A Name for B.

Now I need to make up a name for B. She is a friend of M. And she came over yesterday and said “so you had a hard time getting out of bed today?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

(I don’t know if I said hell or not but I usually do so I’ll stick it in).

B: I read it in your blog this morning.

B. if you’re reading this, txt me what you’d like to be called. I should have done this with M. also. I forget when I’m writing this stuff that there are a few people reading it.

Once I put it down, I forget about it.

This morning I was sitting in the rollater moving back and forth between one side of the kitchen and the other: one side to make coffee, the other to make toast. Anyone who has seen me put a sweatshirt over my head and get it straight in the back, can imagine.

I sort of like it though. Washing the dishes is hard. I sit in the rollater and it is a stretch to turn the cold and hot water on.

I always hated doing the dishes. Now it is mostly coffee cups and bowls. Forks and knives. Usually Francis the cleaner has done them, but they need me to go over them all again.

It feels very zenny because you tend to concentrate on the minimal thing you’re doing.

So tomorrow when my sister comes by, she’d look carefully at the cup if she reads this which she doesn’t.

I still have to wait for the 22nd to see the CIPD specialist. That’s the next big date.

But personal blogs are weird. When I wrote my first one, Dec 1999, I pictured a few folks in the 1800s sitting with Abe Lincoln in a grocery store. A store from that time with a woodburning stove, and a few bearded guys in overalls, spitting chaw on the floor, and Lincoln’s long leg cocked on the stove.

That was the audience I was writing for. Where that idea came from, prob. the Hank Fonda portrayal of Young Abe Lincoln. It’s hard to believe that Fonda and John Ford who made so many great movies together, came to actual blows during the filming of Mr. Roberts.

So I’m sitting on the rollater trying to eat a scrambled egg sandwich and I had put a pillow on the rollater to make it easier to get out of. And the pillow began to slide out from under me, and for about ten minutes I was trying to wriggle back onto the chair, and in another minute I’m going to be on the floor which means a visit to Dr. P. and a number of PT and OT saying I heard you had a fall… they have their own agenda.

But thank God, there’s a knock on the door, and someone I’ve never seen comes in, and middle aged woman with a clipboard and quickly pulls me up at the last minute, removes the pillow, and sits down across from me.

She introduces herself as a medicaid investigator and says that every six months she comes in and goes around to each resident.

We have a pleasant interview. She seems genuinely upset about the whole CIPD story, and after ten minutes leaves for her next visit.

So it’s noon already. And all I’ve done is make a simple breakfast, done the dishes, and now I’m going to have some K-Cup coffee that B brought last week. B, if you don’t give me a name I’m going to call you Babs.

And M. (I know you don’t read this – no pics – ) I’m toying with Marty.


Published by Dave

My name is David Beckerman. I am a fine art photographer working in New York City. Or I was before I had two strokes. I now write from a Nursing Home. https://dave-beckerman.pixels.com

%d bloggers like this: