Illegal Use of Hands

After her two week vacation in the hospital and rehab for her dislocated shoulder, Ma had to see the orthopedic surgeon for a follow up. Her appointment was a day or two before a mahket run. With her arm in a sling, I didn't want to deal with Ma trying to maneuver the scooter around the store. She can barely control the damned thing with two hands. I couldn't imagine her trying one handed. Can you imagine the havoc she'd wreak on the poor Little Debbies?

After having an x-ray, the doctor told Ma her shoulder was healing. She had torn the rotator cuff and other ligaments in her shoulder. She will never be able to reach overhead, but as long as she can get herself bathed, dressed, and fed, we'd call it good.

The doctor was about to dismiss us when I moved closer to him so I could talk without Ma really being able to hear.

"Tell her she can't go to the Mahket."

"There's no reason she can't go shopping."

"Tell her," I hissed.

"You tell her," he said looking at me perplexed. I know what the young doctor was thinking. To him, I'm a weeble so he was wondering what the heck my problem was. He could tell I was agitated, but he didn't know I was worried for all the lives of the fruits and vegetables and Little Debbies if Ma careened around the store on the scooter one handed.

"She won't hear it from me. You're the authority figure. You tell her," I inched closer and nudged him in the ribs.

His eyes grew round, and he looked from me to Ma.

"Ma, you can't go shopping. You need to keep wearing the sling. I'll see you again in three weeks"

Ma nodded.

I beamed at the doctor. Such a pleasant young man.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Doctor's Visit

Thursday was the follow up appointment to check Ma's thyroid levels. She had zoned out while we waited in the waiting room. The Doc helped me rouse Ma.

I was invited into the examination room so I could hear what was going on. Blood levels good. Blood pressure excellent.

Ma asked whether she had to take that pill twice a day. That pill is a 1,000 IU Vitamin D. She had asked me a few days earlier about the dosage. I told her one tablet would be fine. The doctor concurred with me.

"I'll write down a list of the medications your grandma is taking," said the Doc.

"Excuse me, but I'm her daughter, not her granddaughter."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the Doc as if he had grievously offended me.

"No worries. I'm flattered."

The Doc grabbed a pad of paper and in his crabbed doc handwriting began making a list of medications and dosages Ma is supposed to take. I tried not to make a "tsk" sound at his appalling penmanship.

"There. Well, is it my imagination or does Ma seem less sleepy?" asked the Doc with a large grin on his face.

Hello! You had to help me rouse Ma when it was her turn for the examination!

"It's your imagination," I said smiling politely.

Theater of the Absurd

After much nudging and the fact Ma had some sort of a spell on Sunday, Dad finally called the doctor to tell him about Ma's visions. The doctor requested Dad make an appointment for Ma and I was to come along too.

The only thing I could think of was the doctor would talk about long-term care facilities. Why else would he want me to attend this meeting? After all, I've been driving Miss Daisy for three years and he's never asked to see me before.

The appointment was for Tuesday at noon. When I arrived, Ma was just eating breakfast and then she had to spend the time cleaning up the kitchen. Cleaning is a classic OPD delay technique. Obviously, she was nervous as she was crabbing at Dad and me.

"We can't leave if the house is dirty," Ma grumped as she scrubbed the table.

It's one of Ma's classic mantra's. Ranks up there with having to wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident.

Course, it didn't help Dad kept hissing at her not to tell the doctor about the men in the yard or the fact that she had the God-given gift of being able to see through walls.

"They'll put you away!"

I wasn't sure whether Dad was giving her a warning or wishful thinking.

We were late for the appointment though the doctor as usual was running behind. After a 15 minute wait, he called us into the exam room.

He looked at me and asked if Ma was taking the thyroid pills.

"No," I said while in the same space of time Ma said, "Yes."

"Which is it?"

"I'm taking my pills," Ma said emphatically.

I touched the tip of my nose and pulled my hand forward. Pinnochio's nose is growing. After a brief interrogation Ma admitted she had been taking the pills since Sunday.

The doctor made the uhhum, I see kind of doctor noise and then pulled a scratch pad of paper and began a diagram and medical school lecture about the function of the thyroid. How the pituitary gland in the brain, sends a signal to the butterfly shaped thyroid at the base of the Adam's apple to produce TSH, thyroid stimulating hormone.

Boiled down, the thyroid and hormones control other body systems, like the heart. Without sufficient amounts of TSH in the system, functions begin to deteriorate and the patient may experience auditory and visual hallucinations.

"It's called Myxedema Madness." The doctor beamed with his diagnosis.

I was sitting there smiling politely, nodding in all the right places and wondering what the f...heck I was doing there. The doctor's next statement gave me a clue as to my function.

"You must make your mother take the thyroid pills."

"I don't live with them, and I don't live close by."

"I know, but you must make her understand."

There was more discussion how the latest pills he had prescribed were a stronger strength.

The gong sounded. I was here as the interpreter. I almost burst out laughing because I started thinking about the Three Stooges routine.

"Ma ha?"

"Ah ha."

"Rasbany fiddy buddy uchy. This, how you say pickle puss, he asky tasky whats you got?"

The doctor looked at me expectantly.

Now, Ma is as deaf as a haddock. Actually, she's selectively deaf as a haddock, but I took my cue and turned towards her. Ma was looking at me, waiting for me to speak. I bent close to her ear:

THE DOCTOR WANTS YOU TO TAKE YOUR THYROID PILLS," I shouted.

Ma nodded. The doctor beamed at me.

More discussion concerning the color of the pills. We all became confused as to whether the old ones were white and the new ones yellow. The doctor charged me with taking the old pills from her so she couldn't take the remaining few.

At the house we argued the white pills were the old ones. The new bottle was empty. Watson come quick I need you. The old ones had a more recent date than the new ones. But the Rx indicated the old ones were of a higher dosage. I took the empty bottle.

"Take these."

The doctor had reassured us that as Ma built up her thryoid levels, the halluncinations would disappear. Like Auntie Rose would disappear, but I hope he's right. With the men in the yard, a woman and now a man and two small girls building a room over the garage, the little Weeble house is getting crowded.

Extension

Ma, Dad,and I were sitting in the doctor's waiting room. Across from us were two elderly women. Ma, per usual, nodded off and Dad and I found ourselves chatting with the two ladies.

Dad began telling the women, he was going to live until the year 2032.

"But, I think I'm going to ask Him for an extension."

"If you ask for an extension," I said, "I'll have to ask for an extension because who's going to haul you around? Wait! Who's going to haul me around?"

Smartphone

At the beginning of the week, my Palm Z22, my brains just up and died. The Z22 was my electronic calendar and synced to Outlook. Just the thing I needed to keep track of all the appointments including Weeble appointments. I had been thinking about a smartphone, phone and PDA all in one device, but hadn't been able to rationalize the expense until the Z22 bought the farm.

Rather than buy another Palm device (this was my third from two previous upgrades), I decided to bite the bullet and go for the smartphone. Since the Weebles have a doctor's appointment on Tues. the decision had to be made right quick. So this is Chip, Verizon's SMT 5800. It's a candybar style with a slide out QWERTY key pad.

Now I'll be able to run out the door with the smartphone and my wallet in my jacket pocket. Not often that I carry a purse. Just ask Frauee what a minimalist I was in TX. I can transfer calls from the home phone to the smartphone. I have my calendar and Weeble appointments at my fingertips and I can surf the web while waiting in the doctor's office. That's a nice feature. Not a necessity, but nice.

I even managed to download a couple of my own ringtones to Chip. Where would I be without the theme from The Big Valley as the general ringtone? I can even associate ringtones with contacts so I can instantly know who is calling. I've been searching the Internet for The Happy Wanderer to associate with the Weebles. I'm sure The Stupid Song isn't available.

The Eyes Have It

Himself had chided me about the stress and aggravation I was putting myself through wondering what Hell I’d have to pay when I took Ma to her foot doctor’s appointment.

The Young One and I dropped The Eldest off at work, then stopped to pick up items for lunch. Bulkie rolls, turkey, provolone, chips, pretzels, pickles, and ginger ale.

Ma was tickled pink when The Young One greeted her. Oh, she was the favorite grandchild. She was the only grandchild who came to visit. Doesn’t matter that the other two grandchildren work full time. Still, no complaints from me if The Young One could keep Ma in a sunny mood.

We had a relaxing, pleasant lunch. I had an “Oh, my God, he was right” moment. All the worrying I had done for naught. I let my guard down and then Ma dropped the other shoe.

“After we go to the foot doctor, can you do me a favor?” The classic OPD control play.

I wanted to tell her, it would have been courteous for her to have called me before I got there and asked me for the favor. Just on the off chance I had plans after her doctor appointment was finished. Warily I asked her what she wanted.

“I need to go to…”

I held my breath hoping it wasn’t going to be a trip to Mahket Basket.

“Target. I can’t see with my new glasses.”

Eyeglass adjustment. Sure, no problem. A ten minute trip.

