First a Cup of Tea Please

First A Cup of Tea Please 

    Sunlight peers through the louver blind and makes its way through the slits formed by my eyelids. Startled awake by the light and the sharp pain in my shoulder as I stretch. My bleary eyes barely make out the time on the clock sitting on the nightstand surrounded by medicine bottles. It flashes 7:00 a.m. Sleeping through the night, a luxury at my age and more elusive since Ed died three months ago. How I miss the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body and even his snoring. “You snore more”, he would say when I complained,

     Despite feeling refreshed after a night of unencumbered sleep, I sit on the edge of the bed, struggling to recall what day it is. Yesterday Anna and Brian, my daughter and son-in-law, brought lasagna and salad for dinner. They have been bringing meals on Sunday for many weeks. Today is Monday. As my thoughts become more coherent, I recall Ann saying as she left, “Be ready by 8:00 a.m. on Monday.” Be ready for what? A doctor’s appointment? A food delivery? I should know. Ann had ended our daily telephone conversations with admonition, be up and ready by 8:00 a.m. Groaning and using both hands I lift myself off the bed and reach for my walker. The sharp pain in my hip makes me wonder if medicine is coming. Something for the pain? Please let it be something for the pain. With only an hour to prepare myself, I gingerly slip out of my nightgown which has become much too big and toss it on the overflowing laundry basket. I put on my worn but warm green robe wrapping it around me like a hug. I have found that one of the worst things about aging is losing dear friends. Not being to hold them and talk to them. This does not mean the phone never rings. It just that the calls are from scammers and solicitors. I can usually expect the first at 8:30 a.m.

    Making my way to the bathroom, the heaviness between my thighs tells me that while I slept all through the night, my bladder did not. Changing my adult briefs has become a new   addition to my morning routine. The clock in the bathroom says it is 7:30 a.m. Just enough time for a “bird bath” at the sink. I had promised Ann I would never shower by myself since THE FALL. I quickly run a comb through my thinning grey hair, brush my teeth, apply deodorant, and successfully wrestle with my bra. I put on my best outfit in case of a doctor’s appointment. I complete my ensemble with sensible walking shoes and my favorite gold hoop earrings. A birthday gift from Ed. Quite different from my working days as a paralegal for a large firm. A quick glance in the mirror causes me to do a double take. I now look so much like Mom. Funny that I never noticed the resemblance before

    The living room is a repository of memories. Our wedding picture from sixty years ago. Ann and Brian’s thirty years later. How thrilled I was that she wore my veil. On the fireplace mantle sits a beautiful blue Venetian vase purchased on a cruise to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary. Above the sofa, a winter landscape bought on our honeymoon in Vermont. Along the stairway hang Ann’s baby picture along with her high school and college graduation portraits. A curio cabinet brimming with memorabilia from family vacations and treasures discovered antiquing. Each item has its own story. Tales Ann and Brian patiently tolerate although they have heard them countless times. I have caught them rolling their eyes. On tables and shelves perched like birds are pictures of the grandchildren Abby and John from birth to college age. The newest addition is John and Jen’s wedding picture. I will be a great grandmother in October. Something to look forward to. My daughter is already occupied preparing for the baby and Jen has asked her to care for the baby two days a week to save on childcare. In addition, Ann is a successful realtor and has recently intimated that the house is becoming a challenge to manage. Looking at dust-covered furniture, windows in need of replacement, peeling paint, and a box of unopened mail she may have a point. I had depended so much on Ed who paid the bills, maintained the cars and was handy with home repairs, and I now find myself depending on Ann and Brian. As someone friends describe as adventurous and independent, this is unfamiliar and frightening territory. The sound of a motor draws me to the large picture window. Are they going to mow the lawn today? Is that what I was to remember? Seeing only my car in the driveway tells me the answer is no. The clock on the mantle chimes. The time is 7:45a.m.

    As I make my way to the kitchen, I fill a glass of water and take my pills. Glaring from the container is medicine I neglected to take last night. Forgetting is becoming too frequent. I do remember Sunday pancakes, huge holiday meals, and Ann doing homework at the heavy round oak table. After Ed retired, we enjoyed tea while doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and watched Jeopardy as we ate dinner, I certainly will never forget finding him lying on the kitchen floor three months ago. As I reflect on growing older, I realize that it also affects Ann. I see the strain on her face and the worry in her eyes as our roles are reversing. On the stove sits a scorched tea kettle, further evidence that my memory has declined. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Outside the door is a woman dressed in scrubs with a pleasant and broad smile. The clock of the microwave switches to 8:00 a.m. I open the door to hear her say, “I am Sandy from Safe at Home.” “How can I help you today?” “First a cup tea please”.