’t think it’s a good idea (or responsible) to leave her that way (agitated and upset). It “could” have been dangerous, and she was cooking after all-but nothing happened while I was away. I made it home an hour or so later with a few things we needed and a new attitude.
When I returned I put some of the things away that I bought and went to find her. She was lying down in her room so I quietly went into her closet to install an adapter with a pull string to illuminate the room, I thought it was high time to “upgrade” from turning the naked light bulb that had been in the closet for years. She wasn’t asleep so I told her what I was doing and she told me that she'd finished cooking and that dinner was on the stove. She then asked if there was anything she could do for me.
“Yes,” I said, “You could start practicing a little patience.” She gave me just the opening I needed to say what I needed to say in a calmer manner. “There’s no need for you to get so angry because you can't "work" the can-opener. I’ve told you several times that all you have to do is ask me and I’ll open whatever you need-you’re not bothering me, so that’s not an excuse. All you have to do is say, "I’m going to be cooking and I need some cans opened"-leave them on the counter and I’ll do it for you.”
“Yeah, that’s what you say to do,” she said, sighing. It all sounded easy enough to me but maybe what I was hearing in her acquiescence was that "asking” for my help was some sort of compromise on her independence or something. I don’t know, it’s just another of those “I’m not in her situation so I can’t know how it feels”-deals.
I reminded her that she'd already broken two can openers a few months ago, one manual and the other electric, both of which were not cheap (though not top of line by any stretch of the imagination) but they were in perfectly fine working order till she came home from rehab.
“Besides,” I continued, you can’t just break things because you’re frustrated. You’re the one always talking about how "poor” you are so you can’t go around breaking things and thinking you can throw some money at the problem afterwards-that's what "rich" people do and according to you-you don’t have any money.”
"Yeah, well, you're right about that, I sure don't have any money," she agreed. She still wanted to get a new can opener, and I conceded the point that the one we had might not be the best "design", so I agreed to go out to shop with her after Christmas when a better bargain might be had. And with that I was able to put the lid back on-for now.
.
I asked her why she didn’t come get me “before” she tried to open the cans herself but she had no answer, saying instead,” I don’t know what’s wrong with “that” thing, it just won’t work right.” The cans sat on the counter, each with several puncture marks along the lids, looking like victims of a circular stabbing.
She was angry, agitated and started to spiral down so now was not the time for me to remind her that we’ve been here before. What I needed to do was calm her down first and then deal with the situation. For whatever reasons the simple task of opening a can with a manual or electric opener was a difficult for her. Seeing her frustration time and again (and witnessing her break two can openers already) I had talked to her and we decided (or so I thought) that she would ask me to open whatever cans she needed for cooking and she would give up trying to open the cans herself.
These are the moments that remind me that a) I’m needed here and 2) I need to take a breath and carefully consider what I say before I respond to her.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t channeling the Buddha soon enough because when she said,” I don’t want to use that thing, I’m going to go and get a new one.” I said, “You do that. YOU go right out and buy another one. You’ve broken two already and there was nothing wrong with either of them before you got a hold of them! Maybe, just maybe it’s you and not the openers that’s the problem.” Finished with my rant, I calmed down, opened the three cans she needed for cooking and went back to my room.
I’d planned on running some errands anyway so this felt like just as good a time as any so I changed and out I went; to get some fresh air, some things I needed and some time away from the apartment.
I thought a lot about “what the fuck just happened” while I was out and I came to the conclusion that she must have been tired after her outing earlier with Adele and that was why she couldn’t use the can opener properly. They had gone out shopping and to the Beauty Parlor so that’s a “big” day for her and I should have known she’d be tired afterward (just like our outings to the big grocery store once every week or so), and with being tired sometimes comes a little confusion and being quick to anger out of frustration.
I knew that and yet I still engaged. I shouldn’t have left the way I did but I went anyway. I don’t think it’s a good idea (or responsible) to leave her that way (agitated and upset). It “could” have been dangerous, and she was cooking after all-but nothing happened while I was away. I made it home an hour or so later with a few things we needed and a new attitude.
When I returned I put some of the things away that I bought and went to find her. She was lying down in her room so I quietly went into her closet to install an adapter with a pull string to illuminate the room, I thought it was high time to “upgrade” from turning the naked light bulb that had been in the closet for years. She wasn’t asleep so I told her what I was doing and she told me that she'd finished cooking and that dinner was on the stove. She then asked if there was anything she could do for me.