Ma packed up all the lunch things for me to take home. She told The Young One to put them in the car.

“No, leave everything in the bags except the lunch meat and cheese. They’ll spoil in the heat.”

Trip to foot doctor was fast. In and out. I even got a handicap parking spot. Ride to Target was fine, too. I offloaded the Weebles at the front door and pulled into a handicap spot.

I got Ma to the eye department and got her settled in a chair. The manager came out and greeted us. He had suspected Ma would not like the progressive lens so had kept all her paperwork in tact, even though she was well past the return the glasses, and we’ll make a new pair for free period.

Ma whined how she couldn't see to read at night to do her business. It was important for her to be able to keep up with all the paperwork. God forbid, she didn’t get the checks to the scammer on time.

The manager tried to explain how with progressive lens, you need to move your head to find the correct focal point. You couldn't just move your eyes.

Ma frowned.

He then explained the only thing he could do was to grind a new prescription with the bifocal line.

Ma frowned. She didn’t want the line. She wanted the lens like I have (progressive). She kept emphasizing the fact that she’s 90 (in September) as if her age entitled her to preferential treatment.

The manager, who should be put on the fact track for canonization, tried to refresh her memory when she first came in for the glasses. He had tried to talk her out of the progressive lens. Told her they took some time to get used to, and she wouldn't like them. Ma had insisted she didn't want the line.

She was still insisting she didn’t want the line and kept asking me what she should do.

"I can't make that decision for you." In retrospect, I should have stopped there.

A this point, Ma changed from Mrs. Dr. Jeckyll to Mrs. Hyde.

“If you can’t see out of the glasses you have now, have him make the lens with the line. It’s not going to cost you anything as the manager will exchange the glasses for a new pair.” Logical in its simplicity.

Ma didn’t want an exchange. She thought she was entitled to a complete refund and a new pair of glasses for free.

Somewhere a screaming match ensued. We put on quite a show at the Target Optical Theater of the Absurd.

“I haven’t worn these glasses because I can’t see to read.”

I’m surprised Ma’s pants didn’t spontaneously combust. She's been wearing those glasses since she got them.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having problems with your glasses”

“No one does anything for me. I can’t count on you”

I saw red. Himself and I bend over backwards for Ma. I arrange my schedule to fit with theirs.

The manager and I went round and round with Ma trying to explain to her she wouldn’t have to pay for a new pair of glasses. She didn’t get it. She only got stubborn and insisted she was entitled to a refund. The manager should have told her to taker her business elsewhere.

He left her sitting at the table, and he waited on two other customers who were brave enough to venture onto the stage.

Dad and I retreated to a corner where we sputtered. For an hour. Yup, a solid hour, Ma sat like a stone. She was going to have her way.

After the manager dealt with two happy customers, he again tried to explain things to Ma. He implored me to act as interpreter.

“How much would it cost me if you made a new pair of glasses for me and I kept these?”

“Why do you want to keep those glasses when you can’t see out of them to read?”

“I’m talking here!” Ma screamed at me.

It was at that point, the penny dropped for me. I had an outer body experience watching the scene which was a little like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I didn’t need the insanity of jumping up and moving down to a clean cup. This was not my monkey. I wasn’t going to be able to change the situation. I tapped The Young One (who had sat quietly through the entire charade) on the shoulder.

“Come with me.”

We left the optical department with Ma blinking after us like an owl.

“How bout we go to the electronics department?”

The Young One laughed and patted my back giving comfort to her weeble. “It’s okay.”

"I don't understand what she didn't get. The manager wasn't cheating her."

"Yeah, it was like saying I'll give you a dollar for your four quarters."

Even The Young One was astute enough to understand the transaction.

We wandered the dollar bin, the electronics department, the video games, and movies. We headed back to the optical department. Hopefully, Ma would be done with her harangue.

Dad was wandering back and forth by the front doors looking like a deer in the headlights. There was such relief on his face when he caught sight of me.

“She got worried you left,” Dad chuckled nervously

I shouldn’t have been tickled but I was. Evil child that I am. Might do Ma good to get shaken up once in a while.

Dad took Ma by the elbow. “She’s right here. She’ll bring the car around.”

“No, I’m parked right across from here. You can walk.”

Frosty silence accompanied us on the ride home.

I got the Weebles into the house, told The Young One to go get the lunch bag.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Dad kept apologizing.

“You have nothing to apologize for. We’re victims.”

The Young One came out with the bag and we went to the car. I gave a general goodbye, but didn’t go say goodbye to Ma. She was going to ignore me. I did feel badly for Dad. He stood at the screen door giving us a half-hearted wave as we pulled out of the driveway. The fornicating he was going to get was definitely not going to be worth the fornicating he was going to get.

I wish I knew where I had put the packet of morning glory seeds. Dad could have used a few too.

OY

I was supposed to take the Weebles to a doctor's appointment. Himself was looking at the calendar.

"I can take them for you. I get out at 10AM, but I have a meeting in the afternoon with the president. "

"You sure you'd have time? The doctor keeps them waiting for a good hour. The appointment is for 11:15."

"My meeting isn't until 3pm, so even if the doctor kept them waiting, I'd still have time."

His offer was an incredible gesture, and I happy danced.

The Young One and I made plans for our free day. We'd drop The Eldest off at work. We'd stop at the bank and head to the mall to do birthday shopping for The Eldest. The post office on the way home would round out our trip.

I called Dad to let him know of the change in the shuttle pilot roster.

Fifteen minutes after my call, and just as The Eldest headed out the door so I could drive her to work, the phone rang. Dad.

"Your mother is all upset that you're not coming to take her to the doctor. She doesn't want to go now."

"Oh for Ch...and I lapsed into tongues."

"Himself is trying to do me a favor since he has to hang around waiting for his meeting."

"I know. Get in touch with him and tell him not to bother."

"I can't get in touch with him. You'll just have to tell him when he gets there."

"Ok. Hey, I took that money and did like you said. I bought something for myself. I bought a player for those little records..."

"That's great, Dad. Listen, I have to go take The Eldest to work."

"I'm having a nice time listening to the music."

"Good, Dad. Listen, gotta run or she'll be late."

In the parking lot where The Eldest works, just for chuckles, I tried calling Himself at his office. Usually, he does not check his voice mail at the end of his workday. Left a message for him to call me on my cell phone and headed off to do the errands. I gave The Young One my phone so she could answer it, if it rang while I was driving.

We stopped at the bank and headed to the mall. The Young One jumped and fumbled in her pocket.

"What's the matter?"

"The phone! The phone is vibrating." She had turned the volume up so we'd be sure to hear the theme song from "The Big Valley".

She answered the phone and tried relaying messages while I sputtered.

"Tell him to hang on. I'll talk to him." I pulled into the parking lot of the garden store we were passing."

"What do you want me to do?"

"You can call to see if she still wants to go. You can just show up over there. Your call. If it were me, I'd say eff her and not bother to call or show up. She deserves to miss her doctor's appointment."

He laughed.

"I'll just head over there and play Mickey the Dope."

"You're a better man than I, Gunga Din."

"I certainly hope so," he said in his best Groucho Marx impression.

At the mall, I sat in the Target parking lot. For the life of me, I couldn't remember what else I was supposed to do besides hit Barnes and Noble for a gift card for The Eldest. Weebles can just suck the brain cells and life force from you body. Even long distance.

"Guess this was the wrong week for me to start Weight Watchers. I'm a stress eater," I explained to The Young One. "I have such an urge to go into the store and buy a bag of Hershey kisses and a box of Cheez-Its and sit out here in the car and eat them all."

She giggled and patted me on the back.

"Have all the animals gone back into the forest?"

The Young One has such a sunny disposition. It's hard to stay in a bad mood.

"Yes. Let's go do our shopping."

I stopped in the coffee aisle to get coffee bags for The Eldest.

"Ooo, look," said The Young One. Tazo Chai Tea. Just like they serve at Starbuck's"

Somehow the box found its way to my hand.

"Are these tea bags?" I wavered and started to put the box back.

"C'mon, it'll be a treat."

I flipped the box into the carriage for an easy two points.

"I need some light bread."

"Can we get some bagels."

Deep sigh. I love bagels. "No, unfortunately, one bagel is equal to an entire loaf of bread."

"There's light English muffins."

A temptation. I reached for a loaf of light bread, and my hand brushed a package of Weight Watcher's Bagels. Weight Watchers. One point for a whole bagel!

"See?" said The Young One knowingly. "God wants you to have a good day."

"Yeah, I guess He does," and the bagels were placed reverently on the baby seat where they wouldn't get crushed.

We took a spin through the video games and The Young One hinted what she would like for her birthday as her birthday is eleven days after her sister's.

"It won't be much of a surprise."

"Beats getting underwear."

"That it do." The game went into the cart.

We stopped at FYE for a couple of DVDs I wanted. If I couldn't stress eat, I could certainly stress shop. A quick run through Game Stop, Barnes and Noble, the post office, and home for lunch.

