Day #87 Writing Through COVID-19: A Bike Wreck, a Missing Letter, Asparagus, Bubbles.

My daughter Palmer and I exercised on the nearby trail this morning. I ran a glorious three miles at a 12-minute pace. There was a time I would have been ashamed at such sluggishness, but now I'm proud of it. Age does that to you.

Meanwhile, Palmer rode her bike for 20 minutes before turning around to head back. Shortly after her turn-around, she reached up to adjust her headphones and went down hard on the asphalt. Bloodied on her right shoulder, elbow, hip and thigh, she got up, put the chain back in place, and biked back to our parked car, where I was waiting. 

We headed home to clean her up.

The gash on her elbow looked nasty, so we asked my dad to come outside for a masked and distanced evaluation. He said she needed stitches. He also quipped, "You can't sue me for malpractice because I no longer have a medical license!"  

Eight stitches later, Palmer, bruised and achy, is on the mend. We're glad she was wearing a helmet. 

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While Palmer and I were on the trail, my mother received a phone call from her old neighbor, a pleasant day-brightening surprise. 

But later in the afternoon, I found my mom agitatedly searching through her bedroom. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"I'm looking for a letter. I got it yesterday. It was a good one," she scowled in frustration. 

It is in her times of confusion that she seems most unhappy with living here. It's as if she thinks if she were back in her own place, she would know where her letters were, she could do her own laundry, the paper would come on Sundays, and she wouldn't be confused. 

This isn't true, of course. She would still be confused. And she would still feel embarrassed and angry in her confusion. But when it happens here on Eagle Avenue, this location absorbs the blame. 

"Who was the letter from?" I asked. 

"My old neighbor. It was a good letter. I want to read it again." 

Of course, there was no letter. What she was misremembering was the phone call from a few hours before. My dad, busy at the computer, seemed all too willing to let me guide my befuddled mother back to a happier here and now.

I don't blame him. Helping my mother out of her confusion takes patience, cajoling, and an abundance of delicate maneuvers calibrated in response to her tone of voice and facial expressions.

My dad lives with my mother's confusion 24 hours a day. It must be exhausting to have her so frequently repeating herself, mixing up memory slices, asking questions already answered. He needs a break too. 

"I know you had a good phone call from your neighbor this morning," I said, guiding her from the bedroom toward the lightness of the main living area. "I wonder if that phone call felt like a letter," I suggested, hoping she could see where the confusion transpired and exit with her ego intact.

"I think it was a letter," she said, now uncertain. 

I subtly adjusted my sails in this finicky wind. "I bet it was good to hear from her," I said, focusing on the content of the conversation rather than on the mode in which it was delivered.

But the fact is, my mom couldn't really remember what was said in the conversation, only that it made her feel good. This was why she was hunting for the letter in the first place. 

She said nothing.  

But now we were in front of the windows, and the green Iowa farmland stretched under a bright blue sky. "Would you like to check the asparagus patch with me?" I asked gently, hoping some fresh air would dispel the dusty disappointment of her letter search.  

It did. 

At the asparagus patch, she told me (again) how to bend the stalk to allow it to snap. She found three spears. I found one. We ate them raw as we walked back toward the house, laughing at how there is not a more delicious treat than asparagus, fresh from the garden. 

"Would you like to blow some bubbles?" she asked as we reached the door. 

Of course. 

We took turns with the bubble wand. We said the same things we always say while blowing bubbles: 

"How pretty!" 

"How perfectly round!" 

Enough. 

Be well. 

Write. 

Allison