The chronic malcontent meets Jack and Jill

I'm not seeing anything funny to blog about these days. The world is in chaos, the helpless are suffering ... I'm starting to think it might be true: we really are all going to hell in a hand-basket. My brain keeps searching around for something ironic and witty to say, like a squirrel sifting gravel for peanuts. I'm just not finding the nuggets. Somewhere beyond the rainbow, humor still exists, I am sure. I hope.

Bravadita is in London. My sister is in Boston. My mother is in la-la land, disintegrating before my eyes. To top it off, the clouds won't go away. Summer refuses to appear. We've been lucky to hit 70°. I guess some people like it.

Last week I was trotting around the reservoir at Mt. Tabor Park. I happened to spy a young man trying to push a rather large young woman in a wheelchair along a dusty dirt path. The chair was heading downhill. The slope was getting steeper and bumpier with clumpy grass and weeds. The young caregiver was about half the size of his charge, and I could predict impending disaster.

I trotted up the path to intercept them. “You need some help?” I asked. A modern day Jack and Jill, I thought to myself.

They didn't say no, so I helped the young man turn the wheelchair around so his body could block the chair from escaping down the hill. I lent my weight as backup, trying to find places to grab that didn't involve her purse, her lap, or her long hair. The skinny dude was pink with exertion, casting anxious glances over his shoulder at the terrain. I was breathing hard myself.

Soon we got the wheelchair down the slope onto a smoother path and turned her around so the chair was facing forward again. “Okay, take care!” I said cheerfully, stepping back.

As I walked on my way, I reflected on what had just happened. It was a slice of real life: We sweated together for a minute and then parted ways. I realized I hadn't actually looked either of them in the face. Is that odd? I wouldn't recognize them again if they weren't in the same configuration, perched precariously on a steep dirt path.

I was glad I had arrived before she went barreling down the hill. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after ... rolling over Jack and breaking the rest of his skinny bones.

Offroading in a wheelchair seems a risky thing to do. But what do I know, I'm not in a wheelchair. Breaking free and speeding downhill might be perfectly sensible to someone who feels trapped in a seated position all the time.

Happy Independence Day from the Hellish Handbasket

I'm hunkered in the Love Shack cringing every time a loud boom shatters the neighborhood calm, which is more and more frequently now that the sun has gone down. It's the Fourth of July on Mt. Tabor, which means about a billion people have headed to the park with their fireworks and lawn chairs, intending to blow up stuff and then kick back to watch the fireworks over the city.

I'd say it's a war zone, but considering how many cities around the world really are war zones, I think it would be appallingly ethnocentric, so I won't say it. In some tiny way, the earth-shaking booms might resemble bombs falling nearby. The thought makes me sick.

My cat is hunkered under the “safe” chair in the bedroom. I've closed all the windows, but no place is safe from the noise. It's hard to explain to a cat why Americans feel the need to blow up stuff to celebrate an anniversary most of the world couldn't care less about.

I called my mother earlier to see how she was doing. She seemed okay, although she said she had misplaced her hummingbird feeder.

“Is it in the sink?” I asked.

“No, I don't see it,” she replied.

“Is it in the garage?” I asked next. I pictured her shuffling out to the garage with the cordless phone.

“No, it's not in the garage,” she reported. “Those birds will be mad if they don't get their sugar.”

“Is it in the refrigerator?” I asked, thinking, well, hell, who knows? If she's off her rocker, that bird feeder could be anywhere.

“I don't see it,” she said. I heard the refrigerator door thump.

“Well, I'm sure it will turn up. We can always get another one.”

“Oh, here it is!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “It was in the sink!”

Last week Mom had what she called “an episode.” She passed out on her patio and came to flat on her face with a bruised elbow and side. She crawled into her house and didn't bother to call anyone. When I called the next day to see if she needed anything from the store, she reluctantly told me what had happened.

I called the doctor's office for advice. The nurse said, “Take her to Urgent Care.” I picked her up and drove her to the urgent care clinic. The nurse there said, “We don't have the equipment to find out what happened. You need to take her to Emergency.”

Just about seven hours later, starving, exhausted, and beyond cranky, we walked out of the ER. Mom lit up a cigarette while I hiked across the parking structure to find my car.

For two days, she sported a portable heart monitor in a little gizmo wrapped around her chest and a velcro girdle fit for a Southern belle to support her broken rib. And I have a new word in my vocabulary: syncope.

The next time I saw her, she said, “I think it's time.”

“Time for what?”

“For me to move.”

Last summer Mom moved into independent living and it almost killed her. For sure, it destroyed her ability to think clearly. It's unlikely another move will restore what was lost. If she says it is time to move, I'm guessing that means the maternal parental unit is getting ready to call it quits.

“Okay, Mom. I'll start setting up the tours,” I said, looking at the scrawny stranger sitting across the table. I don't know this person, but that doesn't mean I won't miss her when she's gone.