The Young One planned our afternoon.

"We can have bagels and chai at snack time and watch a video."

I couldn't think of a better way to spend the afternoon.

Himself called after lunch.

"Did you survive?"

"Oh, yeah, but it was something."

"Do tell."

"First she was yelling at your father because he took THE comb. Then he didn't put the part in her hair the right way. She was feeling her head and yelling she couldn't feel the part."

I would have told her where she could place her hand and feel the part.

"Then we got to the doctor's office and like you said he kept them waiting for exactly an hour. Before they went in, they had to have a blood and urine test. Only they forgot and they ate breakfast."

"Oh, for Ch..." and tongues." "They only go to the doctor every three effin' months. They've been doing this for two years! Ya think they would know the routine."

"Yeah, well, it seems your mother got locked in the ladies' room."

"What? She never uses the ladies' room there. She always takes the cup home and then Dad walks back to the office to drop the specimen off."

"Don't know about that. I guess the outer door was too heavy for her to open. Anyway, your dad had to go find her. 'Ma? Ma? You alright in there?'"

"Oh help me Lord, there will be hell to pay tomorrow."

"Yup, your name is Mud," Himself laughed.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No. But I could tell she wasn't happy. Guess she figured since you didn't have to run off to pick up The Young One at school, she had something she wanted you to do."

More tongues. Tomorrow promised to be a wonderful day in the neighborhood.

After chatting with Himself, I could feel the aura and swallowed a few aspirin. Guess I'd have to load up before the trip to the Weebles tomorrow. Looking out the sunroom window, I could see the morning glory twining its way up the trellis. I read somewhere that morning glory seeds were a hallucinogenic with the same properties as LSD. I didn't plant all the morning glory seeds. Wonder what I did with the packet?

The Appointment

We went over it at least a half a dozen times.

When's Ma's appointment?

Tuesday.

On Tuesday?

Yes, Tuesday.

But I don't have it written down.

Remember I couldn't take Ma to the doctor because my car was in the shop? You walked to the appointment and kept yours. You made Ma new appointment.

I can't find the card.

I called the doctor's office and her appointment is Tuesday.

Ok.

The phone rang.

When is Ma's appointment?

Tuesday.

She said it's in June.

Tuesday is June. 30 days hath September, April, June, and November. All the rest have 31 except February which has 28 or 29 in a Leap Year

Pause. Oh, you're right.

I'll see you on Tuesday.

The phone rang late Sunday night.

Mother said you're coming tomorrow.

No, I'm coming Tuesday. Her appointment is Tuesday.

Oh, yeah, you're right. See you Tuesday.

Mighty Joe Young

Wednesday, shoe day was supposed to be a happy day. Like a lot of women Ma tingled with excitement at the thought of getting new shoes. Not this day and not Ma. She was still bristling from Dad's outing to the Senior Center annual Spring Chorus. She was screaming at Dad when I arrived.

"Get my jacket. Where's my pockabook?" Each command rising in pitch and not a please among the phrases.

Ma's pocketbook had gone missing. She blamed Dad. We scurried like ants looking for the pocketbook.

"I found it," I shouted. "It's in the kitchen. Buried under a pile of your papers" [the scammer contests].

"Never you mind about my papers."

"Why did YOU [ Dad] touch my pockabook?"

"I'm sure he didn't touch your pocketbook since it's buried under all your foolish papers."

"Stop taking his side!"

I left her pocketbook on the kitchen table and went to sit down in the livingroom to wait out the storm.

"Where's my pockabook?"

"On the kitchen table."

"Why didn't YOU get it for me?"

"Why does he have to get it for you?"

"Because he's my husband."

"I don't expect my husband to wait on me hand and foot when I can do things for myself."

"You're not crippled like I am."

Another pity party.

"Honey, if you can't do things for yourself then maybe you should think about checking into a..." and I said the dreaded H word. My bad.

And then she got me in her sights again.

"Why didn't you bring me my pocketbook."

"Because there's all sorts of sh..papers all over the place. I'm not going to get yelled at because I moved papers or didn't pack what you want."

Course I was getting yelled at anyway. That's the logic of OPD. At moments like this there is the temptation to just up and leave. I'm reminded of a line from the musical Pippin. Pippin is talking to his father, Charlemagne. Charlemagne is whining about his wife, and Pippin's step-mother, Fastrada. Charlegmagne tells his son, "Sometimes I wonder if the fornicating I'm getting is worth the fornicating I'm getting." The line makes me laugh.

So we finally get the wagon train lined up. "Head 'em on up. Move 'em out!" Then another argument breaks out. The handicap placard was missing. The Weebles looked high and low to the tune of "The You're Stupid" song.

The handicap placard allows whoever hauls Ma's butt hither and yon to park in a handicap parking spot. It's a nicety, but not a necessisty as far as I'm concerned. More often than not as the hauler, I've found most of the places we go to are packed weebles and the handicap spots are filled. I end up offloading the Weebles at the front door, and then parking in Nebraska. Even if there are handicap spots available, I usually offload the Weebles at the front door and then troll for a handicap spot. Not a big deal. To hear Ma tell it, she has to walk up hill both ways hip deep in snow.

By the time the last chorus of the song had been sung, we arrived at the medical building. The medical building must have been having a sale as even if we had the handicap placard, all the handicap spots were filled. All the regular parking spaces around the medical building were filled too, even some spaces I'm sure are not legal. I offloaded the Weebles at the front door and headed to the last parking spot in Nebraska. God was smiling at me.

The walk from the parking lot to the medical building was so peaceful that I almost hesitated going up to the foot doctor's office. Curiousity got the better of me and I went to see if Ma was giving the entire office a concert. I pushed open the door to the sounds of silence. I could hear Ma in the examination room being fitted with her shoes. She loved them, they fit, she was delighted.

When the fitting was done, the Weebles safely back home, I stayed to have a cup of tea with them.

Ma was still fuming about Dad going AWOL to the Senior Center Spring concert. She was huffing and puffing about the ladies in the group. I could see Ma's eyes turning green. Dad's ladies. His harem. The women out number the men at the Senior Center, and most of the women are widows.

"What a waste for him to sing," Ma said over tea and talking as if Dad wasn't sitting at the table with us. "They don't even throw pennies at him."

I had to laugh. To Ma, nothing is worth doing unless you get paid for it. I wonder if the fornicating Dad's getting is worth the fornicating he's getting.

Appointments

Appointments. Schedules. Our lives revolve around the day planner. At least mine does. All calendar events color coded in Microsoft Outlook. Blue for me. Red for The Young One. Purple for Himself, Pink for The Eldest and Olive Green for the Weebles. My schedule at a glance. Printed sheets neatly color coded hang on the fridge. This month and next month. The Outlook calendar is synched with my Palm Z22, my electronic brain.

Before the last Holy Day of Obligation, I had given Dad my schedule for the next two weeks so he could make the appointment when the foot doctor called to say Ma’s shoes were in.

I went over the schedule with him several times. Wednesday, Thursday one week. Or Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday the week after. It was like a Burns and Schreiber routine.

Apointment. Wednesday, Thursday. Yeah, Wednesday. Yeah. Thursday. Yeah, appointment.

Get it? Got it. Good.

The phone rang. It was Dad.

“The foot doctor called. Ma’s shoes are in.”

“Great. What day did you make the appointment for?”

“I didn’t. Told the secretary I had to check with you first.”

I slapped my forehead. I could have had a V-8

“Ok. Ma had to miss the appointment with the heart doctor because my car was in the shop. Did you make an appointment for her when you went for your appointment?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember what I did with the card.”

Deep sigh. I want to let the Weebles have some say within my parameters of planning their own appointments, but realized sadly this is a task they aren’t capable of doing anymore. So Monday morning after the last Holy Day of Obligation, I called the foot doctor to make an appointment to take Ma for her shoe fitting. I also called the heart doctor to find out when Ma’s next appointment is. Both appointments logged into Outlook and then synched to my electronic brain.

Saint Grumpy

Wednesday dawned bright and sunny with a promise of summer in the air. Could I enjoy the sunroom as I had planned? No, I had to take Ma to a two minute appointment to have her toe nails cut. Thirty some odd miles to the Weebles house and gas up to $3.43 per gallon. I was grumpy and took some Tylenol hoping I wouldn’t work myself up to a migraine.

With a sigh, I left the Young One to enjoy the day in the sunroom. I headed down the Pike and tried to console myself with the thought that I would be home by 1pm and could still enjoy some vacation time.

Ma was ready and on time so we headed to the medical building. A bright spot was finding a handicap spot right near the building. In the lobby, the headache aura twinged when I noticed Dad seemed to be confused as to which button to push to call the elevator. There’s only one. Because I see the Weebles so often and the focus is always on Ma, I sometimes don’t always notice Dad has his own issues. Before Ma could begin singing the stupid song, I pushed the button and the elevator doors opened.

