Topless Club Sandwich

You’ve probably heard of the sandwich generation, the group in the middle still raising kids while taking care of aging parents. Well, I was a club sandwich, taking care of two generations older than me and two generations younger.

My grandfather became homeless at the age of 92 when his house burned down in the Oakland fire of 1991. He lost everything. I was living alone in a four bedroom house, so he and his girlfriend moved in. Not only did he need someplace to live, but he needed help dealing with settling his insurance claims, replacing lost documents, building a new wardrobe, managing his health care, and buying a replacement car. Yes, he was still driving.

My mother, his only child, was suffering from dementia. She had gone downhill after the death of my father in 1984, so I took over managing her life and care in a nearby facility. I tried having her live with me, hiring people to assist, but she was insufferable. She refused to let caregivers do their job. She wouldn’t eat food they prepared, wouldn’t allow them to bathe and dress her, and wouldn’t go to doctor’s appointments without me. To preserve my sanity, I placed her in a care home in 1990, but still managed her affairs, took her to medical visits, and spent time with her.

Late 1992, my beloved brother was dying of AIDS in Issaquah, Washington. Providing respite to his partner by sharing caregiving, I flew to Washington from San Jose on Friday afternoons and returned Sunday evenings. Ken died in January, 1993 and I served as executor of his estate with all its concomitant duties.

Later in 1993, my younger daughter’s marriage failed.  Her ex-husband left the state and provided no support for her or their three kids. I could not bear to see them suffer; I needed to know they were safe. So the four of them moved into a house down the street from where I lived. I provided rent, transportation, baby-sitting, and pre-school tuition.

And I worked full time as a technical writer for IBM.

When my brother and grandfather died in 1993, I came into a small amount of money. I knew I had to use some of it to bring a little fun into my life. Taking a long hard look at the way I spent my time and the towering responsibilities I still shouldered, I realized driving was the most fun I had during those dreary days. I loved driving: the isolation, the time to myself, singing out loud, drumming on the steering wheel, and forgetting about the difficult reality of my day-to-day life. I was still locked into taking care of my mother, my daughter, and my grandkids, so my escape would have to be limited to the time I spent in the car. But, I could make it a lot more fun. I could do it in a convertible.

At the age of 54, I walked into a Toyota dealership and plunked down cash for a white Celica GT convertible. It was sweet, with a big smile for a grill across the front of it, demure retracting headlights,  a sexy spoiler on the rear, grey leather seats, and a black rag top. The first few days I was afraid to think about what I had impetuously done. I continued driving my SUV while the convertible huddled in the garage. From time to time, I opened the door from the kitchen to the garage, saw that it was really there, and closed the door wondering what in hell had possessed me.

Before long, my daughter’s car died and I gave her my SUV. The convertible became my only car. I began to realize I could do more than just drive to and from work; I gradually worked up courage and took off on weekends. My favorite getaways involved driving the California coast, especially the Big Sur coast down to Morro Bay and back. I processed grief and solved many of the world’s problems on those solo trips. I had no desire for company. The freedom to stop, go, and meander with no consideration for anyone else and no one to take care of was so liberating. I never questioned whether the top would be up or down. It was down. Every weekend it wasn’t raining I took off. Cold weather didn’t stop me, top down, heater and radio blasting, I was free. Money bought me hours of happiness as I explored California topless.

During this time I was seeing a psychotherapist because I had so many tough issues to deal with. I couldn’t focus and sort out what I needed to do. My mind was a muddled mess. On the shrink’s suggestion, I took a month off work to get my head together. In retrospect, I know I resolved much more behind the wheel than I did in therapy. He expressed concern about my impulsive spending. I was worried about not having any fun.

Supporting my daughter in a separate household became unaffordable, so she and her three boys moved in with me. We were crowded in my 1500 square foot San Jose home and I began to consider other options. We decided to move from Silicon Valley to the Sierra Foothills, where I bought a large home with a huge yard and a swimming pool. I rented a room in Silicon Valley during the week and commuted to the hills on weekends. Again, driving became the best part of my week. I developed what I called Zen driving, where I effortlessly, but fully consciously, moved through the countryside on the 180 mile drive. Heavy traffic never bothered me. I saw as it as opportunity for more solitude and contemplation. As always, when in my magic convertible zone, I alternated meditation with singing, listening to classical music at a very high volume, and transporting myself in more ways than one.