“Yes,” I said, “You could start practicing a little patience.” She gave me just the opening I needed to say what I needed to say in a calmer manner. “There’s no need for you to get so angry because you can't "work" the can-opener. I’ve told you several times that all you have to do is ask me and I’ll open whatever you need-you’re not bothering me, so that’s not an excuse. All you have to do is say, "I’m going to be cooking and I need some cans opened"-leave them on the counter and I’ll do it for you.”
“Yeah, that’s what you say to do,” she said, sighing. It all sounded easy enough to me but maybe what I was hearing in her acquiescence was that "asking” for my help was some sort of compromise on her independence or something. I don’t know, it’s just another of those “I’m not in her situation so I can’t know how it feels”-deals.
I reminded her that she'd already broken two can openers a few months ago, one manual and the other electric, both of which were not cheap (though not top of line by any stretch of the imagination) but they were in perfectly fine working order till she came home from rehab.
“Besides,” I continued, you can’t just break things because you’re frustrated. You’re the one always talking about how "poor” you are so you can’t go around breaking things and thinking you can throw some money at the problem afterwards-that's what "rich" people do and according to you-you don’t have any money.”
"Yeah, well, you're right about that, I sure don't have any money," she agreed. She still wanted to get a new can opener, and I conceded the point that the one we had might not be the best "design", so I agreed to go out to shop with her after Christmas when a better bargain might be had. And with that I was able to put the lid back on-for now.
.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
The Visitor
Chad was here last week for four days and it was great having him here-I’m not quite sure if I can say the same for our guest. I mean, I’m sure he had a perfectly lovely time but the trip was not without a few missteps.
Before he got here I started to wonder what he’d make of this little “Baby Jane” act we’ve got going on here-although sometimes I think we veer awfully close to performing George and Martha in “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”…….”I am George, I am”, Martha says as she gazes absently out of the window, spent from a night of accusations, recriminations, disappointments and disgust (yepper-that’s us!).
Anyway, we don’t get many visitors, well, not many that can stay for any significant amount of time anyway. Once a week or so Marcia (the cat lady from downstairs) might come up for a visit or the relatives of unknown relation might stop by but then that’s only for a few hours, too. Adele comes around and my friend, William has been here several times and most recently my friends Brian and Mark were in town and stopped by to meet Miss Cathy.
It’s easy to keep up the pretext of civility and harmony for a few hours-who can’t do that?! It’s letting someone behind the curtain for days on end that can be vexing, having someone around, “witnessing” it all.
I wondered what he was thinking…was he watching how we relate? How I interacted and cared for her? Was he judging what I was doing and how I was doing it? And if he was, what should I care but I did, I do. Maybe it’s not that I care what he thinks so much as I noticed how he was around Miss Cathy and I wondered, ”Should I be more like him?”
It’s not like I was trying to hide that I serve her rats for dinner under a silver cloche or dispose of the empty whiskey bottles after she’s long passed out form some sedative I’ve given her to shut her up, no, its more likely that I’m making her a late night snack of chicken salad or peanut butter and jelly, making sure she’s taken her night time meds and then creeping out late at night to dispose of empty cans of Fresca and roasted chicken containers.
Chad’s visit passed pleasantly enough, he brought her gifts, paid attention to her, listened to her, he even cooked her a meal and best of all he was a new audience for her shtick-a guaranteed good time for her. And there was the afternoon that Chad and I taught Miss Cathy how to play 3-13, a card game that Chad introduced me to back in Kansas City, that was a fun afternoon.
I got to have some grown up time, too. Chad and I spent a lot of time alone together, and we even went into DC for dinner with William at a hot new Cuban restaurant, Cuba Libre-so, fun was had by all. But, not all the time, he did witness a “moment” or two, one of which was the incident after he and I returned from a movie on what was the first snow-day of the season. Chad and Miss Cathy were in the living room and I overheard her talking to him about my driving skills (in snow and in general). Instead of ignoring what I was hearing, I went into the living room and proceeded to lecture her on the dangers of being a “back seat driver”, she (in typical Miss Cathy fashion) didn’t back down from her position that SHE was doing the driver (me, or anybody else who happened to be behind the wheel) a favor by pointing out what she thought the driver might have missed or needed to know.
It was less Baby Jane and Blanche Hudson and classic Miss Cathy and me, locked in our resolve that each was right and as usual neither giving an inch, oblivious of our guest and how boring it must all have been for him.
Chad had only met Miss Cathy last year, briefly, when he and William brought me by the apartment as part of my 50th birthday “Amazing Race” trip across four states. They didn’t get to spend much time together so he’s only getting to know her now, after her diagnosis. So, he doesn’t have much (or any history) knowing her “before” so he tells me that his observations are more of someone who’s getting to know an elderly person, with the usual limitations and fascinations that the septuagenarian possesses.
