|Woman with Umbrella, Robert Delaunay|
Other demands on my time and energy are occuring on the home front, too. For a while now my mother has been dealing with chronic nerve pain, and one by one we've been exhausting all options but surgery. We're still looking for that "magic pill" that will deliver relief and a means to a better quality of life. When you live in the middle of freaking nowhere, though, the journey to health is a literal one, driving more than an hour to the town where the brain and spine and orthopedic specialists are. It's been another kind of adventure, too, realizing that my mother doesn't or doesn't want to hear what the doctors have to say -- "If I don't hear what is wrong with me, I don't have to admit I'm unwell," she has basically said. This caregiving has become an intricate dance that I am trying to learn. It is inevitable that I will step on some toes, miss some beats, never seem to perfect. I never was a good dancer, though . . .
A while back I made the observation that there are 2 funeral homes within walking distance of my house, but I have to drive 25 miles to buy a bottle of wine -- or clothes, for that matter. So while Bubbaville may be a good place to die, it's a shitty place to live, even under the best of circumstances. My plan to move away, though, is on hold until the thing that I can't articulate -- you know, THAT thing -- comes to pass.
I'd better stock up on wine.