Wonder, Gratitude, and Fear

Yesterday morning

 Yesterday, I returned to Open Door Coffee Co. for the first time in over a year. The reasons—some of them—are obvious. Covid fears. I'm in a particularly vulnerable demographic. (I'm 76; I have cancer.) And, early on in the Covid crisis, there were people fighting the necessity to wear a face mask. (OD and other stores had signs requiring them—but out in the street: very different. Maskless were everywhere on the sidewalks.) One day as I was walking over to the shop in Covid's early days, I was wearing my mask on the sidewalk, and a guy in a truck slowed, looked at me, bellowed at me: "F-----g idiot!"

Another reason: I was starting to have real issues with my balance; soon, I knew, I couldn't walk that far (about 1/4 mile each way), and I had stopped driving anywhere: I had passed out a few times at home, so being behind the wheel seemed an awfully bad—and selfish—idea.

And third: My days were filling up with medical appointments--the cancer center--and trips to various specialists trying to discover the source of my dizziness. I'm currently seeing two neurologists at University Hospitals and have undergone a plethora of tests. No answer yet.

And I’ve just learned I need another eye procedure. (I’ve already had cataract surgery on both eyes.)

But ... spring arrived. I seemed to be moving around better. So, yesterday, I decided to give it a try. I let the coffee shop know, and Joyce drove me over, and using my new walker and with Joyce as a guide, I made it to “my” chair, where friends greeted me—as did the baristas. I got my order, crawled carefully to my chair, and proceeded to pretend that everything was now as it always had been.

I took a pic from my seat and posted in on FB along with the caption: “I’m back!” (Such arrogance and ignorance—two sons of Folly.)

Joyce headed off to her hair appointment—after taking a pic (the one you see above).

And, for a while, it was exhilitirating. I read the New York Times on my iPad, I texted to my family the latest little daily vocabulary doggerel I’d written (as is my wont), I finished Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House (a novel I’d been reading) and did a little FB post about it.

I talked a little with people, nodded at others—most of whom I hadn’t seen in over a year.

I was nearly ecstatic.

And then I had to go to the men’s room.

As I carefully got off my chair and reached for the walker, I stumbled—and nearly fell. A couple of customers saw me and hurried over, preventing a disaster. And Nigel, the owner’s son and as fine a young man as I’ve ever known, quickly acquired an office chair with wheels, got me into it, and helped me into the bathroom, then helped me back to the table, helped me back into the chair.

And now I was afraid. I’d thought I could avoid such scenes. I sat there—embarrassed, ashamed.

The pic I’d posted on FB by now had about 200 Likes—and many comments of congratulation, etc. I felt like a fraud.

Joyce texted to tell me her hair appointment was over—should she come over?

“Yes.”

When she arrived, she helped me down to my walker—carefully, carefully—then out to the car, parked in the handicap spot (I now have a legal blue parking sign that we place on the rear-view mirror when we need it), helped me into the car.

We drove around a little: She wanted to show me how the trees are greening and blooming—unlike me.

By the time I went to bed, I knew I shouldn’t risk a visit again—not yet. And so this morning I made a most difficult call to the shop, letting Nigel know I wouldn’t be there today.

A little later, I messaged Deborah to let her know that I really couldn’t be sure when I’d be back again—and to thank her for all the kindness I felt alive and humming in the shop. She answered graciously—no surprise.

So ... now what? I’l continue seeing my doctors, hoping they will discover what’s going on, hopeful they will find an effective treatment, if not a cure.

And every morning, reading in my chair at home, I will grieve for what remains painfully elusive.