He’s very aware of all that’s transpired and everything that’s happened this year. He’s been very supportive of me and all that I (and Miss Cathy) have been through.
If anything, he swears that the conflicts that I’m dealing with are less Alzheimer’s (right now anyway) and more that Miss Cathy is me-in a dress. If that’s the case then I just need to get a rock and beat myself to death right now.
Before he got here I started to wonder what he’d make of this little “Baby Jane” act we’ve got going on here-although sometimes I think we veer awfully close to performing George and Martha in “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”…….”I am George, I am”, Martha says as she gazes absently out of the window, spent from a night of accusations, recriminations, disappointments and disgust (yepper-that’s us!).
Anyway, we don’t get many visitors, well, not many that can stay for any significant amount of time anyway. Once a week or so Marcia (the cat lady from downstairs) might come up for a visit or the relatives of unknown relation might stop by but then that’s only for a few hours, too. Adele comes around and my friend, William has been here several times and most recently my friends Brian and Mark were in town and stopped by to meet Miss Cathy.
It’s easy to keep up the pretext of civility and harmony for a few hours-who can’t do that?! It’s letting someone behind the curtain for days on end that can be vexing, having someone around, “witnessing” it all.
I wondered what he was thinking…was he watching how we relate? How I interacted and cared for her? Was he judging what I was doing and how I was doing it? And if he was, what should I care but I did, I do. Maybe it’s not that I care what he thinks so much as I noticed how he was around Miss Cathy and I wondered, ”Should I be more like him?”
It’s not like I was trying to hide that I serve her rats for dinner under a silver cloche or dispose of the empty whiskey bottles after she’s long passed out form some sedative I’ve given her to shut her up, no, its more likely that I’m making her a late night snack of chicken salad or peanut butter and jelly, making sure she’s taken her night time meds and then creeping out late at night to dispose of empty cans of Fresca and roasted chicken containers.
Chad’s visit passed pleasantly enough, he brought her gifts, paid attention to her, listened to her, he even cooked her a meal and best of all he was a new audience for her shtick-a guaranteed good time for her. And there was the afternoon that Chad and I taught Miss Cathy how to play 3-13, a card game that Chad introduced me to back in Kansas City, that was a fun afternoon.
I got to have some grown up time, too. Chad and I spent a lot of time alone together, and we even went into DC for dinner with William at a hot new Cuban restaurant, Cuba Libre-so, fun was had by all. But, not all the time, he did witness a “moment” or two, one of which was the incident after he and I returned from a movie on what was the first snow-day of the season. Chad and Miss Cathy were in the living room and I overheard her talking to him about my driving skills (in snow and in general). Instead of ignoring what I was hearing, I went into the living room and proceeded to lecture her on the dangers of being a “back seat driver”, she (in typical Miss Cathy fashion) didn’t back down from her position that SHE was doing the driver (me, or anybody else who happened to be behind the wheel) a favor by pointing out what she thought the driver might have missed or needed to know.
It was less Baby Jane and Blanche Hudson and classic Miss Cathy and me, locked in our resolve that each was right and as usual neither giving an inch, oblivious of our guest and how boring it must all have been for him.
Chad had only met Miss Cathy last year, briefly, when he and William brought me by the apartment as part of my 50th birthday “Amazing Race” trip across four states. They didn’t get to spend much time together so he’s only getting to know her now, after her diagnosis. So, he doesn’t have much (or any history) knowing her “before” so he tells me that his observations are more of someone who’s getting to know an elderly person, with the usual limitations and fascinations that the septuagenarian possesses.
He’s very aware of all that’s transpired and everything that’s happened this year. He’s been very supportive of me and all that I (and Miss Cathy) have been through.
If anything, he swears that the conflicts that I’m dealing with are less Alzheimer’s (right now anyway) and more that Miss Cathy is me-in a dress. If that’s the case then I just need to get a rock and beat myself to death right now.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A change of season/reason/etiquette
Last Wednesday Chad came to visit and to my surprise Miss Cathy took a pass on going to the airport to pick him up. “It’s too cold out there buddy!” she said as if we were going to walk the twenty miles to the Baltimore-Washington International Airport.
His plane didn’t touch down till mid-afternoon so we had all morning to talk about his arrival. I’d known for several weeks that Chad was planning to visit but I didn’t tell Miss Cathy till last week because (frankly) I didn’t want his visit to be the “sixth” topic in her daily repertoire of five subjects: weather, traffic, death, family gossip and money (or lack thereof). I’m still feeling out the situation here and learning how to handle her but it seems that giving Miss Cathy a weeks’ “notice” (of upcoming events, appointments or changes to her routine) is working out pretty good (for me anyway), she gets enough time to digest the information, a few days to forget about it and then there’s still plenty of time to obsess and talk ad nauseum till “it” happens.