One particular Sunday night, I was returning to Silicon Valley around 10:00 P.M.; there was virtually no traffic. A Strauss waltz blared from the speakers in the door while I waltzed down the highway, staying in my lane, but swinging from one side to the other as I counted out one-two-three, one-two-three. It took a while before I noticed the red light of a highway patrol car in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and the patrolman approached my car. His first question was, “Have you been drinking?” I assured him I had not. He said he had observed me weaving within my lane, not crossing the line, so he wouldn’t cite me, but he wanted to know what was going on. He let me go with a recommendation that I restrict my waltzing to the dance floor.

During the time I owned my convertible, it suffered three injuries. The first was a sad encounter with a BMW driven by a distracted teenager. After a month in the repair shop and $13,000 worth of rehabilitation, it was nearly as good as new.

My beloved car suffered its second mishap on the morning of January 22, 1997, when my older daughter gave birth to her second son. I was so excited by the news, I backed into the garage door frame on my way to the hospital. The result was a small dent in the rear bumper which I left unrepaired. I thought of it as a birthmark.

My long distance commuting ended when I began telecommuting and anticipated retiring. Many days I didn’t even leave the home in the hills I shared with my younger daughter and her three boys. The convertible often stayed in the garage while my daughter drove our Suburban. My getaway drives became explorations of the Sierra mountain passes. I drove them all. My faithful wheels managed the 10,000 foot granite summits with ease. In the middle of October, 1999, golden Quaking Aspens shimmered, cowboys rounded up cattle grazing in high alpine meadows, and the first snowflakes fell on my unprotected head; it nourished my soul. 

By this time, my oldest grandson was 15, looking forward to getting his driver’s license, and hopeful that he would inherit my beautiful little car. He jumped the gun one day when he decided to take the convertible for an unauthorized spin. However, he was thwarted when, while still in the driveway, he banged the convertible into the Suburban. The damage to the Suburban was undetectable, but the Celica suffered a disfiguring blow to the right front quarter panel, and its left headlight could no longer retract. I couldn’t deal with it. The car had 120,000 miles on it, the threads on the rag top were showing signs of wear, and now this unsightly blemish. I decided to sell. I ran an ad and agreed to sell to the first respondent, a young man who planned to surprise his wife with a birthday gift. I sold it for about half what it was worth, but more important it went to another loving home.

Ken's AIDS Quilt Panel

 

Ken died in 1993. I participated the best I could in his end-of-life care, commuting on alternate weekends to Issaquah, spending every possible moment with him and offering respite to his partner, Peter Fraser. We spent the evening of January 3, 1993, with Ken at Seattle’s Bailey Boushay AIDS Hospice, watching him struggle to breathe, moistening his lips and mouth with glycerin lollipops, while his 80-pound skeletal body scarcely made a ripple in the light blanket covering him. We knew the end was near, but finally gave up our vigil and drove back to the condo to try to rest up for what we feared the next day would bring. We rode the elevator up to the third floor, unlocked the door and saw the light on the answering machine blinking like the flashing light on an emergency vehicle, semaphoring the inevitable message. No need to listen to the recording, we immediately knew. It was over. He was gone. Conflicted light feelings of release and the crushing weight of loss remain with me even now.

Ken was born when I was ten years old. Although he was my third brother, our bond was more than that of siblings. He was my own real live baby doll, and I adored him from the moment he was born. I dressed him, fed him, diapered him, and paraded him around the neighborhood in his baby buggy. He was precious to me and became more so as he developed into a bright, verbal, and creative little boy. I remember one morning; he got out of bed and came running into my room bursting with excitement. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, my three-year-old brother said, “Melody! I had a film last night!” and for the first time, he told me what he had dreamed. He never stopped telling me his dreams. When he was in his 40’s and living in Washington while I was in California, he would phone and tell me about his dreams. Or he might call to share the excitement of the first snow of the season. I was the first family member he told the devastating news of his HIV diagnosis. He was calm. I was hysterical. It seemed impossible and yet, inevitable, given the raging epidemic and his active gay life.

