Assisted Living

       

No, I’m not moving to a facility! But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about independence, and I have a bold confession: I could not at this point in my life live independently. Oh, I love to tell people that I live alone and in some sense I do. I can live alone for, say, twenty-four hours or maybe a bit longer. But a week? Nah. Not comfortably.

This was driven home to me last week when both Jordan and Jacob were out of town. I thought it was Christian and me, but I soon realized that it was Christian taking care of me. And that’s another thing—that word caretaker. I don’t like to think I need a caretaker—it sounds so helpless, so dependent. Jordan has long referred to herself as my caretaker, and she’s right. It’s “Can you get another roll of toilet paper down from that high shelf?” “Can you put these cans up on the top shelf?” “See that shirt I got halfway down? I can’t get it the rest of the way. Could you get it for me.” “Would you get such-and-such at the grocery.” But I digress.

Last week, it seemed I had a crisis for Christian every day—in just one day I needed wine, cheese slices for Sophie, and Drano because my kitchen sink was stopped up. I’m sure anyone who’s kept house knows what a pain that is—I could wash two or three dishes at a time, then let it drain, and move on to the next. I ate off paper plates and used the same spoon for everything. But Christian brought all three things I needed and handled my crises with grace. And that’s how my life is, because I don’t drive any more, can’t reach things—there’s a whole lot I can’t do. But somebody does it for me. Yes, it makes me feel worthless in a way.

The other morning when Christian came out to give Sophie her insulin shot, I said I had a new crisis. He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he may have hesitated a second. When I said I had dropped a roll of toilet paper behind the toilet and couldn’t reach it, he laughed and said, “That’s the kind of crisis I can handle easily.” But for me it was still really a crisis because I couldn’t reach it and my grabber wouldn’t get it.

So while I laugh and moan about all my friends being in Trinity Terrace, I realize I am not eligible for their life. Because I need help. The alternatives are not pretty, and every time I think about it I am doubly grateful to Jordan and Christian for making the life I lead possible.

Tonight we had guests for happy hour—Subie and Phil and her sister Diana and her husband John. I had fixed crab bites and baked goat cheese—two of my favorite appetizers—and they were well received. But it kept Jordan busy—refilling wine glasses, heating more crab bites. It seemed she was back and forth to the kitchen (a distance of maybe three feet) all evening. If she hadn’t been here, could I have done it? Of course, but it would have been more awkward and slower. Because she took over, it was a seamless social occasion—and a rowdy, happy one full of laughter.

But that is sort of the other side of the coin. What I can do for myself and others is cook, and I do it a lot. I fix dinner for four three or four nights a week—well, now that school’s out, make that dinner for three. Jacob is often out with his friends. But I can and do fix a wide array of meals—chicken hash, hamburger sliders, casseroles and salads that make a meal.  And many experimental meals—like this week, crab nachos maybe and open-raced beef and horseradish sandwiches. That, to me, sort of compensates for my dependence in other areas of life. It lets me contribute to the daily routine of living in what I have come to think of as our compound.

Yes, I have the best of both worlds—independence and caretakers. I know I am fortunate, and I am forever grateful. Subie and Phil have just moved into Trinity Terrace, and when I whined about being the only one of my friends who does not live there, Subie said, “If I lived this close to Jordan and Christian, I wouldn’t be moving either.”

The other thought that lingers, fortunately only in the back of my mind, is that time’s winged chariot is always hurrying near (with apologies to playwright Michael Powell and his play, A Matter of Life and Death—I just learned something; I thought that line came from Shakespeare or John Donne or one of the major English poets of the Romantic period.) I don’t know how long I will be able to do the things I do now for myself. I find that so depressing that I refuse to think about it. But I suppose change comes slowly, and we adjust. Meantime, I intend to practice what independence I can to the hilt so that I don’t lose it. I want to stay in my beloved cottage. Thinking ahead too far can be scary. I’ll live in the moment and enjoy it. Carpe diem!