So, during the week there was the expected discussion of food and comfort, but on this day Miss Cathy (mostly) just wanted to state what she wouldn’t be doing. “I don’t need to go to any fancy restaurants or anything like that,” she said. “It’s too cold out there, besides I don’t need to spend all that money for food when I can make something to eat here at home for free.”
“Okay,” I thought to myself, first of all the food at home isn’t “free” you had to pay for it or they wouldn’t let you out of the grocery store (so, that’s not even “Miss Cathy logic”-that’s just straight up dumb) and as I’ve said before “whenever has she had to worry about paying? She’s never reached for (or been expected to pay for) any tab in the few restaurants she’s ever deigned to enter.” What I said was, “Well, Chad and I like to eat out so I’m sure we’ll be going to a few restaurants while he’s here and you’re welcome to join us. I’m probably going to be taking him to lunch when his plane lands and you can come if you want to.”
“That’s okay”, she replied, “I’ll just stay here.”
My, my, what a switch since the last visit, it’s only been a couple months since Chad was here and now a change in attitude. When he visited in October she was emphatic about going to the airport, saying that it would be rude “not” to show up and greet him, “How would it look?” she queried. “You always go to greet people when they come to visit.” she said, schooling me in the art of airport etiquette, telling me that it was bad manners not to and processed to show me how it was done; she took the rollers out of hair, got dressed and sat herself in the back seat ready to greet her guest
So, I guess what she neglected to mention (back when the weather was nice) was that airport manners are “seasonal” and apply only during the “better” months-as determined by what is or is not a temperature pleasant enough to toddle from a climate controlled Condo into a waiting car.
So, I went to the airport alone, driving along the Parkway looking at the landscape that like Miss Cathy’s logic had changed with the season.
His plane didn’t touch down till mid-afternoon so we had all morning to talk about his arrival. I’d known for several weeks that Chad was planning to visit but I didn’t tell Miss Cathy till last week because (frankly) I didn’t want his visit to be the “sixth” topic in her daily repertoire of five subjects: weather, traffic, death, family gossip and money (or lack thereof). I’m still feeling out the situation here and learning how to handle her but it seems that giving Miss Cathy a weeks’ “notice” (of upcoming events, appointments or changes to her routine) is working out pretty good (for me anyway), she gets enough time to digest the information, a few days to forget about it and then there’s still plenty of time to obsess and talk ad nauseum till “it” happens.
So, during the week there was the expected discussion of food and comfort, but on this day Miss Cathy (mostly) just wanted to state what she wouldn’t be doing. “I don’t need to go to any fancy restaurants or anything like that,” she said. “It’s too cold out there, besides I don’t need to spend all that money for food when I can make something to eat here at home for free.”
“Okay,” I thought to myself, first of all the food at home isn’t “free” you had to pay for it or they wouldn’t let you out of the grocery store (so, that’s not even “Miss Cathy logic”-that’s just straight up dumb) and as I’ve said before “whenever has she had to worry about paying? She’s never reached for (or been expected to pay for) any tab in the few restaurants she’s ever deigned to enter.” What I said was, “Well, Chad and I like to eat out so I’m sure we’ll be going to a few restaurants while he’s here and you’re welcome to join us. I’m probably going to be taking him to lunch when his plane lands and you can come if you want to.”
“That’s okay”, she replied, “I’ll just stay here.”
My, my, what a switch since the last visit, it’s only been a couple months since Chad was here and now a change in attitude. When he visited in October she was emphatic about going to the airport, saying that it would be rude “not” to show up and greet him, “How would it look?” she queried. “You always go to greet people when they come to visit.” she said, schooling me in the art of airport etiquette, telling me that it was bad manners not to and processed to show me how it was done; she took the rollers out of hair, got dressed and sat herself in the back seat ready to greet her guest
So, I guess what she neglected to mention (back when the weather was nice) was that airport manners are “seasonal” and apply only during the “better” months-as determined by what is or is not a temperature pleasant enough to toddle from a climate controlled Condo into a waiting car.
