Food for Thought I
I know it's been forever and a day since I've written, but I suppose I've been focused more on my photography and my attempts to paint. (You probably will not see any of my masterpieces anytime soon.) I have no good excuse, really, but I am here now with something I sincerely hope you will take the time to read. And comment on.
It's a short story written by one of the residents where I work. It was featured in the monthly newsletter. She has had other stories featured, too, and they always move me. I found this one especially so because I could see myself in some of what she wrote. I did ask Dee if I could post this on social media and she gave her consent and wanted me to tell her what others thought.
Thank you, friends and readers.
Bittersweet
It's so quiet here today. Monday morning and not much happening.
Usually, there are so many performances, both classical and pop, with some pretty talented people coming to entertain us. Surprisingly talented peo-ple! Sometimes, music from the 60's, 70's. The Dark Ages, "prehistoric," the younger employees may be saying. They take it well, though, as they wheel residents in, or escort those on foot to a seat in the big hall. They clap at the right times, enthusiastically, I think, but . . .
Of course it couldn't really send them like it does us. Weird that it seems better to me now than when I was young and first listened. “Say, who is CCR, any-way?” they must be thinking. Or the Carpenters? The Mamas and the Papas? The Stones they know, everyone knows The Stones. Mick Jagger strutting across the stage doing "Brown Sugar."
Do I delude myself now into thinking I was so much fun back then? Back in those "olden" days? Maybe I wasn't. Sometimes, I wish I could do it all over.
***
Lunchtime now.
So here I sit, still in my room, slowly sipping my one glass of white (don't remember if it's Chardonnay or Pino Gri (bottle's in the trash), because I don't dare have more wine after that good dose of Tramadol I took just three hours ago.
I decide not to finish it and go down to lunch.
***
Afternoon, and I am downstairs at the one entertainment for the day. I am clapping rigorously, shaking my upper body to the rhythms, trying to tap my feet, just let my lower limbs be their usual non-responsive selves. Oh, excuse me --- one limb can still keep the beat, and if I'm sitting down, I can shake like the best. At times, I'm one of The Platters, or Elvis, or John Lennon. I'm so old I can even do Bill Haley and the Comets! I'm sure that no one under forty understands why this sends us.
So here is this peppy lady with long gray-brown hair entertaining us, stirring us up (accompaniment supplied by electronics, of course). And I'm swinging with her. Surprise! For the next forty-five minutes, I will be almost like her.
But suddenly, by the third number, I'm crying. Fast, big tears, stinging my eyes. First I'm singing, then my chest gets tight, my throat chokes up and I want to wail.
Why does music, especially live, make me cry these days?
...
Katrina is here again tonight.
"I'm old," she says suddenly. "Ugh!"
"No," I say, "not old for a cat. Oh, I meant a 'human' cat."
"Den, den," she starts, lapsing into baby talk. "Why does my bones ache?"
"Ache? Oh, sweetie, I think you just wanna be like mama."
Katrina, my baby of sixteen years, looks up at me with those big green eyes and paws the spotted beige carpet with one furry gray limb. "Yeah," she says, giggles, and does it again. "So why does my bones ache?"
I know how unhappy she is lately. Somehow, I'm convinced that like her, we can't go on without each other.
God, if the people here knew of all this, they'd probably put me on the Memory Floor, the haven for dementia, where I won't have to put on this act anymore, or worry about accidentally letting it all out.
The therapist says it is way too easy to just float, like I'm doing. Hard to change, though. But I can't do that anymore.
So, less pain pills, less wine, too. Try not to sink into my recliner and space out so much. I'll do it!
I just wish I knew who this new me is supposed to be.
Dee G., Assisted Living Vignettes © 2023
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