The world keeps turning

When times get tough, I queue up the songs that keep me going as I slog through my ongoing pity party. This week my soundtrack is mostly New Order, punctuated by Rod Stewart's Mandolin Wind and Helen Stellar's Io (from the movie Elizabethtown). Maybe engaging in some new compulsive activities will help me get my mind off reality for a while. Tonight I'm thinking about taking up the mandolin. And maybe learning Chinese and Russian (just in case America is invaded while we are distracted by the shit show happening in Washington).

Every evening I come back to earth by visiting my mother and her smoking buddy, Jane. Some evenings Jane doesn't talk much, and Mom doesn't talk at all, so we have a pleasant ten-minute interlude staring into the distance. Well, they stare into the distance. They have a view of tall fir trees and sky beyond the roof of the facility. I have a view of two old ladies sitting in front of a wall of rhododendrons. It's hard to know what to stare at. I often don't know what to say. I do a lot of fidgeting.

The other night I made the mistake of describing the hearings I'd witnessed of the Supreme Court nominee. Of course, neither old woman had any idea what I was talking about. I worked myself into quite a lather before I finally managed to zip it. Darn it. I need to unload my anxieties someplace else.

Mom and Jane could not care less what is going on in politics. They no longer vote. Their attention is riveted on what is happening in their own small world, the world of the retirement facility.

“Tonight is Amy's last day,” Jane reminded Mom tonight. Mom nodded. Amy was the nice part-time cook. I was sad to hear that Amy was leaving. She baked gluten-free cookies for Mom.

“I wonder if she is getting another job,” Jane mused. Mom shrugged her narrow shoulders. I looked at the front of her red fleece jacket, wondering if it ever got laundered. She loves the jacket for its deep pockets, plenty of room for her cigarette case. The front of the jacket is a minefield of pock marks, some just black circles and others outright holes, burned clear through the fleece. I wondered what I would do if one evening she dropped her cigarette and spontaneously combusted.

“Someone died two nights ago,” Jane said. She looked at me and mouthed, “Stroke.” Mom nodded. She had told me about it yesterday. We didn't know the woman who died. Neither one of us was terribly concerned about the dead person. After all, people go to retirement facilities to die. We both expressed sadness for the staff.

“The same night, another woman fell,” Jane said. “Blood everywhere.” My mother's eyes widened. She glanced at her cigarette and then at Jane's cigarette, comparing their smoking progress.

“They could get some serious rain this week in Arizona,” I said, thinking, what is the mildest topic possible? Right, the weather. 

Both ladies looked at me in surprise. “Arizona!” Mom said.

“We can't get flooded here, can we?” Jane asked.

“No, we are on a hill,” I reassured her.

The glowing ember at the tip of Mom's cigarette fell onto the ground. She held out the now dead stub. Sometimes I take it, sometimes Jane takes it. Tonight I took it and chucked it into the big gourd-shaped receptacle for cigarette butts that must look absolutely gross inside. Mom got up and grabbed her walker. Time to head for the door. I trailed behind to pick up the pieces, if anything (or anyone) should happen to fall.

Amy met us at the front door and let us in. Behind us the sky was almost dark. No rain, but I could smell it on the air. I stood by as Amy hugged first Jane and then my mother. Amy towered over both shrunken women. Up close, she looked younger than I first thought.

“Come back and visit,” Jane said.

“Don't forget us,” I said to Amy as Mom turned away down the hall. Amy did not look sad to be leaving. I worked at a nursing home once. That was probably the hardest job in my life. (So far. I have a feeling Home Depot might be in my future.)

Back in her room, Mom parked her jacket on the visitor's chair. She stood by the bed, staring at the bed covers, which were pulled open, ready for her to go to bed later. Her blue fleece pajama bottoms lay on top. She pointed at her head.

“What do I do with this?” I wasn't sure if she meant the pajamas and bed covers or her head. I took a chance she meant the bed.

“Your bed is ready for you, when you are ready to go to sleep,” I said. “See the picture on the wall?” Last week I drew a series of cartoons showing her how to get ready for bed. First, brush your teeth. Take out hearing aids. Take off shoes and pants. Put on PJs. Sit on the bed. Put feet under covers. Pull covers up to chin. Sweet dreams. Layers are the problem. The quilt is covered by the wool blanket, which is covered by a sheet. Three layers! With the pajama bottoms on top. Too much for her brain.

“Ring your buzzer if you need help,” I said.

“Okay,” she replied.

The Chronic Malcontent should not become a car mechanic

I'm bone-dog weary, but I keep slogging through the days. On the bright side, sunshine! On the dark side, dementia! Life is a balance sheet of debits and credits. I add up both sides and think I've got things figured out. Then pink eye! (Mom, not me). It's always something, even when I don't know what it is. We all know how the story ends, but how we get to the ending is the part that puts hair on my chest. And upper lip. And nostrils.

After our visit to urgent care to get the pink eye diagnosis, my mother called me to tell me one of my headlights was out. That was nice of her. Even more impressive, she remembered to call me even after trudging the three-minute hike back to her room, fifteen minutes after having a cigarette, which typically temporarily erases a good portion of her brain cells.

I went to the auto supply store yesterday to buy new headlight bulbs and new wipers. As I pulled out my debit card, I kept waiting for the clerk to offer to install them for me, at least, the wipers. They've done it in the past for me, in a fraction of the time it usually takes me to do it. It's not like there was a line, but apparently he didn't want to go outside. So off I went, $47.00 poorer with some trepidation about what would come next.

