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A lot of freeform sadness floating around this morning.
A couple of days ago, Belinda texted: It is a long story, but the short of is, Chris fell at Linda's and cracked a rib. With Pat's help, Linda took him to Emergency one. Came home shortly after with DQ. Did not remember what happened to Chris or where is was. Pat's husband—Neighbor Ed!—went looking for him. Just as he figured out where he was, Chris was admitted to the hospital.
fast forward one day (today). Linda has no clue Chris is in the hospital and is "really pissed" no one told her.
###
Chris is now in "rehab."
For alcoholism? I texted because Chris is what they call a functional alcoholic.
But, no. Chris is in rehab because Chris can no longer walk.
If Chris cannot walk, he cannot drive from Albany to Hyde Park to spend three days with Linda each week. If Chris were to stop coming down three days a week, Linda would completely fall apart. Linda is an 87-year-old woman with dementia. She has a son, Kurt, in the area, but Kurt either dislikes her thoroughly or is a complete dolt. Anyway, Kurt hasn't raised a finger to help her.
The house I used to live in is falling down around Linda's ears. Filthy and cluttered, Belinda informed me—with a touch of something I couldn't help registering as satisfaction.
###
I lived in Linda's house for 11 years. For the most part, very happily.
Linda & I were never going to be true friends in the sense that I was going to be keen on tracking her once she was no longer a part of my daily life. But I liked her! She had a sunny, easy-going disposition for the most part, although she was very vain and could be stubborn about ridiculous things: She once stopped talking to me for three days over a sound I knew perfectly well was a woodpecker and she claimed was something else. She reminded me, in fact, of one of my dogs—Xena the Warrior Jack Russell, who in youth had been something of a canine Cindy Crawford and in her dotage... Well. Was sad.
Dotage!
A frightening word.
And it's coming for all of us.
Unless we get lucky like my beloved Brian did and just drop dead.
###
There is nothing I can do for Linda.
By the time I moved out, she disliked me thoroughly—I think because I nursed her through her knee replacement. I strongly suspect she stroked out on the operating table during the knee replacement. Linda had always been spacey & forgetful in that way that's called "absent-minded" but it was during the two weeks after the operation that I first started noticing the signs of what one might call cognitive deficit.
Maybe it was because I was the one telling her what to do after the operation that she developed such a strong aversion for me. Drink more water, I'd tell her. Walk down the hall. Go to physical therapy. I was pushy. An effective nurse must be. She didn't want to do any of those things, & like I say, she was stubborn, did not like being told what to do.
Though it wasn't until she started accusing me of creeping into her room at night while she was asleep & stealing money that I realized, Time to move.
Well. That and the fact that she kept lighting stove burners & then walking away.
###
Anyhoo, thoughts of Linda prompted me to begin working on my own End of Life documents. Health Care Directive, Medical Power of Attorney, Living Will, etc etc. I will be spending Thanksgiving week with both sons, so it will be a good opportunity to present each with a copy—🎄Merry Christmas, Bay-bee!🎄—and have an animated discussion about my wishes. This is the mature thing to do.
At some point, I should also make a will.
I mean, I have zero assets beyond the literally millions of words I've cranked out over the course of a lifetime. It's unlikely they will have any value once I'm dead, much as I may fantasize that they will. But the mature thing would be to make some kind of provision for them. Just in case.
A couple of days ago, Belinda texted: It is a long story, but the short of is, Chris fell at Linda's and cracked a rib. With Pat's help, Linda took him to Emergency one. Came home shortly after with DQ. Did not remember what happened to Chris or where is was. Pat's husband—Neighbor Ed!—went looking for him. Just as he figured out where he was, Chris was admitted to the hospital.
fast forward one day (today). Linda has no clue Chris is in the hospital and is "really pissed" no one told her.
###
Chris is now in "rehab."
For alcoholism? I texted because Chris is what they call a functional alcoholic.
But, no. Chris is in rehab because Chris can no longer walk.
If Chris cannot walk, he cannot drive from Albany to Hyde Park to spend three days with Linda each week. If Chris were to stop coming down three days a week, Linda would completely fall apart. Linda is an 87-year-old woman with dementia. She has a son, Kurt, in the area, but Kurt either dislikes her thoroughly or is a complete dolt. Anyway, Kurt hasn't raised a finger to help her.
The house I used to live in is falling down around Linda's ears. Filthy and cluttered, Belinda informed me—with a touch of something I couldn't help registering as satisfaction.
###
I lived in Linda's house for 11 years. For the most part, very happily.
Linda & I were never going to be true friends in the sense that I was going to be keen on tracking her once she was no longer a part of my daily life. But I liked her! She had a sunny, easy-going disposition for the most part, although she was very vain and could be stubborn about ridiculous things: She once stopped talking to me for three days over a sound I knew perfectly well was a woodpecker and she claimed was something else. She reminded me, in fact, of one of my dogs—Xena the Warrior Jack Russell, who in youth had been something of a canine Cindy Crawford and in her dotage... Well. Was sad.
Dotage!
A frightening word.
And it's coming for all of us.
Unless we get lucky like my beloved Brian did and just drop dead.
###
There is nothing I can do for Linda.
By the time I moved out, she disliked me thoroughly—I think because I nursed her through her knee replacement. I strongly suspect she stroked out on the operating table during the knee replacement. Linda had always been spacey & forgetful in that way that's called "absent-minded" but it was during the two weeks after the operation that I first started noticing the signs of what one might call cognitive deficit.
Maybe it was because I was the one telling her what to do after the operation that she developed such a strong aversion for me. Drink more water, I'd tell her. Walk down the hall. Go to physical therapy. I was pushy. An effective nurse must be. She didn't want to do any of those things, & like I say, she was stubborn, did not like being told what to do.
Though it wasn't until she started accusing me of creeping into her room at night while she was asleep & stealing money that I realized, Time to move.
Well. That and the fact that she kept lighting stove burners & then walking away.
###
Anyhoo, thoughts of Linda prompted me to begin working on my own End of Life documents. Health Care Directive, Medical Power of Attorney, Living Will, etc etc. I will be spending Thanksgiving week with both sons, so it will be a good opportunity to present each with a copy—🎄Merry Christmas, Bay-bee!🎄—and have an animated discussion about my wishes. This is the mature thing to do.
At some point, I should also make a will.
I mean, I have zero assets beyond the literally millions of words I've cranked out over the course of a lifetime. It's unlikely they will have any value once I'm dead, much as I may fantasize that they will. But the mature thing would be to make some kind of provision for them. Just in case.
