It occurred to me that all stories have unhappy endings. If you read on in any story, past the written word, there is inevitable loss in the end. No good time endures; no one lives forever.
Rosemary climbed the stairs to the furniture section faster than I could, and when I arrived at the top she was sitting on an L-shaped sofa that was the color of amber, lighter than her own dark brown eyes which smiled at me as she bounced gently on the soft cushions. She patted the seat beside her in invitation.
As we settled into the sixth month since this all began, we had to figure out how we could go forward with our lives. It seemed that everyone we knew was measuring the odds in the same way that we were. Rosemary kept reminding me, “If one of us contracted the virus through our actions, we would look back and say, ‘It wasn’t worth it.’”
The new chemo drug seemed to be hard at work, doing its job. It was the side effects that were hard to manage. Rosemary had been, reluctantly, on around-the-clock oxycodone for several days. The pain in her shoulder had been with her for six months, increasing with the passing time. The MRI had showed it was from her cancer. [Click on title to read entire post]
On my way home from the Farmer’s Market with flower and tomato plants in my wire cart, and more plants in bags hanging off each of my shoulders, I met a woman who lives on our floor. We stopped to chat. “Those should grow well on your balcony.” [Click on title for full post]
“Come!” our friends urged, “We have fish in the freezer and we can heat up the pool. The deck is lovely this time of year. You can sleep in the guest room or in the den, wherever you would feel more comfortable.” It sounded so enticing. We hadn’t been anywhere in three months except to the hospital...
This morning, the headline in the Hartford Courant read, “Some ‘good news’ as hospitalizations drop.” I had lived in Connecticut for many years and still had family and friends scattered around the state, so I followed events in our neighboring state with more than an intellectual curiosity.
“Do you want time to slow down?” the McCall’s magazine article asked, or maybe it was the Ladies’ Home Journal or Good Housekeeping, or one of the other magazines to which my young mother subscribed. “Spend more time at the dentist,” declared the author, causing me, at age nine, to rethink any wish I may have had around slowing down time, for going to the dentist caused me enormous dread. Besides, at that age, I was more likely to want time to speed up than to slow down.
“What are you doing here?” my rheumatologist stopped short as she came out into the hallway and spotted me. It was early March and I was there for my regular check up. “My patients with RA have all cancelled and you not only have RA, you have this lung disease as well. This virus will not be kind to you. You should not be out.” [Click on title to read the whole post]