So, I went to the airport alone, driving along the Parkway looking at the landscape that like Miss Cathy’s logic had changed with the season.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Miss Independent
The friend that Miss Cathy went to visit in the hospital a couple weeks ago died. It was kinda unexpected (at least to me) because the last I heard they were sending Percy home with six months to live. I found out the other morning while we were going about the business of getting the day started. I mentioned that I didn’t sleep very well and Miss Cathy said that she hadn’t either, that she was tossing and turning all night thinking about Percy and whether or not she was going to the funeral.
So, color me surprised that she wanted me to take her to the wake/funeral/whatever; I just assumed she’d be going with Adele-oh well. I can’t say that I was thrilled to have to go to a funeral but then I thought, “I don’t have to ‘go’ to the funeral-I can just drop Miss Cathy off”. I mean, it’s not like I knew the guy or anything.
My rationale is that “if” Miss Cathy were still driving she’d be going alone so why should I feel obligated? I’m just a glorified “driver” anyway. When I drive her over to Adele’s house, I don’t go in, I stay in the car while she visits, so, how is this any different? Granted, the guy is dead but still…… I see this as “me” aiding her in “her” independence-or it’s just a rationalization to justify my NOT wanting to go.
Besides, I’ve got to pace myself, I mean, lets be real here, at Miss Cathy’s age and with the health (or lack thereof) her friends are going to start dropping like flies. Unfortunately, not many of them got the memo that 70-something is the new 60-something. Pretty soon, this is going to become a common occurrence around here, so I need to establish my pattern of behavior right up front. Besides, I do not want to spend all day Saturday sitting in a church and/or funeral home with a bunch of sad, crying black folks that I do not know.
“I’ll make it,” Miss Cathy says the next morning, giving a reassuring answer to a question that nobody asked. Since going to the funeral was her idea you’d think she’d be up and at’m but she was still in bed when I got up at 8:00am. No, “Good morning”, “How’d you sleep?” or any other the other morning staples, just, “I’ll make it.” ……. OK.
After several deep sighs and a few encouraging words to herself she finally got out of bed. Of course I know that it’s all to do with showing me how “hard” going the funereal was going to be for her. “Great!”, I thought, she found a way to make this all about her.
According to the schedule she’d given me the night before we were suppose to have been to Adele’s and on our way to the church by 9:30am but as of 10:00 she was still getting ready so I went out to warm up the car.
I told her last night that I was going to drive her, drop her off and wait. “You’re not coming in with me?” she asked. “No”, I said, “Just think of me as Poke and you’re Miss Daisy”.
“Oh no you don’t”, I thought as she lay there looking sad, small and vulnerable. No way do you get to pick and choose when you want to be “dependent” (like now when you don’t want to do something alone) and then you purport to be “Miss Independent” (when you have to do something you don’t agree with-like going over to Tony’s house).
The mood in the car was a little funereal so to lift her spirits I decided to tell Miss Cathy that Chad was coming to visit next week. She perked right up and for a few minutes she was smiling and happy as we talked about his visit. I learned long ago to find the right time to share news or info with her because whatever I tell her becomes the main topic of conversation for days on end.
Despite the late start I got her to the church on time. It was quite the crowd from what I could see of the cars parked and others pulling into the circle drive of the mega-church. I didn’t know Percy or anything about his life but Quell-turn out! The old guy sure knew a lot of people. Made me stop to wonder how many people you’d get to show up at my funeral, no where near this many and you sure as shit wouldn’t need a place as big as a football field like this one-probably something more along the size of a doctor’s waiting room.
Anyway, I pulled “Roger” (the roll-a-ter) out of the backseat for her and she rolled herself into the First Baptist Church. I asked if she really needed “Roger” because she’d been walking so well with her cane and she said that “Roger” was there so she’s have a place to sit if all the seats were taken inside. Good for you, I thought as I drove away to find a parking space somewhere in the same zip code as the church. If I had a chauffeur’s cap I would tip it.
So, color me surprised that she wanted me to take her to the wake/funeral/whatever; I just assumed she’d be going with Adele-oh well. I can’t say that I was thrilled to have to go to a funeral but then I thought, “I don’t have to ‘go’ to the funeral-I can just drop Miss Cathy off”. I mean, it’s not like I knew the guy or anything.
My rationale is that “if” Miss Cathy were still driving she’d be going alone so why should I feel obligated? I’m just a glorified “driver” anyway. When I drive her over to Adele’s house, I don’t go in, I stay in the car while she visits, so, how is this any different? Granted, the guy is dead but still…… I see this as “me” aiding her in “her” independence-or it’s just a rationalization to justify my NOT wanting to go.