We settled in the waiting room. Ma was under the impression she was getting new shoes. I tried to explain, she had already picked the shoes out, and they were on order, but Ma kept insisting she hadn’t been to the foot doctor to pick out her shoes. I dropped the subject because some days it doesn’t pay to chew through the straps.

While Ma was with the doctor, another elderly woman struck up a conversation with me about shoes. She had been looking at the shoe display and frowned at the lack of selection. I admired her clogs, which looked like the kind chefs wear. She asked about my fugly shoes, a pair of light blue rubber clogs.

Yes, very comfy. Yes, my feet sweat if it’s very hot, but that’s a fact of life if one chooses not to be a Flintstone and wear shoes.

With that errand done, the Weebles and I headed to Target so Ma could pick out new glasses.

They must have made frequent trips to Target because as we walked by the pharmacy, the pharmacist said Hello and called the Weebles by name. The clerk in the optical area, greeted them warmly by name. I settled Ma in a chair by a table while Dad went wandering around the store.

I find it both amusing and annoying that when I’m with the Weebles and helping them do business, the business people to talk to me as if I’m the interpreter or guardian ad litem. I handed her prescription to the clerk.

“What kind of frames does she want?”

Ma sat rigid as stone at the table.

“Ma? Ma! What kind of frames do you want?”

“I want glasses like hers. With no lines.” She meant progressive lenses.

The clerk brought frame after frame. Metal, trendy colors and smaller than Ma’s giant Sophia Loren window frames.

Ma didn’t like this one. Didn’t like that one. Didn’t like the teeny plastic nose guards. So Patrick, brought out three giant Sophia Loren window frames. Rectangular, oval and round in stunning pinkish plastic.

Ma kept asking me which style she should pick.

I was not about to go down that rabbit hole. If I picked the frame, she could blame me if there was a problem.

“Which one do you like?”

After trying on all three frames, Ma decided she like the rectangular ones best. By this time, Dad had made an appearance.

After explaining he would give her a deep senior citizen discount, Patrick wanted Ma to pay for her glasses in full. She had Dad retrieve her Target charge from the depths of her pockabook . Patrick went to the cash register and a few seconds later returned.

“The card has been denied,” he said quietly and apologetically.

Ma blinked like an owl.

Ma insisted she didn’t have an outstanding bill and had paid the last bill for medication in full.

“Is there a business office?” I asked.

“You’ll have to go to Customer Service,” said Patrick handing me Ma’s charge.

With Dad in tow, we left Ma with Patrick and ran to Customer Service. It was noisy in Customer Service and the young clerk tried to be helpful. She called the 800 number on the back of the card, but stuck when the automated system asked for the last 4 digits of the social security number.

“What’s Ma’s social security number?” I asked Dad.

“I don’t know.”

You don’t know? You don’t know? You’ve only done her taxes for a 102 years! I thanked the clerk for her help, made my version of Dad’s grrrr face and went back to Optical with Dad running in my wake.

Patrick kindly gave me the department telephone and I called the 800 number and stepped through menu hell. After what seemed like days, I finally contacted a real, live boy. He wouldn’t speak to me so I passed the phone to Ma and explained, billing wanted to talk to her. After a minute, Ma passed the phone back to me for translation.

“Her charge card has been upgraded to a Target Visa with a $10,000 dollar credit limit. We’ll be sending a card in the mail. Your mother should receive the card in 7 to 10 days.”

Are you effin insane? I almost shouted. This is all Auntie Rose needs to hear. The migraine aura pulsed.

This all occurred near the end of the month which meant the Weebles had pretty much gone through their social security checks. So I handed my charge card over to Patrick to pay for Ma’s glasses.

It’s a good thing Himself is very patient and understanding. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to learn we not only owned a furnace, but now we owned a pair of glasses neither one of us would be able to see out of. At least, the frames are rose tinted.

As we were leaving, Patrick came around and shook my hand.

“It was very nice meeting you. You are a saint.”

The thought made me laugh as I paraphrased a line from The Big Valley episode, Days of Grace. Yeah, and I trip over my halo twice a day.

Offloading the Weebles at home, was another eye opening experience. Ma had such a difficult time climbing the 6 steps to get into the house. She slowly moved her foot, paused on the step and teetered. I stood behind her just in case she toppled backwards. My stomach began to nervously churn and the migraine aura throbbed. We were gone less than two hours, but the outing had taken a lot out of her.

I stayed long enough to have a fast cup of tea and then the saint burned rubber out of the driveway like a bat out of hell and retreated to the serenity of the sun room.

The Great Divide

Ma had an appointment at the eye doctor. Since the Young One was on April vacation, we decided to make a day of it. We’d have lunch and then take Ma to her mid-afternoon appointment. In the process, we’d score some Brownie points.

Dad had called me the Thurs before to tell me Ma’s appointment was at 3pm. My PDA had the appointment recorded at 2pm. One of the cardinal rules learned is never to trust appointments made by weebles. On Fri, I called the doctor’s office to check the appointment and was told “3p, no 2 pm.” I called the office again the morning of the appointment and was told 3pm. The Friday receptionist must be in periweeblepause.

The following day promised to be a taste of summer and the Young One and I discussed our plans as we traveled the Pike. We were going to spend the entire day together hanging out in the sunroom. We’d watch tv, read, play computer games, tease the kitty, have lunch. It would be a perfect day.

The Young One and I stopped at the nice, big, clean, supermarket two miles from the Weebles house. I let the Young One pick out what she wanted for lunch. Roast beef, provolone, bulkie rolls, macaroni salad, chips, pickles, banana bread, and a bottle of ginger ale.

Ma’s mouth was set in “the not happy face” as we brought the grocery bags in.

“What’s all this?”

“We brought lunch.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t make the crabmeat salad.”

“Yeah, good thing.”

I offered up a silent prayer.

Ma wanted to get to the medical building earlier because she wanted to stop in to see the foot doctor before her eye doctor appointment. The last time she had been to the foot doctor, he was supposed to order a pair of orthopedic shoes and call her when they came in. She never received a call and she was over due for the foot doctor to cut her toenails.

“Your father, the stupid head, tried to cut my toenails once, but he cut me. He can’t do anything right.”

She asked if I would be willing to try, but this didn’t sound like a Little Princess job so I politely declined and took her to the medical building early so she could check in with the foot doctor.

There must have been a sale at the medical building because there were no parking spots to be had. I offloaded the Weebles in front of the building. I didn’t bother to try trolling for a handicap spot, just headed over to the far visitor’s lot in Nebraska.

Ma was talking to the foot doctor’s receptionist when the Young One and I made it to the office. The receptionist said Ma’s shoes hadn’t come in. She blamed the shoe company, but I have a feeling she just never filed the paper work. We saw the foot doctor in January or February. Here it was April and it only takes two weeks for the shoes to come in. Ma asked if the doctor could squeeze her in to have her toe nails cut.

Nope. So with a sinking heart I pulled out my PDA.

“I have an opening at 10:15 tomorrow morning.”

I could have said ‘I have an appointment in the sunroom all day tomorrow’ but knew if I didn’t take the appointment, I’d have to make the trip the following week. With my not happy face peeking through, I used the stylus to make the appointment.

We left the foot doctor and took the elevator one floor up to the eye doctor. You may recall the last time I had taken the Weebles to the eye doctor we all caught the Hanta virus. Dad and I both paused to scan the room for potential virus carriers. Satisfied the room was clean, we settled in to wait.

Ma and Dad sat at opposite ends of the room so they were on good behavior. Ma nodded off and Dad flipped through a Time magazine. The Young One had brought a sketchbook and some colored pencils to keep amused, and I had a book.

Movement by the door to the inner office caught my eye and I looked up. Another weeble couple was coming out. The woman walked with a cane very slowly, and her husband hovered by in case she lost her balance. The man saw me looking at him and his face split into a wide grin as we recognized each other. It was the nice weeble couple from the Tuesday foot doctor appointments. They usually have the appointment just before or just after Ma. He helped his wife to sit down and then the three of us chatted like old friends. I’m amazed at their dynamics. They finish each other’s sentences, smile at each other and I have never heard either one of them sing ‘The Stupid Song.’

The technician came and called Ma’s name.

Ma came to and blinked like an owl when she finally heard her name called.

Dad was fuming at her as she slowly stood and tried to turn her walker to make her way to the office.

“She needs help,” I snapped at him. “Stop yelling at her and help her!”

He jumped to my bidding. I looked at the nice weeble couple and looked at the ceiling while shaking my head. They both gave me a small smile and a sympathetic shrug.

Shortly after Ma and Dad were called in, the nice weeble couple was called in. I marveled at the way the man waited for his wife to stand and gain her balance. He didn’t yell at her. Didn’t make comments about how she couldn’t move quickly. He just hovered by her and arm prepared to steady her in case she needed him. He was chivalrous in an unassuming way. So different from my weebles, and I was thinking ‘we’re not in Kansas any more.’

I heard Ma before I saw her and went to the inner office. She and Dad were coming out of the exam room. The eye doctor had given Ma a prescription for a new pair of glasses.