I remember his fear of abandonment when I got married. I was then 20 years old, and he was 10. During the ceremony with around 150 guests in St. Lawrence O’Toole’s Catholic Church, he cried out, “Melody! Don’t leave me!” And that was my cry on the day I learned of his diagnosis – a virtual death sentence.

His death ripped a huge hole in the fabric of our family. Sister Valery’s loss was profound. Three years younger than he, they became bonded playmates. They shared a magical childhood populated with a host of imaginary folks, some friendly and some wicked like Grassy Pill, a being who lived in hell which was near San Francisco; she was always making mischief. And there was the marshmallow lady, derived from the Nutcracker Suite, who took naughty children and stuffed them under her skirt where they were doomed to smell her stinky underwear. Ken and Valery shared secrets and fantasies in a world of their own.

In the months following Ken’s death. As executor of his bankrupt estate, I trudged through the requisite busyness: tax filings, insurance dealings, and distribution of his worldly goods. He was cremated and his ashes distributed among me, my sister Valery, and Peter. We held a memorial gathering for him in his hometown of Oakland and distributed mementos to his legion of friends. I kept a coffee mug which, 27 years later, is still in my rotation of cups used frequently.

Still, nothing seemed to adequately memorialize Ken. I wanted the world to know how special he was. I soon learned about the NAMES Project, also called the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and knew I had to make a commemorative panel. But then, life and other deaths got in the way, and my resolve dissipated. In the next decade, end of life care for my mother, my grandfather, my aunt, and ultimately my daughter absorbed my time. Upon the death of my daughter, I became the guardian of my four- and five-year-old grandsons. Responsibility for the boys was truly a gift. They were wonderful children, but I was an aging woman, a single grandmother tending to the needs of the boys and the exigencies of daily life.  My creative energy was drained, and the notion of a memorial panel was shelved.

By the time the boys were around 10 and 11, demands on my time for their care slackened. Hours during the day opened up while they were at school, and when at home they were occupied with friends, music lessons, and schoolwork. I began to feel my creative sap rising again and the desire to make a memorial panel for Ken come to the surface. I had a pattern, a drawing made a decade earlier by my niece, Hollis Blair. A plan of attack for the project began to fall in place: I bought the sewing machine needed to make the panel I envisioned. And who knew? Next, a trip to Home Depot and the purchase of a painter’s drop cloth, a sturdy canvas fabric that could withstand the handling it would receive as part of the AIDS Memorial quilt. I would use it as a foundation and backdrop for the design I intended to fabricate. With a supply of fabrics and a collection of photographs of Ken at hand, I was ready to dive in.

I dyed pieces of the canvas, one strip sky blue, one of grass green, and stitched them together making a three foot by six-foot rectangle, approximately the size of a grave. The design depicted a plant in eight stages of life, ranging from a sprout to a robust thriving flower and finally a wilted and dying scrap of vegetation. Pictures of Ken in corresponding stages of his life would bloom in the center of each flower. I spent days poring over old photos, stirring up wonderful memories – vacations, family Christmases, triumphant events in his life - so many joyous moments captured. There were hundreds to choose from and looking at each entailed time travel and a visit with Ken.

Ken's world expanded when he started school. The picture in the first bud on the quilt panel is his kindergarten class photo. He loved school and his teachers loved him. He formed many enduring friendships but never loosened his bonds to the family. He strengthened ties to the farther reaches of our kin through “All Things Relative”, a family newspaper, which he composed and distributed faithfully.