Besides, I’ve got to pace myself, I mean, lets be real here, at Miss Cathy’s age and with the health (or lack thereof) her friends are going to start dropping like flies. Unfortunately, not many of them got the memo that 70-something is the new 60-something. Pretty soon, this is going to become a common occurrence around here, so I need to establish my pattern of behavior right up front. Besides, I do not want to spend all day Saturday sitting in a church and/or funeral home with a bunch of sad, crying black folks that I do not know.
“I’ll make it,” Miss Cathy says the next morning, giving a reassuring answer to a question that nobody asked. Since going to the funeral was her idea you’d think she’d be up and at’m but she was still in bed when I got up at 8:00am. No, “Good morning”, “How’d you sleep?” or any other the other morning staples, just, “I’ll make it.” ……. OK.
After several deep sighs and a few encouraging words to herself she finally got out of bed. Of course I know that it’s all to do with showing me how “hard” going the funereal was going to be for her. “Great!”, I thought, she found a way to make this all about her.
According to the schedule she’d given me the night before we were suppose to have been to Adele’s and on our way to the church by 9:30am but as of 10:00 she was still getting ready so I went out to warm up the car.
I told her last night that I was going to drive her, drop her off and wait. “You’re not coming in with me?” she asked. “No”, I said, “Just think of me as Poke and you’re Miss Daisy”.
“Oh no you don’t”, I thought as she lay there looking sad, small and vulnerable. No way do you get to pick and choose when you want to be “dependent” (like now when you don’t want to do something alone) and then you purport to be “Miss Independent” (when you have to do something you don’t agree with-like going over to Tony’s house).
The mood in the car was a little funereal so to lift her spirits I decided to tell Miss Cathy that Chad was coming to visit next week. She perked right up and for a few minutes she was smiling and happy as we talked about his visit. I learned long ago to find the right time to share news or info with her because whatever I tell her becomes the main topic of conversation for days on end.
Despite the late start I got her to the church on time. It was quite the crowd from what I could see of the cars parked and others pulling into the circle drive of the mega-church. I didn’t know Percy or anything about his life but Quell-turn out! The old guy sure knew a lot of people. Made me stop to wonder how many people you’d get to show up at my funeral, no where near this many and you sure as shit wouldn’t need a place as big as a football field like this one-probably something more along the size of a doctor’s waiting room.
Anyway, I pulled “Roger” (the roll-a-ter) out of the backseat for her and she rolled herself into the First Baptist Church. I asked if she really needed “Roger” because she’d been walking so well with her cane and she said that “Roger” was there so she’s have a place to sit if all the seats were taken inside. Good for you, I thought as I drove away to find a parking space somewhere in the same zip code as the church. If I had a chauffeur’s cap I would tip it.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
This n' that
I’ve noticed that Miss Cathy has pretty much plateau-ed “behavior wise”. Don’t get me wrong, she’s come a long way since the summer; taking care of herself without any help, being responsible for taking her meds and even making her bed every morning.
But, she still gets overwhelmed when we’re out grocery shopping, and if we’re getting more than a few items the experience seems to just tire her out. She’s very quick to anger and she hasn’t made much progress with her walking.
I’ve been lax in my “no cooking when I’m out of the house” rule but in her defense there hasn’t been a problem for a very long time. Unfortunately that’s not always the case when I am here at the apartment. Just the other day she burned two sweet potato pies that she’d baked because she was on the phone in the living room with her sister.
I don’t know, other than telling her that I thought the pies smelled like they were burning I didn’t say anything to her. I was surprised (and a little annoyed when she said,” Oh they’re fine” and then she ate a big piece of one of them (just to prove the point I guess).
The pies sat on the island in the kitchen looking like two swollen, blackened, upside down Frisbees. Without saying anything they were gone the next day.
It’s funny, but the two people told about the burned pies both said the same thing, “Didn’t she set the timer?” I guess it’s a legitimate question but not the “take away” from the point I was trying to make that things like this wouldn’t happen of she’d just make her peace with the fact that things are different now and that she needs to change her behavior.
The timer is beside the point (it wasn’t set, by the by), I just wish she’d see that she has to “do something different” now that she’s different, but, that’s not happening-not yet anyway. I think the whole thing could be avoided if she’d just sit in the kitchen while she’s on the phone OR set the timer, or focus on kitchen activities only while she’s cooking.
But, she still gets overwhelmed when we’re out grocery shopping, and if we’re getting more than a few items the experience seems to just tire her out. She’s very quick to anger and she hasn’t made much progress with her walking.
I’ve been lax in my “no cooking when I’m out of the house” rule but in her defense there hasn’t been a problem for a very long time. Unfortunately that’s not always the case when I am here at the apartment. Just the other day she burned two sweet potato pies that she’d baked because she was on the phone in the living room with her sister.
