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.”
