November
15, 2013
Mom would
have celebrated her 78th birthday, had she lived past 59. She got gyped,
robbed, rug swept out from under her feet. Stolen from her family like baby
seals in the Antarctic.
A pork chop
sizzles in the oven next to a No Name Steak, oiled baking potato, piece of
seasoned tilapia, two drumsticks and a small butternut squash. Laundry is in
the dryer in the community wash room on the first floor of the building and
tube socks soak in the bathroom sink. Tonight is bath night, even more perilous
from the first time since the suction cup handle has dropped onto the shower
stall and left us to wobble, off-balance, over the rim of the double glass
doors. Evidently handicap rails cannot be installed since the foundation behind
the walls do not support them. In the renovations of the 17 floors, ten units
per level, they did not manage to squeeze-in the proper funding for safety in
the bathrooms. Unbelievable. I tend to see at least two elderly people in the
elevators each time I drop down or stagger up for mail pick-up, laundry,
recycling drop-off or coming and going from the place. Crazy.
Somehow we
manage to slice-off five minutes from the last shower and my client groans in
pleasure as she sinks into her lift chair for a rest as I slather lotion as I massage
her purple-tinged legs, pull on tube socks and wrap them with ace bandages. Her
arms and back are sucking the humidity out of the apartment and still remain
dry and scaly. Luckily she reminded me to cover her hairdo so we didn’t soak down
her curls in the shower. Something to be thankful for.
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