Not Enough Hours . . .
This weekend is hurtling to a close and I should be grading papers but I can't dredge up the energy. I love my life, but sometimes it seems like there are too many moving parts. Friday I left work early to go see the periodontist, well, really, I spend more time with the hygienist who cleans my teeth. They are both very amusing and jolly--if they weren't, I don't know how I could stand the torture they inflict on me. I told the hygienist, a grandmotherly Russian woman, that I was going out to dinner not long after the appointment so she should go easy on the topical anaesthetic. She asked me where I was going--I told her the name of the restaurant and then she asked me what I was going to have to eat. I said I wasn't sure, and she told me I had to make sure to write down everything I had and tell her the next time I came. The periodontist came in at one point to say hello while she was working on me and she informed him, with the air of divulging important news, "We have to get her out in a hurry. She is going to Josephine." "Huh?" he asked. I pulled the suction thing out of my mouth and said, "Josephina, the restaurant." "Oh, okay," he said.
E., the hygienist, likes to talk to me while she is working away in my mouth--about her children and her grandchildren, mostly. Then she started talking, complaining, really, about one of the other patients who had just been in, saying she comes in only once in awhile and then doesn't follow up. Well, she understands that she's old and it's hard for her to get here and all that. Feeling a need to keep up my end of the conversation, I asked, "Ow oh?" "Oh, she must be at least 78," E. said.
When E. was done, the doctor came back in to take a look. He is a big, effusive guy, kind of suave, likes to talk to me about jazz and restaurants while he is working in my mouth. I thought the torture was over for the day, but he found some spots to pick and scrape at. I made a growling sound. He laughed and said, "Yeah, I know, good to see you Dr. F., now get out of my mouth!"
Eventually they were both done with me, I got my little goodie bag with the dental supplies, and went to pay my bill. I looked in the mirror at my teeth and complained to E., who happened to be standing there near the reception desk, "How am I going to go out like this? There's blood." (Sorry, I know this is gross, but there's a payoff.) She took a look and said, "It was the doctor. I'd never leave you like that." Then she said, "Don't worry, I'm going to clean it for you." I wasn't done complaining: "I mean, I'm supposed to be going out on a date, how can I go out looking like this?" She chuckled wickedly and said, "It's good to show him your true nature." The receptionist burst out laughing but I was still working out what E. was saying. "He'll think I'm a vampire," I protested. "We all are, baby, we all are," said E., the 60-something grandmotherly hygienist, cackling to herself as she disappeared into the back.
Like I said, they're pretty amusing at Dr. F.'s.
Really, that was almost enough for one Friday evening, but I still had my dinner-and-movie-and-then-a-drink-after-the-movie date, which was fun, but by the time I got home to Brooklyn from the Upper West Side it was after midnight and I was so exhausted I couldn't even see straight. I had had thoughts about going to yoga Saturday morning but I needed to sleep, sleep, sleep. When I finally got up, I went to spend the afternoon with my father, who is 88 and lives alone. He gets around with a walker but not that easily. I helped him write things into his checkbook (which is a little bit like wandering in a strange labyrinth), had something to eat with him (a few of his Meals on Wheels dinners that we combined into a smorgasbord--he tends to stockpile them because he doesn't rely on them totally for his meals) and listened to lot of stories from his long life. Today, Sunday, I spent with my brother, who, as longtime readers know, is wheelchair-bound because of a stroke six years ago. He also can't talk, can only gesture and make some wordlike sounds. I hadn't been to see him in awhile, and he was so happy when I showed up. We sat in a restaurant together, and he looked so expressive, like he wanted to say something. I kept saying, "What?" and he would shrug, and then I thought, oh, this is love, this is my brother telling me he loves me. At the nursing home where he lives, we ran into a couple of people I had not met before, a nurse and then another patient, a woman in a wheelchair sitting outside smoking. Each time, he would make a sound, nodding toward that person. I would say, "He wants me to tell you I'm his sister," and introduce myself.