The picture in the second flower on the quilt is of him during his high school years in the 60’s – the height of the Beatles era. His hair was accordingly long, and his polyester shirts were of vibrant colors. He continued to gather witty, kooky, and bright friends, although he never had a serious girlfriend. He told me he just kept hoping he would meet the “right” girl. He remained closely engaged with the family and especially with his nieces and nephews. He committed to taking each to Disneyland as a tenth birthday gift. He and niece Hollis became partners in running the annual Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco for several years. Each niece or nephew would declare he was their favorite uncle.

After high school, he attended UC Berkeley, our father’s alma mater. While in his senior year at Cal, the Vietnam War draft lottery was implemented. His number was 5, meaning he was certain to be drafted. Because he feared being sent to war, he quit school, joined the Marines, and landed a desk position in Alameda, California. He had escaped the danger of being sent to the war zone and survived the daily personal terror of his homosexuality being discovered. The third flower shows him in his Marine uniform and at the peak of his physical fitness.

When he was discharged from the Marines, he returned to Cal Berkeley and completed a degree in Biology. He later decided a career in accounting would provide him a better income and so, he went back to school at SF State for an accounting degree and an MBA. The picture in the fourth blossom shows him at his prime, physically fit, comfortable with his sexuality, and with a firm footing on a career.

In the early ‘80’s, Ken was very active in the gay life of the San Francisco Bay area and everything that entailed, including carousing at bars in the Castro district and frequenting the bath houses. Every night was a party, and he was out, loud and proud. When the deadly reality of the AIDS epidemic became known, monogamous relationships seemed safer. The fifth plant shows that Ken has plucked a flower representing his choice of a partner.

Although gay marriage was not yet legal, he and Peter Fraser entered a committed union. Peter was employed by a Canadian airline and lived in Vancouver, B.C. while Ken was still living in Oakland. Maintaining the relationship required lots of travel and immigration was not an option for either of them. However, commute hours and distance were significantly reduced when Ken took a job based in Washington. He was able to buy a condominium in Issaquah, and they had much more time together.

But, by then, his HIV infection erupted, his health began to fade, and he had full blown AIDS. The sixth flower represents this decline. He was able to continue working for a couple of years before being racked by a cavalcade of AIDS-related illnesses. He suffered pneumocystis pneumonia, shingles, tuberculosis and blindness in one eye from herpes; his depleted immune system was powerless. Peter lovingly and steadfastly cared for him through one episode after another. The ravaging of his body is illustrated by the next to last plant.

The final flower represents his last days in the AIDS hospice.  He spent about six weeks in with wonderful compassionate care in that sorrow-filled place. I took some small comfort in knowing how many loved him and shared the agony of his death.  I found the suffering of so many young men, many dying alone and abandoned by their families almost beyond endurance. Frequent trips to the chapel, helped a little, but I truly felt as though a part of me had been sucked out, a sensation I can still feel in some measure today.

I am pleased that Ken’s panel is one of 48,000 that travels to be displayed around the country and that it was chosen to represent the month of July in the 2009 version of the annual AIDS calendar. This single panel is dwarfed in the largest piece of community art in the world. The entire quilt would cover 20 acres and weighs 54 tons. Still, it represents only a tiny portion of the 32.7 million who have died globally since the beginning of the epidemic. I believe the NAMES project has served to amplify AIDS awareness. I personally derived some comfort by making Ken’s panel. Sending it off in the mail felt like exhaling after holding my breath a very long time.

 

I 

Home Sweet Bed

 

In four months, I will be living someplace else. I don’t know where and I don’t know how much of my stuff I will be taking with me. And yet, I’m not especially concerned. One thing I am sure of, I will take my bed.

Nineteen years ago, my daughter, Robin, was murdered and I took custody of her four and five year old orphaned sons. In those early days, I felt like a burn victim, seared to my soul with grief and overwhelmed with responsibility; sleep was elusive.

Thanks to the tender empathy of my cousin, Connie Blair Brehm, for the past nineteen years, my bed has been a refuge, a place where I am comforted from my nearly unbearable pain. Just after Robin’s death, Connie asked if I would like to have Grandma’s bed. It had been in use at her home for the previous five years while she had been the caregiver and guardian of our Aunt Helen, the childless daughter of our mutual grandmother. Helen had moved to assisted memory care and no longer used her bed.

