Waiting for a possible hurricane or tropical storm while also Waiting for the new grandbaby while Waiting for the election while Waiting for Ralph’s new cognitive testing while Waiting for the next news bombshell while Waiting for the insurance inspector who maybe forgot to call and cancel while Waiting for redelivery of a replacement for whatever was mis-delivered for the house(wrong rug, wrong couch!, wrong toilet seat, etc.)
Waiting has become my way of life as it has for so many others in America these days, especially as the election approaches.
But really, I’m a lot less anxious than I would expect. For better or worse I seem to be adjusting to living in a present that is also a waiting room for an uncertain future.
As for Ralph, he feels less uncertainty these days. He’s been reminding me of Winnie the Pooh lately, perhaps the result of too much grand-mothering on my part, but also because like Pooh, Ralph inhabits a limited, slightly unreal world. Yes he worries endlessly about small matters (Oh Dear Oh Dear says Winnie the Pooh) but basically Ralph and Pooh both assume they’ll be taken care of, by Robin and me. And as long as he stays put in his world, Ralph is not simply happy. He is completely functional because he faces no demands beyond his capacity. He feels competent because he’s not asked to test himself. In fact, since the move his life has simplified. There is no check list of what he must do. He drinks the coffee I bring him at seven am along with his pills. He wanders between his bedroom and his new “office five steps across the patio;” if anything life has become easier because at the farm he had to walk across a small field or drive a loop of dirt road to get to his office. He sits in the office with the radio or lie on his bed reading whatever book I’ve give him. Sometimes he reads the same book twice back to back with the same pleasure of vague, faded familiarity I feel when I begin a book I last read thirty years ago. He naps. While I cook dinner he drinks his two allowed beers in the sunroom off the kitchen sitting in his new favorite chair with a pleasant view of a garden. He eats his nightly nutty buddy after dinner with the same gusto Pooh has for honey. Then without fail, he puts the our dog Lola in her cage and locks the bedroom door to the patio—the two chores for which he maintains responsibility—and gets in bed. Sometimes he reads a little, sometimes he goes straight to sleep.
Each day includes, or is mostly, long empty spaces. But he doesn’t notice. And as long as I don’t ask for him to break the routine, he is easy in his mind. If I break his physical or mental routine, he gets rattled. His brain snags on a details he asks about over and over. That is most of our discourse these days, my re-explaining the answers to questions he can’t let go. But most of the time, when he is contentedly in his routine, we don’t talk. I wonder, what is he thinking and feeling but I don’t ask the way I used to because I sense he no longer wants to think or perhaps feel that hard. He doesn’t want to analyze or examine himself the way he used to enjoy. He certainly doesn’t want to analyze politics or world crises. He doesn’t want to know they exist.
So life between us is easier. At least as long as I stay within Ralph’s mental framework, as long as we talk about the weather and I don’t analyze or examine myself too much. It is tempting not to push myself, to relax into waiting room empty headedness (that lack of responsibility I used to luxuriate in until my name was called at the dentist’s office or my flight began boarding in the airport lounge). But then I talk to a friend about a problem she is facing, or I read an article about racism and my brain comes awake. I must enter back into the complexity of my world to stay mentally alive, while Ralph must stay in the simplicity of his own.