I don’t know, other than telling her that I thought the pies smelled like they were burning I didn’t say anything to her. I was surprised (and a little annoyed when she said,” Oh they’re fine” and then she ate a big piece of one of them (just to prove the point I guess).
The pies sat on the island in the kitchen looking like two swollen, blackened, upside down Frisbees. Without saying anything they were gone the next day.
It’s funny, but the two people told about the burned pies both said the same thing, “Didn’t she set the timer?” I guess it’s a legitimate question but not the “take away” from the point I was trying to make that things like this wouldn’t happen of she’d just make her peace with the fact that things are different now and that she needs to change her behavior.
The timer is beside the point (it wasn’t set, by the by), I just wish she’d see that she has to “do something different” now that she’s different, but, that’s not happening-not yet anyway. I think the whole thing could be avoided if she’d just sit in the kitchen while she’s on the phone OR set the timer, or focus on kitchen activities only while she’s cooking.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Linens and things
I couldn’t take it anymore and I needed help, so I went to Miss Cathy in the living room and asked what she was doing. She said she was about to take a nap but would lie down later if there was something that I needed. I said “great” because there was something I needed, I needed help……….help cleaning out the linen closet.
I’ve been here for months now and it has been bugging the hell out of me, more and more. You have to understand that this is no ordinary closet, it’s beyond a mess and was really starting to offend my sense of balance and order. You could never just open the doors, get what you wanted and boogie on your way. No, when you open the set of bi-fold doors you’re not greeted by crisply folded sheets and blankets, all fresh and clean, ready to help transport you to nocturnal wonders-oh no. Wrestling the doors apart you feel as if the linens were on the other side ganging up, the sheets and the blankets, working together, desperately trying to refuse you entry.
Once open, you’re bombarded with piles of fabric, haphazardly rolled, shoved onto any shelf and into any space available, looking less like bed linens and more like fabrics left on a clearance rack in a dollar store after a 100% off sale-what’s left on the shelves are what remains after all the “good” stuff is long gone.
You have to be careful less something may fall on your head, a-la-Dagwood Bumstead’s hall closet from the old “Blondie” comics if I may be so bold (or old, or both) as to reach that far back for a visual.
I’d looked at and wrestled with this mess of a closet for years. I’ve even “gone in” (alone) and straightened it out a few times when I’d come here to visit but it never lasted long. I’d have it all orderly and looking good in the summer but when I’d return for the holidays and go to the closet for some linen what greeted me was not a gift of anything that I particularly wanted.
So, on this particular day, for whatever reason I’d had enough. Maybe I was bored, maybe I was just looking to take control over something external instead of doing any work internally-I don’t know. Maybe the closet was a metaphor, maybe it’s come to represent how I felt about being here-“necessary but all over the place”. If I could get control over the linen then maybe my life here would follow suit-makes sense in a Martha Stewart kinda way, “fold it and IT will come”.
Anyway, I’d learned my lesson about cleaning out anything in this place without Miss Cathy’s co-operation. I didn’t want to hear any more of her asides or mumbled displeasure at what I’d done (to her things) so I made sure to include her this time.
She wasn’t too keen on the idea but she was a trooper. Instead of taking her nap she sat on the sofa while I brought the piles of linens to her, like a queen on her throne waiting for the slave to come pay homage with gifts of exotic treasures. I would hold up the sheet(s) or blankets so she could decide what stayed and what was to be donated to Goodwill. This process took longer than it should have (in my mind) because more often than not she’s stop “deciding” to tell me “a little story” about this or that blanket or quilt. As we went through the bedding together I was surprised as how much she agreed to get rid of, but as time went on I started to get frustrated by how much she insisted on keeping.
I guess my thought was that we’d (she’d) give away everything that didn’t have a match and just keep the full sets of sheets. Of course I would have thrown out everything that was a poly blend-which would have constituted all of her sheets except the ones I gave her BUT I had to remind my self that this was HER stuff for HER bedroom so I should just fold, arrange and keep my mouth shut.
Of course I couldn’t, several times I would ask, “Are you sure you want to keep THAT?” holding up the offending sheet as if it were road-kill. “This feels awful!” I’d say, barely able to contain my contempt,” do you really want to lay down on THIS?”
“I don’t care what it feels like, I’m keeping it,” she’d declare, defiant in her contentment to stay ignorant of Egyptian cotton and the knowledge of what it feels like to lay down on bedding with a high thread count.
I don’t know why but I started to take it personally when she would opt to keep a sad, threadbare, poly-blend sheet and pair it with a fitted sheet that was just as ugly and add two pillowcases and call it a “set”.