“Where can I have this prescription filled?” she shouted at the doctor. Ma must have thought he was deaf.

“Anywhere you like,” came the polite response.

That answer didn’t satisfy her, and I stepped in to the doctor’s rescue.

“I can take you to Target after you see the foot doctor tomorrow.”

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief and gave me a small smile.

The Young One and I left Ma and Dad to make their way to the lobby while we sprinted to Nebraska to pick up the car, picked up the Weebles, and took them back home for lunch.

The kitchen table has a piece of glass on top of it to protect the top. The glass is broken in several large pieces, and has a huge crack that runs the width of the table. I can’t remember whether Ma or Dad broke the glass (my periweeblepause is showing). I’m sure it really wouldn’t matter because Dad would be blamed for it even if he didn’t break it.

There’s a definite safety issue when setting the kitchen table for more than two people. The Weebles sit at either end of the table where the glass isn’t broken. I asked Ma for a table cloth to cover the table so we could eat in relative safety. She made Dad sit in the seat where crack formed the great divide. The Young One and I shared the other end of the table.

Lunch was progressing pleasantly. There was a minimum amount of griping from Dad. Ma has a habit of placing her cup at the very edge of the table. The cup teetering on the brink drives Dad insane, and he mumbles comments like Popeye.

Now I’m not sure what actually happened next as I was getting something from the fridge so I didn’t see the incident. Dad was griping at Ma for placing her cup on the edge of the table. The next thing, there was a puddle of soda on the table which Dad was blotting with a napkin. I got up to get a roll of paper towels.

Ma was gleefully singing ‘the Stupid Song.’

Dad had been so sure Ma was going to spill her drink, but when he reached for something across the table, his arm hit her cup and the drink was murdered.

They began moving items from Ma’s end of the table, lifted up the table cloth, and with paper towels were blotting the glass. The soda had run like a river and was seeping through the crack. Dad carefully lifted up the glass to slide a paper towel underneath to blot up the soda. Ma, of course, in her ever helpful way, was yelling at him. The usual stupid and how she’s been doing this for years. Watching them lift the glass was a painful procedure like listening to a dentist’s drill or finger nails screeching on a blackboard. They were griping and sniping at one another about the crack.

“Oh, CRACK your head!” Ma yelled at Dad as they finished the cleaning procedure.

In mid-bite of her sandwich, the Young One looked at me with her eyes wide as saucers.

“She said ‘Crack’”, I told the Young One.

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.”

“You have a filthy mind if that’s what you heard.”

The Young One chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Well, since you knew what I was thinking, you have a filthy mind too.”

Touché.

The phrase “crack your head” entertained the Young One and me all the way home. Just hearing it reduced us to gales of laughter.

Apple Annie

She sat across from me in the crowded, waiting area. She looked so sweet with her fluffy, white, Q-tip hair and her grandmotherly, wrinkled apple cheeks. Her tiny gnarled hand held a delicate handkerchief with a tatted lace edge to her nose. Then like lightning from her maw erupted a tornado of CHOO! Tiny, colorful, microscopic, bucky ball, shaped orbs spewed into the air.

I tried to be polite and not wrinkle my nose with distaste. I fought the urge not to grab the ridiculously small hankie from her hand and jam it down her throat while screaming “Cover your mouth!” I slunk deeper in my chair, buried my nose deeper in my book and tried not to breathe the contaminated air.

I could see her over the top of my book. She looked embarrassed and she mumbled an apology to those around her. As if we , the captive audience to her snufflings, could escape the confines of the tiny, waiting area. She coughed, a dainty dry sound like tearing cloth that would not stop. I pulled my feet under my chair.

Her solicitous husband went in search of a cup of water for her.

“She doesn’t need water, idiot!” I almost shouted at his retreating back. “She needs to be doused with bleach!”

He brought her a cup of water and tenderly helped her to drink it. She smiled at him and he smiled back, his eyes shining brightly at her, most likely from fever.

This weeble couple didn’t act like my weebles. Dad would have solicitously offered to massage Ma’s throat for her.

Two seats opened up in the far back of the waiting area and he helped his wife to the back of the room.

The kitty is not prone to give or take cuddles. He hops onto my chest and butts my chin with his head in a kitty greeting. He settles under my chin and extends a silky paw to caress my face. His purring rumble settles into a soft drone of “there, there.” Animals can sense things. He knows I’m dying from the Junta virus. The Junta virus Apple Annie infected me with.

I don’t have the strength to lift my head from the pillow. My face feels as if it is being crushed. I reach for a tissue and snort loudly. The kitty explodes from my chest in puff ball of black fur. On the floor he arches his back, gives me an emerald green stare and hisses at me before he slinks off to some hidey hole.

“Yeah? See who cleans out your liddahbox when I’m dead.”

I hope Himself remembers I would like a Viking funeral. A single flaming arrow arcing overhead buries itself in the folds of the death sail. The sail erupts in a ball of flame lighting the twilight sky. The current steers the burning death ship out to sea. Across the sky, the Valkyries, raise their voices in song and escort the soul of the warrior princess to Valhalla.

Another snort and explosion rips from me. I can feel all the intercostals, the muscles between my ribs, rip. There is a tearing between my shoulder blades. I see Apple Annie’s face floating in front of me. I crochet colorful curses in granny square patterns in every language I can think of including Klingon. Filthy p’tak!

I have filled up a wastebasket full of tissue. My nose is scrubbed raw.

Himself is going shopping and asks if he can bring me anything.

“Yed, could you ged me some Buffs?” I gasp.

“What?”

I hold up a tissue. “Buffs. Da kind wid da lotion.”

“Oh, Puffs. I thought you were allergic to those.”

“I am, bud I don’t dink it will make much of a difference now.”

“Ok. Puffs. Anything else?”

I shake my head. “Buffs. Wid lotion. Nod wid Vicks.”

“The Vicks might make you feel better.”

“I’d radder die.”

He laughs.

I clutch the box of Puffs to my chest like the Holy Grail, and I again curse the sweet Apple Annie . I know she is Typhoid Mary. She blows in spreading her disease and then happily prances off to bingo.

Day Six. I still feel like….punk. My nose is still stuffy, but thank to the Puffs it’s not raw anymore. I have gone through a box and a half of Puffs. I’m hoarding them. Using them only if I absolutely have to. There seems no end in sight to this Junta virus. I start to feel better and then crash on the sofa for hours on end. An alarm alerts me to drag my butt to the car and pick the Young One up from school. Once home, I retreat to my cave.

I haven’t eaten much through the week other than tea and toasted bagels. I’ve gone through two liters of ginger ale, a carton of orange juice, a bottle of white grape juice, and endless cups of tea. If I’m not wheezing into my Puffs, I’m in the bathroom weeing. After all this loss of fluid, and feeling like a balloon head, there had better be some significant weight loss to make this all worth it.

I think of Apple Annie again. The filthy p’tak!

The Weebles Don't Wear Prada

Wednesday. On the itinerary a visit to the foot doctor to order shoes and then upstairs to the eye doctor. Both appointments for Ma.

Ma was rushing to get ready and I told her we had plenty of time. The appointment wasn’t until 10:30 and then we’d go upstairs to the eye doctor.

“No, the eye doctor cancelled the appointment,” said Dad.

“When?” I had been with him two weeks ago when we went upstairs while Ma was having her feet checked to make this appointment so Ma could get her eye drop prescription refilled.

“I don’t know, but it was cancelled.”

“Did they reschedule?” He blinked at me like an owl.

I could hear Himself’s voice echoing in my head. Never trust appointments made by Weebles.

I found an old appointment card with the eye doctor’s office number.

“Yes, I want to check on an appointment for Ma. Is she scheduled for today? She is? At 11:30am. Thank you.”

Dad just shrugged.

The medical center parking lot was filled to capacity. They must have been running a sale. I offloaded the Weebles at the front door and cruised four circuits of the lot. As I’m in the holding pattern, I was thinking eyes and feet, eyes and feet. That lead me to a joke The Brother told me. What’s occularassimatosis? Dunno. It’s when the nerves of the eyes are crossed with the nerves of the a…butt which results in a crappy outlook on life.

At the top of the fourth circuit, I spotted a handicap spot. Great! Just as I was making the final approach, a weeble zipped into the spot. They can barely walk, but they sure drive like bats out of hell. I called the poor woman all sorts of names in as many languages as I could think. That was my space, damnit! Occularassimatosis, indeed.

A circuit of the main lot, and the far employee lot yielded bupkiss. Back to the medical building lot. At the top of the circuit, I saw another handicap spot opening up. I sat at the top of the loop, gunned the engine and pulled in on two wheels just as the driver cleared the space.

I poked my head into the foot doctor’s office. Standing room only so I told Dad, I’d wait in the lobby waiting area and settled in with a book. The door opened and closed and weebles filed out. A few minutes later, more weebles came out. I went in.

Ma had just finished. She was standing at the receptionist desk frowning at three pair of athletic shoes.

