A long
week.
And I’m not whining or complaining
about the events of the last five days, but just observing that my life has
smoothed so much over the last few months that even the smallest pebble thrown
into the pond’s silky surface now sends rings and ripples. And because my days
flow effortlessly one into the other, these small disturbances remind me of
just how wonderful life is right now.
Monday morning started with a phone
call from David. The local police had pulled him over because we’d forgotten to
have the hybrid inspected! Now, it wasn’t just a little overdue. It had expired
the end of January. David backtracked to our local dealership and was waiting
for them to take the care in for inspection. He’d received a ticket and a court
date, and I could tell he felt irritated because we’d remembered to get the car’s
plates during the same month. Usually, I’m on top of things like this. Although
I rarely drive this car, I’d taken it all the way to Bay City and back without
noticing the expired sticker. We’d driven all around San Antonio and taken
several day trips, so we’ve decided to count ourselves lucky that the ticket
happened close to home where showing a receipt for the inspection will mean a
small fine.
Also on Monday, I had my annual
mammogram. As I filled out the questionnaire, I checked “NO” responses down the
entire page. This was only a check-up, and I felt gratitude that nothing was
wrong. While I sat in the interior waiting room in my “open-to-the-front”
smock, I talked to another woman. There was a suspicious spot that they wanted
to take a closer look at. She sat, at taut wire, vibrating anxiety. I’ve used
the same imaging center for twenty years, and I told her the technicians and
doctors were extremely cautious. That one time I had a shadowy spot that they
wanted to examine closer. This woman, probably in her sixties, revealed that
this was only the second time in her life that she’d had a mammogram because
the first one hurt so much. She commented that the technician today was extra
gentle and had taken time to relax her before preforming the scan. I wished the
woman luck as I headed into the imaging room. And when I started chatting with
the specialist, I told her of the other woman’s compliment on the kindness she’d
shown. I reminded her that she’d done my annual screening for years and had
never once hurt me—so I have absolutely no negative association with getting
this test done. Just a small compliment, but I could tell it made this woman
feel confident in the importance of her attitude and personality for her job.
On Wednesday, I trekked over to have
my eye exam. Where I can have the daylights squeezed out of my breasts without
being flustered, having my eyes checked makes me nervous. I’ve had difficulty
finding a doctor I like, but last year I finally found someone close by, on my
insurance, and likeable. I hate the ever present question, “Which is better—1 or
2?” when both choices suck. This doctor will preface that acknowledgement, “Both
of these are bad, but which one do you like better?” And he doesn’t mind my “show
me again” routine and my mumbled “they are both blurred” gets met with “pick
the one that you like better.” This
young doctor oozes patience and acts like he has all the time in the world to
let me flip back-and-forth between the slides. I know that some of my anxiety
stems from years of going in for check-ups to find that my vision has changed
dramatically, but this year I didn’t even need a new prescription. With
Huntington’s disease, the eyes sometimes are where uncontrolled movement
begins. So when this doctor tells me everything’s fine, I feel overwhelming
relief.
Thursday, my “No Chore” day, began
with Koi barfing over the bed—hitting the bedspread, sheets, mattress cover and
floor. So everything had to be stripped and washed. Then my son needed to run a
few errands and I went along to a circuit that included Best Buy, Target and
Walmart. Eventually, he decided on the best purchase, but we needed to swap out
the RX8 for the station wagon. As we crossed the front lawn, he commented, “You’ll
probably need to stop for gas,” and I agreed. But once I started the old car,
the gas gauge read a quarter of a tank—plenty of fuel to make the short
roundtrip we planned. The entire ride to the shopping center showed the same
reading for my fuel. We bought the item and I pulled the car to the front of
the store so the clerk could help us load it into the back of the wagon.
And nothing happened.
The car wouldn’t start. In all of
the years I’ve driven, I’ve never run out of gas, but I knew that claim had met
its end. It didn’t take long before some snippy customer sat behind me, honking
with irritation before creeping by and giving me the funk-eye. The second car
was a nicer woman who stopped to see if we needed anything. I didn’t want to sit in front of the store,
so we pushed the car into a parking slot far enough away to keep any other
customers out of my hair. I tried starting the car again, and this time the
gauge didn’t even budge. So it was my turn to call my husband with car news. He
didn’t pick up his cell phone right away and he didn’t pick up his desk phone,
so it took a while before I let him know I needed gas. The good thing about
having car troubles in a strip mall is that there’s plenty of places to walk
to, so I ran over to Subway to purchase giant sodas since the cool Texas
morning began to heat up.
“Maybe I should try one more time,”
I suggested after waiting about ten minutes. I figured it the car was sitting
level now (not at an angle like the earlier spot). And that little difference
was enough for the engine to start and keep running. I eased across the parking
lot and headed to the roads that encircled the strip mall, coasting through stop
signs to keep us going, and eventually cutting across parking lots in case the
engine died again. We hooted in triumph when I swung into the gas station on
fumes.
And so this morning I find myself thankful
that it’s Friday. I think back on previous years when our weekly adventures included
going forty-eight hours without sleep or making mad dashes to the emergency
room. I remember every day back then being so difficult. I can’t forget what it
felt to live in survival mode. All of this week’s events and mishaps remind me
of how much our lives have simplified. And it’s all good.
