To me, this year is impossible. A mess. A joke. A horror movie. A very long stress test.
Here we are a month later, and I'm still in The Shire. That 2 week notice didn't pan out, and after seeing the place, hallelujah. I'd have been backing my walker 5 feet down a narrow hallway to get to the bathroom. Still, I was told I'd be moved by the end of September. I gave my objections in an email to the head honcho and the bimbo in charge of this fiasco. Then I received a reply saying they'd have a real wheelchair-happy place open soon and I should expect to move the first week of October. Today I got an email saying I'll be moved toward the end of October. So it goes.
Yes, a wheelchair is in my near future. My legs are both bad, my arms are flagging their surrender to nerve problems. The nerve and joint pain is so bad I only sleep 4 hours or so a night. I can barely stand now, and can't get in the shower. I can deal with not showering; there are such things as washcloths and baby wipes. I've been homeless twice and couldn't shower for weeks on end, so I'm not freaking out. But this time it's different, I have a shower, just can't get into it without help. With Gal Friday changing to being an independent contractor, I only see her 3.5 hours a week now, and that's just enough to keep the house from disgusting nastiness and Beest and me from plague and famine. So I've applied for a higher amount of help, and am waiting for that evaluation to happen next week. I'll still keep Gal Friday, since she's been here all along and is qualified to be a health aide. The prospect of needing help to shower is humiliating and makes me cry, but that's life. This is requiring a whole new level of toughness, and I have very little support as friends drift away on their own seas of troubles. I never would've thought that I'd be such a trainwreck before I'm even 60.
Never would've thought that Liz Taylor would be an inspiration, either.
Life is full of surprises.
I'm hoping your surprises are happy ones.
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