“But I wanted dress shoes!”

“I want dress shoes too,” piped up another weeble lady in the waiting room.

Ma wanted to see other shoes. The doctor gave me a help me look. I shrugged, but tried for the Gipper.

“These are your choices.” No strappy shoes for you!

She looked at the doctor as he took the next patient’s chart.

“What about the New Balance shoes. I want those.” She pointed to the case where he had samples.

“They don’t make them any more!” he snapped. He grabbed the shoe from the display and tossed it in a box.

“But I want those. They really help me.”

“Ma, New Balance is the name of the shoe company. They don’t actually help improve your balance.”

She scowled at her three choices. “I want white.”

There were two white shoe choices. White with putty trim, and white with lavender trim. The remaining shoe was black on black. All had deeply grooved soles more like tires than soles.

“I’ll get the black. I want a Velcro strap.”

The doctor was heading back into his office. “No! The Velcro strap wouldn’t be good for her! She needs her shoes to be tied securely.

I didn’t tell the doctor that Ma doesn’t tie her shoes. Once the shoes are tied, she just kicks them off and steps in. After awhile, the shoes aren’t any more secure than they would be if they were held by Velcro loops.

Resigned to have no strappy shoes, Ma turned towards the door. The other weeble lady frowned in sympathy. No cute shoes for you either.

Meltdown

Wednesday started out as a promising day. It wasn’t snowing though it was as cold as a witch’s heart. People must have taken an extra vacation day as there was hardly any traffic on the Pike and the tollbooths weren’t backed up. I zipped through in record time and arrived at the Weebles to take them to the heart doctor appointment. The appointment they missed two weeks ago because Ma had to hem her trousers minutes before we had to leave.

Ma was in the living room and since there was time to spare, I sat down for a chat.

One of the psychics Ma sends money to, had sent her a glossy, black and white, 5” x 7” photograph. Ma displayed the picture on the wall among the pictures of the family. The Nephew had christened this woman “Auntie Rose”. Auntie Rose smiled her “You’re Stupid For Sending Me Money” smile. Ma was sitting on the settee under Auntie Rose and as I looked at the photograph, I was wondering who’s picture got taken out of the frame so Auntie Rose could be added to the wall of shame.

Ma was singing her version of the Big Bopper’s “I ain’t got nooo money, Honey.” I supposed I should have kept my mouth shut, but sometimes that’s easier said than done.

“You’d have plenty of money if you didn’t send all your money to your scammers.”

Auntie Rose smiled at me and Ma hit the roof.

I got told in no uncertain terms I had no business telling her what she could and could not do with her money. She didn’t need anybody.

I almost told her to ask Auntie Rose to take her to her appointments and shopping. I did tell her, if it wasn’t for me, she’d be out of luck, words more or less to that effect. We both simmered.

She lamented that Dad doesn’t make her lunch.

“Your not that much of an invalid that you can’t make your own lunch. Do you want him to eat it for you too? There are places for you if you can’t take care of yourself.” I fired a shot across her bow. Maybe it was an unfair shot, but I wish Ma would focus on what she still has and can do instead of woe is her.

“I’d go!”

The car’s warmed up. Let’s go! I’ll happily drive the bus, I thought.

We simmered. Apparently, Dad has been stinging Ma with if anything happens to him, the kids will put you in a home. They aren’t going to put up with you.

Dad came into her crosshairs on the ride to the office. The usual “He’s Stupid” song. We had just gotten into the lobby when he had his meltdown.

“I’m not taking this anymore!”

He tried to brush past me, but I caught him by the arm.

“Don’t be like that.” While I calmly said this I was thinking No way, Pal, I came all the way here, you're going to see the damn doctor whether you want to or not!

“I’m taking the stairs!” He pulled his arm from my grasp and pounded up the stairs while Ma and I waited for the elevator.

The doctor’s office was blessedly empty. Usually it is wall to wall weebles. Ma and Dad went to opposite corners and sat down and simmered.

The doctor was in the office, on time, and took them right away. Another miracle!
I wandered down to say hello to the med tech.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood…” I sang.

She laughed.

“Where is everybody?”

“I think they all went to Florida.”

Too bad I couldn’t send Ma and Dad to Florida.

“You’ll never guess what happened the last time you were here.”

“What?”

“I spun down the tubes [of blood] and when I took them out of the centrifuge they had broken! I thought of you having to make another trip back so I drove to their house to redraw the blood.”

There really are good people in the world.

From the waiting room, I could hear Ma whining to the doctor. No one does anything for her. She continued her song all the way home.

Dad was in the middle of making lunch for them. I just wanted a cup of tea.

Ma started in on Dad again.

Wham!

We jumped as Dad slammed his fist on the counter making it bounce. He grumbled and made his angry face. The one that used to put the fear of God into us as kids and set us making tracks.

“Ehhhh!”. I yelled the typical Italian retort of annoyance. I finished my cup of tea quickly and announced I had to shove off with the promise I’d return the following day for a trip to Market Basket. Apparently Ma offended Dad’s friend so my reprieve from grocery shopping had come to an end.

At home, I consulted the calendar to see if there was a full moon. Full moon is like a virus. Three days coming, three days with you, three days leaving. The full moon is still coming, but the moon was in waxing new moon phase. Which is a full moon on the dark side of the moon that we can’t see. No wonder the Weebles had a melt down. I began marking the calendar for full and new moon. Guess I'll have to risk the church roof falling in on me while I scoop some Holy Water from the baptismal fount.

White Rabbit Appointment

Another doctor’s appointment. I arrived early per usual. Thought I would have a chance at visiting for a little bit, a chance for redemption in case the doctor kept them waiting and I had to leave after dropping them off at the house. We had a half an hour before we had to leave for the appointment. Ma was getting herself dressed. Dad wanted me to take a look at the computer.

“They won’t give me anything,” he explained.

“They” as if there are elves in the machine.

“They won’t give me my email. I put my password in, but they won’t let me do anything.”

I booted up his computer. Listened for the happy chime of the Windows logo. Signed onto his ISP with his password and was rewarded with his home page and the email preview.

With him looking over my shoulder, we sorted through his inbox.

In the middle of this, Ma came upstairs and went into the room across the landing which she turned into a sewing room. Dad got very paranoid.

“What’s she doing up here?”

I found Ma standing in front of her industrial Wilcox and Gibbs sewing machine fumbling with some thread. Ma was a seamstress and this antique machine was her baby.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to fix my pants.”

“We have to leave for your appointment in 15 minutes. Your appointment is at quarter to 11” I wasn’t sure why she didn’t fix her pants the say before when she had all day to sew, but questioning her was only going to get me yelled at.

“Here, thread the machine.” She gave me the navy thread.

I can’t sew. I can’t sew on a button to save my life, let alone thread a machine. Ma made me take sewing in jr. high school. (I wanted to take technical drawing, but that’s another story) I hated sewing and the sewing teacher. She wasn’t thrilled with me either and gave me a “C” because she knew my mother was a seamstress. Ma remade my dress at the end of the year so it could be worn.

I held the end of the thread as if it was a snake.

“Here put it through this guide.”

She made it sound so easy and it probably was if I could see the damn eye to the guide. I got the thread close a couple of times.

“Through here,” she yelled.

“I’m trying! I can’t see the damn hole!” The blind leading the blind.

“You have your glasses on!”

“Just because I have my glasses on doesn’t mean I can see!” I tilted my head this way and that trying to find the correct focal point in the bifocals.

“You’re doing it wrong!”

“I’m trying! Stop yelling at me!” The thread slipped through the first guide. Two more guides and then through the #$%@#! eye of the needle.

“Now through here!”

With shaky hands, I tried again.

Ma was breathing down my neck.

“No! Here!”

“Stop yelling at me! If you think you can do better, here!” I dropped the end of the thread.

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Yes, you did! You said ‘Here, thread the machine.’ I picked up the end of the thread and shoved it through the next two guides. I was worried about threading the needle without an electron microscope there was no way I would be able to see the eye of the needle.

I was too busy concentrating on the guides that I didn’t really see what Ma did. She had the end of the bobbin thread.

“Tie a square knot!”

I took the end of the bobbin thread and the thread through the guide. Right over left…

“It has to be a square knot!”

I bit my tongue and finished left over right and pulled the square knot taut.

She pulled on the bobbin thread. I was skeptical, but the navy thread flew through the eye of the needle. Ma grunted with satisfaction, pulled her chair out to sit down to her sewing.

I went back across the hall to Dad’s office.

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s sewing her pants.”

Dad started sputtering and rolled his eyes.

I told him I wanted to do some housekeeping on the machine, and he went downstairs. I cleaned out the temporary files. I also thought the problem he was having getting into his account was due to the old DSL access still in his tool tray. He was probably trying to sign on through that account which no longer exists so I happy deleted the programs.

