J.D. August 27, 2008

My doorbell rang yesterday morning. I was sitting at the kitchen counter, working. Usually it’s the yard guy, but as I pulled back the shade to take a peek I saw J.D., my 90-year-old neighbor. He was hospitalized about six weeks ago for dehydration, and his family decided he shouldn’t live alone any more. He now resides in an assisted living facility. But here he was on my doorstep, sporting a new white beard and a dapper hat.

Sometimes the unknown has a tendency to immobilize me. As much as I’ve wanted to visit J.D. in his new digs, I didn’t really know where they were. Or how to get there. Or what the visiting hours are. Or how long I would have to stay. So instead of taking the initiative (something I’m having trouble with lately), I’ve allowed the weeks to go by as the guilt piled up for my unneighborly behavior.

I was delighted to see him. He scolded me briefly, then launched into his latest computer problems. Could I pay him a visit after work?

His new residence is quite close. I picked up dinner on the way, then silently munched as he caught me up on his latest medical trauma. He’s surprisingly sharp for 90. When I finished my dinner, I moved on to the computer. The sound wasn’t working. A few minutes under the desk with a flashlight and I had the speakers plugged in to the correct jack. We forgot the volume was turned up all the way, so it blasted us both. He was thrilled. Then there was the case of the disappearing Start menu. It took a few minutes to drag and drop. I taught him how to hover with the mouse to make it reappear.

The visit lasted a little over an hour. Now that his computer problems are resolved, he told me he can sleep at night. But the best part, at least for me, is that I now have a standing invitation to Bingo. Tuesdays at 7.

Saturday May 14, 2008

On Saturdays I try to pack as many things into one day as humanly possible. I linger over breakfast, make my way to the Durham Farmer’s Market, and shop for plants at the Garden Center on my way home. Typically by lunch time, I’m elbow deep in potting soil. This year I’m growing organic lettuce in terracotta pots and trying to create my own boxwood topiaries out of rejects on the half-price table at Home Depot. It’s my outlet. So I was more than a little annoyed when my 89-year-old neighbor interrupted me one Saturday afternoon as I placed begonias with green, waxy leaves into turquoise pots. He was having trouble “logging in” to the Internet. He had forgotten his password. I explained to him, once again, how he has a direct connection to the Internet through his modem that does not require a password. And then I looked at his sad face filled with frustration and asked him what he was trying to do.  He has a heart condition that requires several different medications. Affordability is an issue, so he was shopping around for the best pharmacy prices. The information he needed from Wal-Mart was only available online.

I asked him to give me 15 minutes, then headed next door where I quickly used his computer to navigate to the Wal-Mart pharmacy page and the $4 prescription list. But when I tried to print the list, his printer seemed to only print the blue text. I bookmarked the page and promised to return later in the afternoon with a print out from my printer.

I understand his predicament. My grandparents, though not as old, are facing similar issues. But I hear about it mostly through my mom, as my mom, aunt, and uncle are actively involved in my grandparents’ medical care. My grandmother doesn’t have to worry if she’s getting the best price for her meds because my aunt does all the research. So I asked him why his son or daughter didn’t help him procure the Wal-Mart $4 prescription list. The answer surprised me. Neither of them have computers, and they don’t use the Internet.

Over the past six years, my now 89-year-old neighbor has helped me when my lawn mower wouldn’t start and when it wouldn’t turn off, buried a dead bird found in my yard when I couldn’t bear to look at it, and has lent me various yard tools on numerous occasions (as a result I own no yard tools). Once I accidentally sliced the extension cord he let me borrow. I use his yard waste cart when mine overflows. In turn I’ve provided an occasional Saturday afternoon tech support visit and a listening ear. This particular Saturday, once the plants were potted and watered and the deck swept of loose soil, I baked a batch of cookies that I hand-delivered with the Wal-Mart printout and watched what had been a sad, frustrated face light up with a big smile.

Present in Sorrow May 5, 2006

It was one of those afternoons that couldn’t make up its mind. Storming one minute; sunny the next. Having long given up the prospect of yard work and fully engaged in my typical Saturday afternoon chores, I heard a commotion and peeked out the window. A Clements’ Funeral Home van pulled in the driveway next door. I paused. As family and friends began stopping by and neighbors walked outside, Omah Street bustled with activity. I discreetly got in my car and fled the scene.

Roses, not a stop on my beaten path. The gerber daisies needed some care, but they were the right price. Kmart offered even more gerber daisies, in the palest pink. And a trip to Durham Garden Center filled my wagon with asparagus fern, caladiums, licorice, white bacopa and ivy. The storm lifted, sun breaking through the heavy clouds. I dallied among row after row of green, breathing in the fragrance of rain mixed with earth.

But I am an adult, no longer afforded the luxury of hiding, no longer sheltered from the realities of life. Caring for someone who grows weaker with each passing day. The stunning pain of losing a life partner of 66 years.

A wreath of white flowers greeted me next door as I pulled in my driveway. I burst into tears. Relief that I am not numb to the pain of others. Sorrow for the one left behind. Fear of the suffering I might be called to bear one day.

Cutting across the strip of grass that divides our driveways, someone waved me in through the open door. JD sat in the back sunroom. I gave him a hug and sat for a spell, enjoying a styrofoam cup full of homemade banana pudding.