The world hit me square on this morning with a myriad of problems: two health agencies with such similar names that I’ve paid the wrong one, and the one I should have paid sent me to a collection agency. Lord deliver me from that harassment. Think I got it sorted out, but my bank account shrank in the process. A computer back-up program wanted me to renew, but on investigation I found they hadn’t backed up my files in 224 days and won’t make restitution. Bills I thought I’d paid—a food magazine subscription and AARP; a survey to fill out about my primary care physician; a discussion with the home health care people wherein I offered to part amicably and they said, “No. Let us see what we can work out.” But then I didn’t hear from them again. And that’s how the morning went—a whole bunch of none of my own work done.
This afternoon made up for it. A visit with the surgeon earned me an excellent report—he’s pleased with my progress. He relieved me of some burdens—now I can cautiously bend to put on my left shoe, though the rest of my life, he warned, I should not push my luck. My confession that I am awkward and clumsy and nervous using a cane brought forth, “You’ll never hear me advocating for a cane. A walker is much safer.” If I use it longer than usual, well and good. He says one day walking will just happen. (I demonstrated later that it has not happened yet—pushing a grocery cart made my leg buckle and I limped.) Finally, he said I look better, have more facial expression. The whole thing made my day.
Betty and I went to Belk for our weekly Wednesday night dinner—I know, I know. It’s Tuesday. Food was good—delicious spinach bites, fried kibbeh good but not outstanding, a really good tabouli, and nice wine. It’s a chain restaurant, and I didn’t sense a chef in the back hand-preparing our meals.
A nice ending to the evening: usually I have to nag Jacob to take out my garbage, and we both end up angry. Tonight, one reminder and a bit of patience on my part, and he came out and announced, “I am so happy right now.” It seems he was writing a letter to his girlfriend. After he took my garbage out, he came back and read it to me—pretty darn eloquent. If he can do that at ten, the girls of his generation better watch out. He’s cute, charming, and now I find out he can write. And how many boys read their love letters to their grandmothers? I am blessed indeed.
You know what? I echo his statement. “I am so happy tonight.”