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!

That dreaded second vaccination.

 

This afternoon, Jordan and I got our second COVID-19 vaccinations. I feel almost guilty writing that because I know so many deserving people are trying desperately to gain access to the shots, applying countless places and caught in an endless vacuum of waiting. We are fortunate because our family doctor is a member of a network that is coordinating with the county to deliver the vaccine and therefore receives a supply. Obviously, I am more than qualified to be in the 1b group because of age, and Jordan qualifies because she is listed as my caretaker.

I sometimes bristle at the idea of calling her a caretaker, in spite of all that she does for me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her; it’s more that I rebel against the truth that I need a caretaker. But when I take a bold, straightforward look at reality, that’s the truth. I don’t drive, so she drives me to various medical appointments, which are about the only things that get me away from the cottage. She does my grocery shopping, my laundry, cleans my cottage, and fusses at me to drink more water, be sure to take medications, etc. There are a lot of things I can’t do from a walker, and Jordan does them with endless good cheer. I need to shut up and realize that she, as a caretaker, makes my life easy and happy life possible.

So now we’re in that limbo: will we have a severe reaction or not. Facebook is full of stories by people recounting their negative reactions—it’s enough to scare anyone. My doctor reminded me, however, that only about one-third of recipients of the second shot have a negative reaction. It can range from that of a neighbor, healthy young man, who was in bed for two days to a slight headache. And I’m told that older people are less inclined to react because our immune systems are weaker. Still, it’s kind of unsettling to get a shot that you know might make you feel worse. Christian is going to make a comforting chicken dish in the crockpot for dinner tomorrow night, and we will return the favor Sunday after he has his second shot on Saturday (he is eligible because of an autoimmune condition).

And then there’s the question of what we can do after we are fully vaccinated, and the vaccine has had time to take effect. Dr. Fauci, in whom I have absolute faith, says still wear your masks, social distance, and wash your hands a lot. I intend to do that, because even vaccinated, we can be carriers and infect others. The statistics on vaccinated people who get the disease are slim, but it does happen. Still, it seems to me that we are dealing with a disease that is even yet largely unknown—maybe in ten years, we may know the answers, but we don’t now. So that lunch with my daughters will be postponed, and I’ll essentially continue to live in quarantine.

More than one person has said to me, “So if that’s what you’re going to do, what’s the point of getting the vaccine?” It seems twofold to me. By getting vaccinated, I am pretty much protecting myself, but I am also protecting others. Even if I might still be a carrier, I would think odds are less likely. And I do believe that increasing vaccinations are what are making hospitalization and death numbers go down. Being vaccinated is what you do for yourself—and for your family, your neighbors, your community.

I read a Facebook post the other day in which a woman vehemently said she was never getting the vaccine because it is poison and is part of Bill Gates’ depopulation plan (never did figure out why Gates would have a depopulation plan, but I wasn’t about to ask that woman). Such ridiculous thinking doesn’t bother me, but I have also read that large percentages of health care workers and first responders are declining to be vaccinated. And that worries me, because of the implications for continuing spread of the disease. What do they know—or think—that we don’t? I know the vaccine was approved in a hurry—desperate situations call for desperate measures—but I tend to trust science. I wish everyone did.

More later. So far, I feel just fine and ate a good dinner, but it’s too soon to tell. In a sense I feel like there is a dark cloud hanging over my head. Can I blow it away?

Stay well, warm, and safe, everyone.

 

A Welcome Visitor

Jamie, Kosmo, and Sophie

An extra special treat – my younger son, Jamie, arrived yesterday afternoon and is staying through supper tonight. Much to Sophie’s delight, he is accompanied by Kosmo, a Pomeranian who never leaves Jamie’s side. We’ve laughed and talked and caught up, debated over what to eat, complained about politics, worried about lost money, and had a really good time.

Jamie was not much intrigued by the dishes I offered to cook for him—maybe his childhood memories are too much for him. So last night, we had dinner from Righteous Foods—salmon tacos for me, beef fajitas and meatballs and guac for Jamie. Then we watched the last night of the DNC together. Jame and I are on the same page about politics and our national crisis—our complaints are solely about how this country is being destroyed, and we tend to echo each other. But neither of us can refrain from commenting, so there is a lot of conversation, even as we listened to what we agreed was a powerhouse speech by Joe Biden.

