The photo is of Jack in happier, though no less interesting, times.
This morning was interesting.
The dog ate Jack’s hearing aides. Not the batteries, thank God, but the little, grooved flesh-colored pieces of plastic and technology are now in many, many bits. Evidently Jack set them on his nightstand, knocked them off somehow in the night, and Nickie discovered his expensive new toys first thing this morning.
Breakfast – diced bacon and scrambled eggs fed to Jack with a long-handled Sunday spoon because he has decided the size of that utensil is easier for him to eat from – ended in two bites after a coughing fit.
Worried about the damage to my back done by pushing his wheelchair, Jack attempted to feet-push himself from the living room to the bathroom. The chair got stuck in the door leading into the hall. I was trapped in his bedroom and couldn’t get to the back of the chair without crawling over Jack and, of course, a large, exceedingly helpful dog. It took a while, but Jack got himself unstuck enough for me to squeeze behind him so I could maneuver the chair. The only damage a few more chunks of wood and paint missing from the door jam.
The usual pills were spilled, falls were narrowly avoided while getting him dressed, and he was still bitching about missing the cannabis festival on Saturday.
Ten minutes ago the day care shuttle picked him up in their fancy shuttle with the wheelchair lift. What I’d really like to do right now is go back to bed. But, here I sit, fingers flying, doing my best to make sense of my world.
Last night I dreamed I was sitting on a bench beside a man. I do not know who this man was. Someone with whom I felt safe, familiar. Light dappled the ground, though I did not see trees. In the dream there was no sexual tension, only an understanding between myself and this man that we shared this one precious moment.
I woke to a grief so strong it stole my breath, blocked my throat, and released my tears.