I wouldn't usually be doing this both days of the weekend, seeing my father and then my brother, but my sister, who does the lion's share of the caretaking (she lives closer to both of them and also is semiretired), has been away for a couple of weeks, so I have been doing a little more than usual. It feels good to do it, and I love them both, of course, but it's tiring, both physically and emotionally.
So, now it's Sunday night and the papers aren't graded and tomorrow the whole thing starts up again, work and teaching, but I guess the papers will get graded at some point and it will all be fine.
That's all I have.
E., the hygienist, likes to talk to me while she is working away in my mouth--about her children and her grandchildren, mostly. Then she started talking, complaining, really, about one of the other patients who had just been in, saying she comes in only once in awhile and then doesn't follow up. Well, she understands that she's old and it's hard for her to get here and all that. Feeling a need to keep up my end of the conversation, I asked, "Ow oh?" "Oh, she must be at least 78," E. said.
When E. was done, the doctor came back in to take a look. He is a big, effusive guy, kind of suave, likes to talk to me about jazz and restaurants while he is working in my mouth. I thought the torture was over for the day, but he found some spots to pick and scrape at. I made a growling sound. He laughed and said, "Yeah, I know, good to see you Dr. F., now get out of my mouth!"
Eventually they were both done with me, I got my little goodie bag with the dental supplies, and went to pay my bill. I looked in the mirror at my teeth and complained to E., who happened to be standing there near the reception desk, "How am I going to go out like this? There's blood." (Sorry, I know this is gross, but there's a payoff.) She took a look and said, "It was the doctor. I'd never leave you like that." Then she said, "Don't worry, I'm going to clean it for you." I wasn't done complaining: "I mean, I'm supposed to be going out on a date, how can I go out looking like this?" She chuckled wickedly and said, "It's good to show him your true nature." The receptionist burst out laughing but I was still working out what E. was saying. "He'll think I'm a vampire," I protested. "We all are, baby, we all are," said E., the 60-something grandmotherly hygienist, cackling to herself as she disappeared into the back.
Like I said, they're pretty amusing at Dr. F.'s.
Really, that was almost enough for one Friday evening, but I still had my dinner-and-movie-and-then-a-drink-after-the-movie date, which was fun, but by the time I got home to Brooklyn from the Upper West Side it was after midnight and I was so exhausted I couldn't even see straight. I had had thoughts about going to yoga Saturday morning but I needed to sleep, sleep, sleep. When I finally got up, I went to spend the afternoon with my father, who is 88 and lives alone. He gets around with a walker but not that easily. I helped him write things into his checkbook (which is a little bit like wandering in a strange labyrinth), had something to eat with him (a few of his Meals on Wheels dinners that we combined into a smorgasbord--he tends to stockpile them because he doesn't rely on them totally for his meals) and listened to lot of stories from his long life. Today, Sunday, I spent with my brother, who, as longtime readers know, is wheelchair-bound because of a stroke six years ago. He also can't talk, can only gesture and make some wordlike sounds. I hadn't been to see him in awhile, and he was so happy when I showed up. We sat in a restaurant together, and he looked so expressive, like he wanted to say something. I kept saying, "What?" and he would shrug, and then I thought, oh, this is love, this is my brother telling me he loves me. At the nursing home where he lives, we ran into a couple of people I had not met before, a nurse and then another patient, a woman in a wheelchair sitting outside smoking. Each time, he would make a sound, nodding toward that person. I would say, "He wants me to tell you I'm his sister," and introduce myself.
I wouldn't usually be doing this both days of the weekend, seeing my father and then my brother, but my sister, who does the lion's share of the caretaking (she lives closer to both of them and also is semiretired), has been away for a couple of weeks, so I have been doing a little more than usual. It feels good to do it, and I love them both, of course, but it's tiring, both physically and emotionally.
So, now it's Sunday night and the papers aren't graded and tomorrow the whole thing starts up again, work and teaching, but I guess the papers will get graded at some point and it will all be fine.
That's all I have.
posted by Sarah Sometimes at 10:52 PM
2 Comments:
S, I love it when you write about your family, especially your brother. Your writing is different when you do. More immediately from your heart.
T.
T.: Thank you!
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