Mental images of the bed and 70 years of memories associated with it washed over me.  I had been in awe of the towering bedstead that stood in the small bedroom at Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. It dominated the room where my grandfather slept. Although to my young self it seemed odd, my grandmother slept in a separate bed on the south porch of the house. The morning of August 2, 1953, while I was spending summer vacation with my grandparents, my grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack in that bed. My memories of the sad day are always illuminated with a mental image of him drawing his final breath. It’s a gentle and comforting image, graced with thoughts of all that had occurred in that bed which had served since the marriage of Minnie Pauline Nichols and Ernest William Blair on December 26, 1908, in Placerville, California.

The bed was purchased at Sloan’s in Sacramento, and shipped by rail to the first home of the newlyweds in Goldfield, Nevada. Conception and birth of my Aunt Helen in 1910, and of my father, Seward James “Bud” Blair in 1912, no doubt occurred in that bed while in Goldfield.

The bed and the family moved to Tonopah, Nevada, in 1918. In 1922, their third child, Ernest William “Bill” Blair, Jr. was conceived and born, though his birth was in a hospital.

In 1924, the household settled on Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. After the death of my grandmother in 1973, the bed remained in Fallon with Aunt Helen until Alzheimer’s disease overtook her. In 1995, the bed and Aunt Helen moved to LaVerne, California, to be cared for by cousin Connie and Dieter Brehm. And there it remained until it was moved to my bedroom in El Dorado Hills, California.

In the past nineteen years, I have moved five times, always making sure my bed was the first thing put in place in the new house. And always, it symbolizes safety, security, refuge, and comfort. The golden glow of the oak suffuses my room with warmth. The seven foot tall headboard protects me while the carved and curving acanthus leaves on top symbolize the angel’s wings of my grandmother watching over and guiding me. The walls around me matter little, I am secure knowing I can lay myself down in my bed, wherever that may be.

Spilling My Guts

 

 

It’s over! Sudden tears oozing out, giving way to a flood streaming down my face. It started when I read that Kamala Harris was the first woman, the first black person, the first south Asian to be elected Vice President of the United States.

Big huge gulping sobs that come hiccupping from my diaphragm. I don’t normally cry. What has come over me?

Euphoria Like the moment after a difficult labor and a long pregnancy, when my newborn is placed on my belly and my hand reaches down and touches her. Something overwhelming kind of like electric shock races through me, but it is a current of joy and release from pain that I had been feeling.

I bring up the mental image of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting of the creation of Adam.

If my reaction is so intense, what do Joe Biden and Kamala Harris feel?

I stop and look at Facebook, post my reaction, read comments from my friends in Asia and Europe. It feels like the whole planet is rejoicing.

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/photos-show-celebrations-across-the-world-as-joe-biden-wins-us-election_n_5fa48a89c5b64c88d3feaddb?ncid=newsltushpmgnews&guccounter=1

How's the Vegetarian Thing Going?

Funny you should ask. The vegetarian thing is going pretty well, but it is certainly not a reduced calorie way of eating, at least for me.  It's no secret, I'm a foodaholic, and I have the body to prove it. I think about food ALL the time. I love to read about it,  plan meals and snacks, shop for it, prepare it, and,of course, eat it. Not so much clean up after eating it. 

These days my sole sources for reading about food are online. Pinterest is my bible. I also participate in a private Facebook page called "What's For Dinner" where a couple dozen of us describe our evening meals. I think I'm the only vegetarian in the group, but I do get lots of meal ideas from these folks, and I enjoy sharing my successes and lamenting my failures. I have more pictures of food on my camera roll than I have pictures of my kids and grandkids. 

My birthday lunch this year: roasted artichokes and asparagus, tomatoes, and tabbouleh

Birthday dessert

s

A favorite tortilla soup

Grandson Ben typically picks up my e-cart from Raleys. Other markets offer the service, but I find Raley's online shopping easy to use and I like  their practice of substituting something bigger and better if the requested item is not available. Lately, I've heard some negative comments about their masking practices while others extol the rigid controls by Safeway. I'm considering switching, Ben also goes to Costco occasionally buying huge amounts of granola, the world's best dill pickles, and other staples of our diet. All this shopping by proxy leaves a void in the full satisfaction of my food obsession. I miss grocery shopping. 