I had previously checked YouTube for a video that would show me how to replace a headlight bulb in a decrepit old Ford Focus. Videos abound. When I backed my car into my usual parking spot in front of the laurel hedge, I felt well equipped with the knowledge of headlight replacement. I gathered my tools: gloves, basically. The nice mechanic on the video said don't touch the bulbs with your bare hands. I pulled on my lavender rubber-palmed gardening gloves and smacked them together in anticipation of success to come.

First, I optimistically opened the package of new headlight bulbs. Then I yanked on the hood release and managed to get the hood up and onto the support stick. Next, I peeled off the rubber gaskets that covered the headlight assembly, thinking eeew, these things look remarkably like dusty black contraceptive diaphragms. I set them aside. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: I hope I will remember to replace them when I'm done.

I reached my hand into the space by the left headlight assembly. There I encountered my first problem, I mean, challenge. The guy in the video seemed to have a lot more space to maneuver than I was finding in my car. I could barely get one hand in there to try to loosen the plastic retainer ring holding the bulb in place. I could feel the ring, though, so I persevered.

The ring wouldn't budge. I tried one hand, then the other hand. If I could only get both hands in there! I tried to picture my mechanic undertaking this task. Nuh-uh. Not going to happen. Maybe I'm doing this wrong. I switched to the other headlight, and twisted the ring. It came off easily and fell down into the engine compartment.

I stared down into the depths of the engine, feeling my heart rate go up, and wondering what would happen if I pretended like that hadn't happened? Would the ring melt and start a fire as I was cruising along the freeway? Would the car even start?

“Failure is not an option,” I muttered. I left the hood up and went into my apartment, seeking inspiration. I grabbed a 36-inch metal ruler, a roll of duct tape, and an X-acto knife. The cat looked askance at me as I hurried back out the door.

When I returned to the car, I looked into the engine, trying to find the ring, but my eyes weren't adjusting to the bright sunshine. I couldn't see a thing, just velvety darkness. I rummaged in the glove box. Where the heck is my flashlight? Don't I have a flashlight? Note to self: get a flashlight!

I was going to run back into the apartment for a flashlight but remembered the Multnomah County Library keychain flashlight I had received at 2017 Wordstock. I clicked the tiny button and shone the LED beam into the engine. Yep, there it was, that stupid ring, sitting on a horizontal surface much closer to the ground than to the hood. Too far for me to reach, even if there had been room to insert my arm into the narrow space.

I shoved the metal ruler down toward the area where the ring was sitting, hoping I wouldn't dislodge something essential, like, I don't know, the engine. I applied my former skill as a golfer to putt the ring toward an opening where I thought it could potentially fall down onto the ground. After some tries, success! The ring fell on the ground. I bent down, reached under the car, and snatched it up triumphantly, holding it aloft like a trophy. I glanced surreptitiously at the diners eating at the tables outside the cafe across the street but nobody was watching.

By now I was a good twenty minutes into the job and I hadn't even managed to remove the old headlights. Nevertheless, I persisted.

I yanked out the old bulb assembly from the right headlight. I removed the old bulb from the thingamajig that it plugged into, you know, the thing with all those scary looking wires no doubt leading to my car's electronic brain, if it has such a thing, which I doubt. I tossed the old bulb into the trash. I inserted the new bulb into the thingamajig and poked it back into the hole leading into the headlight area. It did not slide in as easily as it popped out.

Did you know you can look through the headlight cover and see from the front what your hand is doing from the back? I poked the bulb into the hole and watched from the front as it refused to line up. And kept on refusing. What the heck?

Now I'm sweating and my back is aching from bending over the front of the car. I straightened up and stared at the partly cloudy sky. Briefly I thought, too bad I can't enjoy this lovely day. Looking for a miracle, I switched to the other headlight, thinking, I don't know what I was thinking. I was in a state of low-grade panic, you know the feeling, where your brain is one stresser away from shutting down and forcing your body into the fetal position?

I used my right hand to try to loosen the plastic ring. It came off immediately. I figured out that unplugging the thingamajig with the wires was the easiest way to get the ring off. Wish I'd figured that out for the other side! Now I could take out the old bulb and insert the new one. It worked! Now to get the ring back on. Wait, which way does it go?

I tried it one way, I tried it the other way. Finally, something clicked. The ring went on. I turned it a bit to lock it in place, reattached the wire thing, and voila! Success. Now to replicate my success on the other side.

I wrestled for many long minutes before I finally got the bulb into the socket, the ring on and tightened, and the wires plugged back in. Wow. What an ordeal.

I was ready to close the hood when I remembered the plastic covers. Whew. They were a lot harder going back on than they were coming off, but finally I got them back into place. I shut the hood. I noticed the hood was slightly askew. Wha—? I opened the hood again and found I'd shut the old bulb from the right headlight into the space where mechanics typically lay their tools, up by the wipers. I grabbed the bulb and tossed it in the trash with the other one.

Now the moment of truth. I put the key in the ignition and started the car. In bright daylight it was hard to see, but it appeared that both headlights were working. The test would come when I visited Mom in the evening.

My next task was to replace both front wipers, which I managed to do in record time (like 10 minutes). I think I was still riding my competence high. You know how that is, when you accomplish something you weren't 100% sure you could do and then you feel like you can run a marathon or make a cold call? If I could bottle and sell that feeling, I'd be in Tahiti right now. Assuming no hurricanes or typhoons were headed for me, of course.

Now I feel like I should vacuum my car out and get it washed. What is up with that? You fix one thing, suddenly everything needs fixing. Just a few minutes ago, I dusted some shelves and suddenly had the urge to vacuum. That compulsion can go on indefinitely. Next thing you know, you start looking for a new apartment.

Tonight I'll go visit Mom and take her outside with her smoking buddy so they can have their after-dinner cigarette. Mom's eye is looking much better, thanks for asking. I'm ready for rain, darkness, and whatever else might be headed this way.