I only had one point of contention with the FIOS ISP and that was virus security. Under the DSL account, the virus protection program was free. FIOS offered a 30 day trial subscription to Norton. Now, I pay $40 a month for “them” not “to give him anything” and I don’t want to pay an additional fee for him not to turn the computer on.

I wasn’t worried as there are plenty of free virus protection programs. AVG, Avast, Panda. They all work equally well. I downloaded Avast and in the middle of the download encountered a Windows error. Tried again. Same problem. Tried Panda. Same problem. What the… Checked his log in account to make sure he had administrator privileges. Yup, that was ok. Maybe I’d have to reinstall Windows.

It was now quarter to 11 and Dad with hat and coat on came upstairs.

We could hear the whirr of Ma’s sewing machine.

“Take your hat and coat off,” I said. “It’s going to be awhile.”

“But we’re going to be late.”

“I know.” I shut down the computer. I wasn't worried about the computer not having virus protection. Dad doesn't turn it on often enough for a viral invasion and because "they" don't give him his email, he's pretty much protected.

Dad started to sputter and was heading across the hall for a confrontation with Ma. I grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Look, yelling at her to hurry isn’t going to change anything. Her little trolley won’t slip the track.” I thought of the way The Brother let's Weeble aggravation roll off his back with an oh, wow. 'Oh,wow. We missed an appointment.' No worries.

“Why didn’t she sew yesterday?” He was gearing up to explode.

I shrugged. “Look, calm down. If she misses the appointment, you can schedule another, and I’ll take you.”

Dad looked at his watch. “Maybe I better tell them we’re going to be late.”

“Good idea.”

The appointment was rescheduled and Dad put the kettle on for tea.

Ma came downstairs. “I’m ready to go now.”

“You missed the appointment and it’s been rescheduled,” I said.

She looked at the clock.

“Your appointment was at quarter to 11,” I added.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did, but you had to sew your pants.”

“Hmm,” Ma sniffed indignantly. “That doctor wouldn’t even wait for me. Why didn’t he wait for me?”

I laughed. Ever La Signora, The Lady. “He has other patients and can’t wait until you’re good and ready to grant the doctor an audience.”

Ma made lunch and Dad and I sipped our tea in the living room.

“Come set the table,” Ma yelled. Dad and I both jumped as we didn’t know which one of us she was commanding.

She brought 3 cheeseburgers to the table.

I frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like cheese.”

“Since when?”

I laughed. “Since forever. Don’t you remember when I was at St. Pat’s when it was grilled cheese day, Mrs. Burns [a neighbor who was the head dietician at the parochial school] would stop the lunch line and bring me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so the nuns wouldn’t yell at me for wasting the grilled cheese sandwich I wouldn’t eat?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“Don’t worry about it.” We sat down, ate lunch and had a nice visit.

On the ride home I was congratulating myself for being so calm about the missed appointment. Surely, I must have risen to the eighth level of Hell for not losing my temper. Maybe even a small gem for my heavenly crown. I patted myself on the back. A thought struck me and my elation sank. Pride is the worse of the Seven Deadly Sins. Lucifer committed the sin of pride and fell. Being so smug about how I didn’t lose my temper was hubris. Oh, well, back to the ninth level of Hell.

Another Appointment

Another doctor’s appointment. At least it beats going to Market Basket. I arrived at the Weebles a half hour before their appointment. I ring the bell, open the door and announce at the top of my lungs, “It’s me! I’m here!”

Ma screamed for Dad to answer the door.

I yelled “I’m here!”

Again, she screams for him to answer the door.

We were in a live version of “Who’s on First?”

Dad came downstairs and told me to present myself to Ma.

She was in her room getting dressed.

“Oh, you’re here.” It sounded as if she’s surprised. As if I would forget the appointment. Maybe she was hoping I’d forget the appointment just so she wouldn’t have to go.

I go back to the living room to sit and wait.

Dad is grousing because Ma isn’t ready and we’ll be late.

I pointed out the doctor always keeps them waiting so if we’re late, it’s really no big deal. If need be, we make another appointment.

“That’s not fair to you,” he grumbled.

I shrug, and begin collecting the necessaries. I moved the walker into position. Grabbed Ma’s coat and pockabook from the closet.

Ma finally toddled out. She yelled at Dad. “You know I need help putting my shoes and socks on.”

“You should have asked.”

“Thank you very much! You know I need help putting my shoes and socks on.”

“You should have asked.

The conversation spiraled to a Burn and Schreiber routine.

“You know?”

“Yeah”

“You know?”

“Yeah?”

“You know?”

“Help.”

I tried not to laugh. I helped Ma into her coat and got to the two of them headed to the door. Got them in the car. Chug chug toot toot off we go. A half hour late for the appointment.

The parking lot is packed, and I sailed into the last handicap spot. The waiting room was filled with weebles. Dad checked them in and Ma pushed her walker to the back where the technician would draw her blood. Dad came back and had his turn.

I settled in to wait and Ma sat next to me.

The technician leaned out of her cubby.

“How are things today,” she asked.

“The same. How’s your mother?”

“She’s doing great. I just got off the phone with her.” She shrugged and gave the ‘Help me, Lord’ look.

“She sending you for more lotion?”

She laughed. “No not this time.”

Ma usually nodded off in her chair while waiting for the doctors, but she was very alert and was watching the two of us.

“So, Ma, you have your daughter with you,” smiled the tech. “She’s sitting there with valium in her back pocket.”

“No, I took it before I left the house.” We laughed and she ducked back into her cubby.

“Where do you know her mother from?”

“I don’t know her mother. Just from what she’s told me when we come here” Almost busted.

Ma was in a good mood. “Your father is so stupid. He called a plumber.”

Sometimes it’s hard for me to follow Ma’s conversation. She has forgotten that I haven’t lived under her roof in over 20 years. So she leaves out bits and pieces because she’s convinced I know the whole story. Sometimes, talking to Ma is like playing game shows. I never know whether it’s ‘To Tell the Truth, ‘What’s My Line’ or ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire’. I tried to put bits and pieces of her conversation together about Dad, a leak in the basement, and the cost of the repair. Ma’s pricing system skidded to a halt during the depression.

Her eyes are round as saucers when I tell her a plumber and his helper get $100 an hour.

She told me she wanted to remodel the bathroom, but only if the contractor will do things her way. She wanted to have the tub removed and a shower installed, but she doesn’t want to replace the tile. Sounded like she asked the plumber about her idea and wasn’t happy with him. Course the remodel would have to wait until her money came in.

“All that work, and I’ll probably not live long enough to see it.”

Sad when their thoughts turned this way. “Ma, you’ll outlive all of us.”

She huddled in her chair with her own thoughts.

I turned my attention to Dad. He was having a conversation with an elderly gentleman. They were talking about the Red Sox winning the World Series. Then the conversation turned to the good old days of baseball.

“They don’t have pitchers like they used to.”

“No, they sure don’t.”

“I remember a pair of brothers. I think they pitched for St. Louis.”

“What were their names?”

“The Dean brothers,” I supplied.

“You know, the brothers,” Dad said to me.

“Yeah, Dizzy and Daffy Dean.”

“Well, I don’t remember their names, but one brother would pitch one game on Sunday. The whole game, and his brother would pitch the second of the double header.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. What was their name?”

“Dean. Dizzy and Daffy Dean.”

“Yes, Dean!” The other gentleman smiled at me.

I smiled back. Third base!

Dad told the other gentleman how he used to go down to watch the Boston Braves play when he was a kid. He used to watch the game through a break in the fence.

“Course it’s not Braves Field anymore.”

“That’s right! What’s there now?”

“It’s part of BU. Nickerson Field,” I supplied.

“BU owns it now.”

“Nickerson Field.”

“Yes, Nickerson Field!” The other gentleman smiled at me.

I smiled back. Third base!

Finally after waiting an hour, one of the office workers calls out Dad’s first name. Dad and a gentleman further up the waiting room both got up and went to the young woman. That should teach her to use full names. The appointment wasn’t for Dad. He returned to his chair.

After an hour and a half, the Weebles were called into the examination room. A short time later they emerged. I got Ma’s coat and helped her into it while Dad waited at the reception desk to make the next appointment. The receptionist didn’t set aside her work to make Dad’s appointment. I gave the girl the evil eye.

On the counter was a pencil holder containing pens left by the drug reps. Ma and Dad each grabbed a pen. They took a pen each and every time we visit. It must be the grown up version of lollipops or the Treasure Chest at the dentist.

“Take a pen!” Ma urged me.

“No, I’ll try to keep medical expenses down.” It must cost a small fortune for the drug rep to replace the pens each month. If the drug companies didn’t have to spend so much money on advertising, drug costs wouldn’t be so high.

“Oh!” Ma exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked

“We forgot to ask the doctor about the shoes.”

The receptionist looked up. “What shoes?”

“The shoes,” Ma explained.

I’m able to translate. “She needs a form signed by the doctor so the podiatrist can send it to the insurance company so she can get orthopedic shoes.”

“Oh, just have the podiatrist send us the form.”

