Day #23 Writing Through COVID-19: Meredith, Grown Old

Saturday was a slow day on Eagle Ave.

I tucked my mother's morning meds and daily poem into a white milk glass chicken dish.

I made a big Saturday-morning breakfast: sausage, eggs, English muffins with honey butter. We spent an hour over coffee and stories about uncles and cousins. My dad told me about when Uncle Boyd in Oregon no longer felt he could control his wayward teenage son Jerome. Boyd drove him to a youth military school on the East Coast and left him there. But Jerome immediately escaped and hitch-hiked back to Oregon, almost beating Boyd home!

My mom told the story of when she was 70 and her brother Wink, 75, was near death and very confused. She visited him in Michigan. They had a good conversation, talking about growing up in St. Claire Shores. Then suddenly Wink looked at her: "Who are you?" he asked. "I'm Meredith, grown old," she said. He nodded and understood.

Seventy no longer sounds old, we all agreed.
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At 12:58 p.m. I got an email from a student saying she couldn't find the link to the day's 1 p.m. ZOOM class. I reminded her today was Saturday and that "school" is Monday-Friday.
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We are all worried about my sister's husband who is hospitalized in eastern Iowa with COVID-19. At 65, with a history of asthma, he is in an at-risk population. He is intubated and resting in an induced coma. A little internet searching tells me many COVID-19 patients on ventilators do not make full recoveries. Updates are few. Like 25% of Iowa's COVID-19 patients, my brother-in-law is a health-care worker.
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In the afternoon my mom and I dyed eggs together. We covered the table with newspaper; we used a
little vinegar, hot water, and food coloring. It smelled just like Easter egg dying always smells. Nice.

We then worked on a puzzle while my dad read snippets about Teddy Roosevelt aloud from Big Burn.

Toward evening I practiced accordion with Dan's mom. She presented me with two more social-distancing masks she'd made. I'm getting used to wearing one while we wheeze out "The Merry Widow Waltz." I only realize I have it on when it causes my glasses to fog over.
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Tonight when I came downstairs to serve dinner, my mom stood up to help set the table. We've turned one of the bathrooms into a little kitchen where she washes the dishes and sets them on a shelf we've cleared in the towel cupboard.

I followed her into the little "kitchen" to help carry the dishes and silverware. She had two glasses balanced atop two plates in a precarious lazy-man's-load. I reached out to steady the glasses, and she jerked away from me, nearly toppling the stack. "I've got it!" she said.

She needs to feel capable and helpful.
I need to feel helpful and minimize accidents.

Sometimes our needs collide.