Today, Jamie has done some chores—often things I didn’t know needed doing. He dismantled and cleaned the a/c unit in the living room. I’m never sure what to call it but I think a ductless split system describes it—it hangs up near the ceiling and functions as needed to heat and cool. Jamie found mold, though he assured me it wasn’t black mold—there are grades of mold? He’s emptied garbage, reached things I can’t on the shelf, and stepped in to give Jordan and Christian a break from taking care of me.

I never like to think of myself as needing a caretaker. That reminds me of a meme I saw yesterday that said, “It’s weird being the same age as old people.” That’s how I feel about it, and I would bristle at those who might suggest I need a caretaker or can’t take care of myself. But the truth is that being mobility challenged and needing a walker, there are things I can’t do—like reaching something from the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet or making a bed that’s, by space necessity, shoved against a wall. I can cook and, do a fair job of cleaning, but I can’t take my laundry into the house where the washing machines are—no space in the cottage. I realize more each day how dependent I am. So I am daily grateful for Jordan, Christian, and Jacob—and for occasional visits from Colin, Megan, and Jamie. Besides I enjoy their company so much.

So I’m grateful to have Jamie here—and Sophie is grateful to have Kosmo, although he doesn’t play as much as she would wish. Tiny as he is, he thinks he’s a cat and walks around on tables, sleeps on the back of the cough. Sophie, who cannot get to any of those places, is a bit frustrated. And I cannot help thinking how horrified my germ-conscious father would be were he with us.

Meantime, a patio disaster. My patio is shaded by a beautiful, spreading, sprawling pecan tree. It provides lovely shade and a wonderful home for birds such as the pair of cardinals who have taken up residence. But it has drawbacks—those pesky yellow tassels—worms, Jordan calls them—at some times of the year, and recently we had to have it trimmed away from the power lines before Oncor came to do it. And now a new problem: for the first time that I can remember the tree has pecans—and the squirrels are going wild, cracking nuts and dropping the shells. I can sit and my desk and hear the ping, ping, ping as they hit. And the patio is a mess, littered with shells. Maybe Jamie will blow it tonight, though it will probably be littered again immediately.

And low water pressure problems popped up today—the sprinkler system is not working efficiently, and one patch of grass is turning brown.

The worries of a homeowner are many and seldom solved all at once. It’s always something.

A nine-year-old caretaker

This morning I had errands to run, but increasingly since my hip/back problem developed, I’ve been reluctant to venture out of the house. I think I’m paralyzed by the fear of falling again. So today I had Jacob as backup…and he was as good as gold.

First we walked down the driveway from the front porch—I haven’t done that since I feel in the driveway last March. I’ve developed an alternative way of going to the car—out the back door and through the dog gate. Jacob held my hand the few steps until we got to the fence where I felt safe—he did say, “You’re holding on awful tight.” Then when I was walking on my own, he said, “You’re walking awfully fast.” I told him fast was better than slow.

First stop: the gas station, where I had no problem though I told Jacob to undo his seat belt. That’s an old superstition of mine, but I have heard of static electricity causing flame to follow the hose to the car. Jacob’s father scoffs at me, but I hold to it.

Then to Origins, where I buy facial products. Jacob was clearly out of his element but he dutifully held my hand though we didn’t have to walk far. I was surprised at how shaky my legs were.

Then to Central Market, where he brought a basket to me, and with that to hold on to, I was fine, though my cane kept slipping out of the end of the basket and threatened to trip bystanders. Jacob thought that was all fun. Otherwise, he kept asking how many more things were on my list. Actually I had a short list, and we were through in record time—with a record low price for me at that store.

Then home, where he glued on his iPad until time to go with Chandry, our apartment guest, to play with her big dogs at a kennel in Weatherford. I worked and slept—until Jacob rudely woke me up at 5:30. Next time he won’t wake up on a school morning, I’m going to be equally rude! Dinner of buttered noodles (I put capers on mine) and broccoli—Jacob ate prodigious amounts.

And then Chandry and a friend ate dinner on the deck, so we went out to visit. And In between all that, I was trying to make a pot of lasagna soup. No wonder my back hurts tonight, and I am more weary than I remember being in a long time.