“Nay, nay, nay! We went through this last year,” I said. “The podiatrist’s office sent the form. Twice. The doctor never signed it and sent it back. I made 3 trips all the way from Worcester. I’m not doing that again.” Now I sounded like the martyr weeble.

“Tell them to mark it to the attention of Kath. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

She made the appointment for the next visit and I entered it into my PDA. Dad also needed an appointment for an echocardiogram. The test is only done on Saturday. She had an early morning appointment.

“Oh, you don’t have to take me,” Dad said. “I can walk.”

“You sure?” I had a feeling Caesar was refusing the crown three times.

“I can manage.”

“Great!”

“Oh!” Ma exclaimed again.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I can’t believe they were in with the doctor for a half an hour and now she has questions for the doctor.

“We forgot to ask about the walker.”

The receptionist looked up. “The Walker?”

“She needs a form signed by the doctor for a walker so she can submit it to the insurance company for payment.”

The receptionist looked over the divider and looked at Ma standing there with her walker. Her walker has wheels on the front and whiffle balls to provide traction.

“She wants a walker that has handbrakes and a seat so she can sit when she gets tired.”

“What brand?”

What brand? How the hell should I know what brand! Get her a Raleigh. Make it pink. Raleigh has handbrakes. The Schwin she’s pushing now doesn’t and she has a hard time back pedaling to stop it. I try not to give the receptionist the ‘Help me, Lord’ look.

The doctor came out of the examination room and was giving instructions to another patient.

“I’ll have to ask the doctor about this.”

“You do that. In the mean time can you make a note to ask the doctor so we don’t have to stand here for another half an hour. You can give Dad the information when he comes for the EKG.”

With that settled, two and a half hours later, I herd the Weebles home. They are disappointed I can’t stay for lunch as I have to head back home to be in time to pick The Young One up from school.

“I’m afraid the doctor used up all my visiting time,” I said with I hope the right amount of sadness. It’s not that I don’t like visiting the Weebles. Sometimes it can be quite entertaining. I don’t like visiting at meal times. Dad’s culinary skills are not that polished and I didn’t have any Pepto Bismal with me.

The Orthopedist Visit

After the eighth circuit around the parking lot, I headed to the main lot and then to the far employee lot, both were full. The hospital must have been running a sale. I went back to the medical office parking lot and spotted a man walking to what I hoped was his car. I slowly followed behind with my directional happily blinking to others, I had found a space.

On the way to the orthopedist’s office, I wondered if the Weebles had found the office alright. If they would remember the office was on the first floor. After all, we visit this building every other month to see the foot doctor on the third floor. I had a moment of panic when I entered the empty office. I hadn’t been trolling the parking lot that long. The last time we visited this doctor, his waiting room was wall to wall with patients and the line spilled out into the main lobby where there were several more chairs outside his door. As I approached the receptionist, she looked up.

“They are in the examination room. Would you like to go in with them?”

“God, no!” I said forcefully. “I just wanted to make sure they found the office ok. I’ll just wait over here.” I took a seat in the corner and flipped through a very la-di-dah architectural magazine. The kind of magazine that showcases “Homes Better Than Yours”. I could hear some of the conversation between Ma and the doctor. Complaint. Explanation. Complaint. Explanation.

“That’s because you are leaning on the walker instead of using a cane,” he patiently explained. “Well, everything is looking fine. I want to see you in another month for an x-ray. I’ll escort you to the waiting area.” He caught sight of me and added, “Your daughter is here.” He emphasized daughter and I wasn’t sure if I was elevated to a high status or if he was relieved to turn the weebles over to someone else. He then asked Ma if he could fill me in on how she was doing.

Now, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s not my monkey. Somehow he must think I’m the primary care giver, and I need this information. Ma takes care of herself very nicely and no thanks to anyone. So I put on my best intelligent look and listened as he explained Ma’s wrist is healing nicely. The pain she feels is because of the pressure as she leans on the walker. She had complained of shoulder pain, but he thought that was mostly due to the way people using a walker hunch their shoulders when they walk. I nodded. Very interesting.

Ma interrupted at this point to ask about the visiting nurse. I thought she was going to ask him if the visiting nurse could do the housework or take her to Market Basket.

“Ma, he has nothing to do with the visiting nurse.”

“Yes, he does. She wants me to have physical therapy.”

“I told you the therapy isn’t necessary,” he said to her. “Her hand is very arthritic,” he began to me.

“I don’t feel like I have Ahtha Ritis” That’s how a Bostonian pronounces, arthritis, just like it’s a man’s name.

“Well, you do. You don’t have much range of movement in your thumb. Therapy isn’t going to change that. No therapy.”

Ma was put out. “The nurse isn’t going to like you.”

I’m thinking he outranks the nurse and good for him for not prescribing services that won’t be a benefit except to make money for the insurance company.

At this point, the doctor noticed Dad was carrying Ma’s splint.

“Why does he have that? Why isn’t she wearing it?” he asked me as if I were the primary care giver.

“She doesn’t wear it. She hasn’t worn it in a few weeks.” He was about to ask another question and I shook my head. He has an Italian last name and I was tempted to ask speaka Italiano? You ask why? She’s a cetriolo. A cucumber. I knew Ma would selectively hear this remark. Not good for me. He wouldn’t understand that she wouldn’t wear the splint because she had to sign those checks so she could win the two million dollars that was coming this week. I shook my head. “I’m just the chauffeur.” On duty is tattooed on my butt cheeks.

Close Cover Before Striking

I had to take Dad to an appointment at the V.A. to have his medication evaluated for a discount benefit.

Ma was industriously going through all her old junk mail sorting things to burn in the fireplace. I told her she shouldn't be burning anything in the fireplace. Ordinarily, I'd think a match would do wonders for the place, but it reeks of smoke. She won't open a door or window for ventilation because she complains of the cold, even when temperatures soar into the 90s.

She said she had to burn sweepstakes papers. She's convinced the mail carriers went through her trash. Someone won $10,000 earmarked for Ma, and to add insult to injury, they called Ma to tell her about it.

Dad and I headed off down the road. When we got back, there was such a noxious, toxic smell. I told Ma she shouldn't burn anything. She said it was her house and she could do what she wanted.

Talking to Dad later, I asked him if he knew what she was tossing in the fireplace.

"She throws everything in there. She burns the styrofoam plates we use and the liners from the meat."

I have tried to tell her that styrofoam is toxic, but my warnings fall on deaf ears. One can only hope that the neighbors will call the EPA to complain about the factory next door. I'm sure the chimney stack isn't the requisite height. In the mean time, might be worth it to invest in a gas mask.

Painting the Roses Red

Tuesday, the last day of the trifecta. The Weebles would be running out of milk. Ma would make Dad walk to the store to buy the milk. Too humid for a healthy, young person to walk a few miles, let alone an 88 year old man with heart problems. Though Ma knows she is 88 years old, she somehow thinks Dad is still in his forties and in good health. So, I stopped to pick up a gallon of milk to save Dad the walk. I also stopped so I wouldn’t be roped into a trip to Market Basket for a lousy gallon of milk.

Were they happy I brought the milk? I might as well have brought them magic beans.

“What’s that?” Dad asked.

“Milk.”

“What did you do that for!”

“To save you a walk!”

See Dad would like nothing better than to be running out for milk per Ma’s order and to drop dead in the middle of the road. Freedom for him with a helping of guilt for the rest of us.

“How much did you pay?” Ma asked.

“$3.89”

“You paid too much!”

“Well, if you people learned to drink 1% milk you could get a gallon cheaper!”

“I don’t like 1%. It’s watery.”

As if she could tell. She has a bit with her cereal for breakfast, and the rest is used in coffee. Ma was put out because there wasn’t going to be a quick dash for the milk after the visit to the foot doctor.

“Chalk one up for Herself,” I though smugly. I can play the game too.

Ma started to pick on Dad again about the blood and urine tests. She had the urine sample, but we’d have to drop it off at the doctor’s office.

“No, problem. I’ll take it with me and drop it off on my way home.” I go right by the doctor’s office.

Off to the foot doctor we go. The hospital medical building where his office is located must have been running a sale. There were no parking spaces available, let alone the handicap space. I offloaded the Weebles in front of the building and trolled for a parking space. I even went to the main hospital lot and that was filled! After a few circuits, I finally got a handicap space in front of the main entrance to the hospital. A primo space, but on the other side of the building and too far for Ma to walk. I no sooner got up to the doctor’s office when she came out. So I told them to wait in the lobby and I’d bring the car around.

I’m heading for their house when Ma announced I had to go to the other doctor’s office to drop off the specimen. She had it in her handbag. Punishment for bringing the milk is a different Toonerville Trolley run.

“I told you I’d take it with me when I went home. I go by this building.”

Ma crossed her arms across her ample chest. “I thought I was saving you a trip and doing you a favor.”

“No, this is now an extra trip.”

She sighed deeply. “I don’t give the orders, I just take them.”

And I'm painting the roses red.