The world's best dill pickles (the artichoke hearts are great, too)

And so I am planning a trip to Trader Joe's. I will be there promptly next Monday morning at 8:00 AM when the store opens to seniors. I will go hungry. I will roll through the doors in my wheel chair with Ben following closely behind with a cart. I want to fall prey to all the yummy things on the shelves and in the freezers. I will choose bananas for 19 cents each, the mango/jicama slaw will leap into the cart as I roll toward the apricots, cantaloupes, peaches, avocados, and limes. Moving on, I give myself permission to select four different cheeses and then Tzatziki, Greek yogurt, butter, and eggs are chosen as I round the corner to the frozen food/cookie and candy aisle. All kinds of frozen foods beckon, prepared meals, and that terrific vanilla ice cream. Thai, Italian, Mexican, Chinese, and Indian selections excite my salivary glands. I can't pass up the truffle flatbread. All the while I'm scanning for alluring condiments and seasonings.  I'm going to try the honey Alepo sauce. I need the mushroom Umami seasoning, and the Everything But the Bagel seasoning. I mustn't forget at least two boxes of triple ginger cookies. And then around the next corner for olive oil (the Greek EVOO is the best), tomato/red pepper soup (low sodium), some Thai yellow curry, and then the next aisle for nuts (unsalted) and all the "cluster" cereals. And the grand finale, drum roll please, the beverage section. I absolutely must have tonic and soda water, vodka, and at least six bottles of wine. This is going to be more than my budgeted $200.

I find I am coming to like spicier foods, veggies can be pretty bland. I use a fair amount of condiments and prepared foods which can be very high in sodium, so I make low sodium selections wherever possible.  I don't miss meat, I don't think I could bring myself to buy it for any reason, but I  haven't discarded the intention to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. We'll see. And wine is less appealing since I've given up meat. I was a moderately sophisticated imbiber and enjoyed pairing good wines to an interesting menu. That has lost its luster when the menu is meatless, although cheese, fruit, and wine make a pretty good combination.

So,what do I really eat?

Breakfast choices: Frozen waffles with peanut butter and a banana or frozen fruit medley; pepper jack  cheese omelet (often with spinach, mushrooms, and onions); plain Greek yogurt with frozen fruit medley stirred in, topped with granola; bagel with cream cheese, fruit

Lunch:  leftovers, soup, salad, fruit, nuts, and cheese, sandwiches, quesadillas

Dinner: lots of frozen meals; spaghetti; Pad Thai; curry; variation on pasta dishes; hearty soups; rice-based concoctions; baked potatoes; tacos; pizza

                               

Rant Warning

I'm really tired of Trump-bashing. And I'm really sad there is so much to bash. Today he has ordered the CDC to stop reporting COVID-19 data. Instead, we are to believe information released by the White House, which to date has released misinformation and outright lies when not turning a blind side to the issue. I won't bore you with the details, but if you're curious, look here:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2020/07/trumps-lies-about-coronavirus/608647/

I do take hope when I hear he is turning against FOX News (or they are turning on him).

I have at least three acquaintances who have discarded their loyalty to Trump. Hope springs eternal. I don't know how much more rejection he can gaslight. 

His "press conference" on Tuesday (7/14) in the Rose Garden was 57 minutes of campaigning and incoherent rambling followed by 6 minutes of questions and then an abrupt departure. He is not well.

I seriously doubt he will finish his term. I even think there is a possibility something will keep him from getting the nomination. I suspect Romney will ultimately be the Republican nominee. And then there will be a real contest and interesting debates. 

My fantasy has Trump walking off the job, leaving Pence in the lurch. I think he might seek asylum someplace that won't extradite him. I wonder who he would take with him. I'm pretty sure Melania and Barron would refuse to go. Likely, Ivanka and her family would go and probably Don, Jr. and Eric.

