THE BEST OF INTENTIONS

            Having already used up my three score and ten, mostly on trivia, I resolved on my 70th birthday to spend at least two hours a day on my favorite pastime: writing. That gives me lots of leeway, it could be lists, thoughts, poems, short stories, songs, verses for shower , anniversary, get well cards, whatever.  But that would be my birthday gift to me, I said.

            See, I worry these days about the possibility of approaching Alzheimer's and I want to make the most of whatever brain power I have left. 

            Why do I worry about Alzheimer's you ask? Let me explain: The other day I was helping my 86-year-old husband into the shower when the door bell rang. Our shower has a seat and hand rails, so I shut off the water and left him sitting, while I went to answer the door. Standing there was the fellow who was going to install a high-speed internet satellite dish. "Could you wait a moment," I asked.  "I have my husband in the freezer and I need to help him out." The young man looked rather startled but nodded. Then I said, "No. No. I don't have my husband in the freezer. I have him in the fridge. No. No. I mean, in the shower."

            Having got that sorted out, sort of, life hurled itself forward. I don't like to worry unnecessarily, but when the wrong words pop  out unexpected,  it does seem a warning. But I don't dare discuss this with just anybody. No longer do I make casual conversation by telling about getting lost, that I forgot some of the groceries, or left my sunglasses...for the third time...somewhere. (I now have four pairs stashed in different hidey-holes. Pretty smart, eh?)  When I walk to the kitchen I have stopped saying, even to myself, "now what am I here for?"

            But I'm off track. On the Sunday I turned 70 I  promised myself to start first thing Monday morning. Out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I shampooed, showered and shined up the old bod and, as I was dressing, the phone rang. Sister Beatrice has to go to the doctor and would I drive her in. "Okay, what time?"  "My appointment is for 9 a.m." she said.

            So I picked her up at 8: 30 and drove her to the hospital. She was through by noon so we stopped for lunch. On the way home my husband called me on the cell phone. Could I swing by the drug store (in another town) and pick up his prescriptions. "Okay," I said.

            When I got home at three, there were lots of chores waiting, so: no writing on Monday.

            Tuesday morning I sprang out of bed, pulled on my clothes, filled the tea-kettle, emptied the litter-box, fed the cats, let the dog out and sat down to write, which was when my beloved showed up at my desk waving a handful of typewritten pages. Would I be so kind as to type these out and print them? Anytime would do.  "Sure," I said, "and dated my page. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the wind whisk the pages around. So I stopped and typed them. All seven. Then gave the typed pages to him for proof-reading.  He thought of some changes.  (Why do I put his work first, I ask my self. It isn't like he's still the editor and I'm the lowly secretary...or is it. Some things never really change.)

            It was noon before his work was finished. By then I was hungry, and once back in the kitchen found a whole lot of dishes to wash. And there was a load of laundry to deal with.

            Well Tuesday got away from me. In the evening I got back to the computer, but by then I was so tired all I could do was answer my email.

            Wednesday they came and put in the satellite dish. It poured rain. My next door neighbor was called in to work unexpectedly so would I go up and let her dog out. "Sure," I said.

            Thursday is my husband's bridge day.  In the morning he has me acting as the obedient valet (as opposed to the dutiful secretary)...making sure his oxygen tank is full, that his snuffers and puffers are clean and up to date, helping him in and out of the shower. Meanwhile I have to haul the week's garbage in two trash barrels out to the main road. By the time Robert's ride arrives, and he lopes off to terrorize the widows at the bridge club, I'm so tired I grab the nearest cat and flop on the couch. (Cat purrs put me to sleep.)

            That's a mistake, from the couch I can see all the dust bunnies and cobwebs and hair balls and other trophies said cats have hidden under the chairs. The old protestant work ethic kicks in. My nap is ruined. I get up and overhaul the room, sweep away the cobwebs, vacuum, dust, clean the windows and, what ho, there's Robert back. Time to get supper on. And that's enough for Thursday.

            Friday, that's today.  Maybe today.  Or, maybe not! I have to dog sit again. There is food shopping and some men are coming to fill in the potholes on the driveway. The dog needs a bath. The extra-mural nurse (AKA the house police) is coming, which means de-furring and de-hairing the living room again. And...well who knows!

            So what I am left with are little snippets of time here and there, to put my fingers to the keyboard, and come up with such nonsense as you're reading.

            So much for good intentions. Maybe tomorrow...