After waaay too much time (on both our parts) we finally had everything sorted out. In the end there were five large bags and one box to donate to Goodwill. I re-folded all that was to go back into the linen closet and did my best to group “sets” on the shelves according to color, pattern and season, blankets and quilts were up top, so that everything was organized, streamlined, uncluttered and has purpose. It wasn’t what I had envisioned but after all was said and done it was a successful collaboration with Miss Cathy, and there was harmony and order.
I closed the linen closet doors content. It was a struggle but it was worth it. Now, if only I could get “my” doors to open.
I’ve been here for months now and it has been bugging the hell out of me, more and more. You have to understand that this is no ordinary closet, it’s beyond a mess and was really starting to offend my sense of balance and order. You could never just open the doors, get what you wanted and boogie on your way. No, when you open the set of bi-fold doors you’re not greeted by crisply folded sheets and blankets, all fresh and clean, ready to help transport you to nocturnal wonders-oh no. Wrestling the doors apart you feel as if the linens were on the other side ganging up, the sheets and the blankets, working together, desperately trying to refuse you entry.
Once open, you’re bombarded with piles of fabric, haphazardly rolled, shoved onto any shelf and into any space available, looking less like bed linens and more like fabrics left on a clearance rack in a dollar store after a 100% off sale-what’s left on the shelves are what remains after all the “good” stuff is long gone.
You have to be careful less something may fall on your head, a-la-Dagwood Bumstead’s hall closet from the old “Blondie” comics if I may be so bold (or old, or both) as to reach that far back for a visual.
I’d looked at and wrestled with this mess of a closet for years. I’ve even “gone in” (alone) and straightened it out a few times when I’d come here to visit but it never lasted long. I’d have it all orderly and looking good in the summer but when I’d return for the holidays and go to the closet for some linen what greeted me was not a gift of anything that I particularly wanted.
So, on this particular day, for whatever reason I’d had enough. Maybe I was bored, maybe I was just looking to take control over something external instead of doing any work internally-I don’t know. Maybe the closet was a metaphor, maybe it’s come to represent how I felt about being here-“necessary but all over the place”. If I could get control over the linen then maybe my life here would follow suit-makes sense in a Martha Stewart kinda way, “fold it and IT will come”.
Anyway, I’d learned my lesson about cleaning out anything in this place without Miss Cathy’s co-operation. I didn’t want to hear any more of her asides or mumbled displeasure at what I’d done (to her things) so I made sure to include her this time.
She wasn’t too keen on the idea but she was a trooper. Instead of taking her nap she sat on the sofa while I brought the piles of linens to her, like a queen on her throne waiting for the slave to come pay homage with gifts of exotic treasures. I would hold up the sheet(s) or blankets so she could decide what stayed and what was to be donated to Goodwill. This process took longer than it should have (in my mind) because more often than not she’s stop “deciding” to tell me “a little story” about this or that blanket or quilt. As we went through the bedding together I was surprised as how much she agreed to get rid of, but as time went on I started to get frustrated by how much she insisted on keeping.
I guess my thought was that we’d (she’d) give away everything that didn’t have a match and just keep the full sets of sheets. Of course I would have thrown out everything that was a poly blend-which would have constituted all of her sheets except the ones I gave her BUT I had to remind my self that this was HER stuff for HER bedroom so I should just fold, arrange and keep my mouth shut.
Of course I couldn’t, several times I would ask, “Are you sure you want to keep THAT?” holding up the offending sheet as if it were road-kill. “This feels awful!” I’d say, barely able to contain my contempt,” do you really want to lay down on THIS?”
“I don’t care what it feels like, I’m keeping it,” she’d declare, defiant in her contentment to stay ignorant of Egyptian cotton and the knowledge of what it feels like to lay down on bedding with a high thread count.
I don’t know why but I started to take it personally when she would opt to keep a sad, threadbare, poly-blend sheet and pair it with a fitted sheet that was just as ugly and add two pillowcases and call it a “set”.
After waaay too much time (on both our parts) we finally had everything sorted out. In the end there were five large bags and one box to donate to Goodwill. I re-folded all that was to go back into the linen closet and did my best to group “sets” on the shelves according to color, pattern and season, blankets and quilts were up top, so that everything was organized, streamlined, uncluttered and has purpose. It wasn’t what I had envisioned but after all was said and done it was a successful collaboration with Miss Cathy, and there was harmony and order.
I closed the linen closet doors content. It was a struggle but it was worth it. Now, if only I could get “my” doors to open.
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