I can't shake the feeling that something dramatic and unprecedented is about to happen. 

And how about this? 

• CEO of Goya products avows support for Trump.
• Backlash occurs advocating boycott of Goya Products.
• Ivanka openly advertise Goya beans on Twitter. 
• Further backlash ensues.
• President Donald Trump, leader (?) of the free world appears on Instagram with an array of Goya products on the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office.

How can he stoop so low while the epidemic is out of control? No leadership on how and when schools should re-open -- parents, teacher, and friends in a frenzy over the best course of action. I am enraged.

 

I'm going to keep this short because we are all tired of political rants and I think I need to do some breathing exercises.

Batteries Not Included

I’m old. Don’t argue with me, I’m proud of it. It took me a long time to get here. Why do people always want to disagree when you declare you’re old? “You’re only as old as you think you are;” “you don’t look near your age;” “you’re young at heart;” “age is a state of mind;” et cetera, ad nauseam.

 I don’t mind being old. It has some real advantages. I don’t menstruate; I can’t get pregnant; I won’t lose my job; I get to pre-board airplanes (when not in the middle of a pandemic); I get discounts; people make way and help me without being asked; and I can say nearly anything and people will forgive me because, well, I’m old.

 Don’t get me wrong, there are some inconveniences. Consider getting up in the morning...

 I reach for my glasses on the nightstand and knock them to the floor. Retrieving them is not simple. First, I must detach myself from my Cpap. I turn off the wheezing machine, take off the head gear, and put it on the nightstand. I then remove the chin strap which prevents dry mouth by wrapping my head and chin in Lycra. I’m hoping the strap does double duty in mitigating the droop of my sagging chin(s). 

Back to picking up my glasses -- they are out of reach and my knees don’t function very well, so I hoist myself from bed to the wheelchair, I try to bend over to snag them but realize I am risking tumbling to the floor, so I wisely wheel myself out to the living room where I left my grabbers. Back to the bedroom, the glasses are retrieved, planted on my nose and the world is a brighter and clearer place. Somehow, being able to see magically improves my hearing a tad. Impaired vision easily solved.

Now that I can see what I'm doing, off to the shower I roll, after gathering towel, ensuring bath seat is in place, retrieving hospital-style walker, checking on supply of body wash and shampoo, and adjusting water temperature. Feels so good to have a clean start on another beautiful day. No need to blow dry my hair, I’m not going anywhere. After brushing my teeth, I insert my partial plate. No one can tell I don’t have a mouth full of pearly whites. 

 But the hearing problem still persists in considerable measure.  I retrieve the hearing aids from their overnight UV cleaning box, brush all their little nooks and crannies with the little brush that I, thankfully, have not dropped on the floor this time. It’s time to replace the batteries. I remove the paper tab and hold them in my hand for a minute to warm them up and thus extend their life. Do you have any idea how long a minute can be? Inserting the batteries, again grateful I did not drop them, I push them into my ear canals and loop them over the top. Having rather small ears, between glasses and hearing aids, it’s getting a bit crowded back there.

 I select and put on my underwear, with a panty shield, just in case...

 I choose pants with a leg wide enough to pull up over my knee to provide easier access to my lower legs for wrapping in Ace bandages. A pullover shirt that doesn’t require fiddling with buttons completes my outfit. I only add accessories if I’m going out – and that hasn’t happened in months. (Editor's note: She says that every few weeks whenever she goes out again.)

 Next steps require assistance. Because of venous stasis, my legs need compression wrapping. Ace bandages are wrapped around both legs from knee to ankle to foot.  When my pant leg is back in place my knee brace is attached to my right leg to add in stability and mobility. 

 Finally, a handful of pills regulate blood pressure, heart rhythm, and cholesterol, topped off with a cup of strong black coffee to jump start my day. My loins and all other parts are girded. Carpe diem!

 Total elapsed time: 90 minutes. 

 I am more of a puzzle than Ikea furniture. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo that says, “Batteries not included. Some assembly required.”