On Saturday morning I did my taxes, which was surprisingly quick and painless. After that, I read my email. Someone on a small list I’m on had sent a link about Cecilia Fire Thunder, the president of the Oglala Sioux tribe of South Dakota, who is going to open a Planned Parenthood clinic on the reservation so that women in South Dakota can get legal abortions.
Another list member said, "Now I want to change my name to Susan Fire Thunder. Has a nicer ring to it than Susan Outta My F***ing Way, Boys."
Then I went to Rainbow, where I saw a good bumper sticker:
Pre-emptive defense is an oxymoron.
(Bush is a regular moron.)
When I got back from Rainbow, I noticed a small splash of sunlight on the kitchen wall. It was so tranquil in there, it made me think about how someday I’ll be gone from the planet and maybe that piece of sun, or another like it, will still be shining in that spot.
That made me think of two old ladies who used to live nearby, one in my building and one in the building next door. When I moved in, they were 90 years old or so and I believe had been living there as neighbors for decades. They shared the newspaper each day. I looked out my kitchen window once and saw the one in my building silently throwing the newspaper over to her friend, who was waiting outside her own door. One of them once told me she had had a hard time sleeping the night before, or she had fallen out of bed. “It was the worst night of my life,” she said. I remember thinking she must have had quite a nice life if that was the worst night of it.
I finished Jeannette Walls’ harrowing memoir The Glass Castle, which is excellent. When a new baby arrived while they were living somewhere in California where they had Mexican neighbors, Jeannette suggested naming the baby Rosita, but her mother said that was a Mexican name. Jeannette said, “I thought you said we weren’t supposed to be prejudiced.” Her mother replied, “It’s not being prejudiced. It’s a matter of accuracy in labeling.”
Saturday evening Tom and I went with his boss to have dinner at Ananda Fuara, a vegetarian restaurant run by the devotees of Sri Chinmoy. There are large photos on the wall of Sri Chinmoy with the previous pope, Princess Diana, Nelson Mandela. I had vegan ravioli with garlic toast, which was very good.
After dinner we went to see Last Planet Theatre’s production of Farmyard, by Franz Xaver Kroetz. I was particularly impressed by Garth Petal’s performance. Last Planet’s motto is “Difficult plays for difficult people.” The production used a lot of wonderful Shirley Horn music.
On Sunday morning I was up in time to hear Car Talk on KQED, which is very entertaining even if you don’t have a car. They are in fact anti-SUV and one of them has said, "I do not own a car. I either ride a bicycle or use public transportation,” which is great. If you visit their site, you can get “Actual Car Information.”
I’d had the ill-conceived idea that I would be a nice guy and take P. to a movie, which I haven’t done in about two months. He’s never been exactly animated, but he’s really depressed now. He spends much time lying in bed looking at the wall. When I talk to him on the phone, which I do fairly often, he says he’s sad because no one will take him to a movie. His sister takes him out twice a week, plus a couple of other people take him somewhere every week, plus he goes to a senior center a couple of days a week. So he does have a few things to do, and when I myself was taking him out twice a week, which I did for months, he didn’t seem much happier.
I took him to see Failure to Launch, which had a very weak script, but I wanted to see it because I like to see Matthew McConaughey. (Something he was in not too long ago with Al Pacino that was surprisingly good was Two for the Money.) P. was annoying, as always (“Can I have a soda? Can I have a hot dog? Can I have chocolate-covered raisins? Can I smoke a cigarette?”), and I wasn’t exactly gracious, and I felt guilty afterwards.
I did get to see P.’s housemate Lourdes, which was good. At some point she told me to go away, so I stood up to leave and she said, “Where are you going? I didn’t hire you to leave.”
I came home and talked to my friend Carol Joy on the phone. I said I didn’t know which is worse for P.—me hanging around being mean to him, or him not seeing me at all. She said it was interesting that I framed it in terms of what’s best for him as opposed to what’s best for me, but I think that would still be the same question, except that instead of saying, “What would be best for me?” I’d ask, “What would make me feel least guilty?”
I do think we have an obligation to care for those who are old and sick, and I feel horrible that, at least in regard to me, his choice is between a grumpy person or no person. When I met him in the late 80s, I absolutely could not stand him. Then I adored him for many years, and now I can’t stand him again. It’s quite something that I now find myself one of the very few people left at the end of his life, or what he hopes is the end of his life. He says, “I want to die.”
He is only 62. Watching this happen has pretty much convinced me that strokes and heart attacks are to be avoided, if possible. (He has a handful of mental health diagnoses, as well, which does not help.)
While I was talking to Carol Joy, Thelonious clambered up me in a frenzy, as she’d spotted her very favorite thing in my hand: an emery board. She’s extremely into emery boards. When I went to sleep later, Thelonious was chasing her tail on one corner of the bed. This is something she used to do only in private. I’d hear the sound and peek into the next room to see her soberly chasing her tail. Now that she’s 18 and a half, she feels comfortable enough to do it in front of me, even right on the bed while I’m in it.
No comments:
Post a Comment