I’m early this year, or I will be if I manage to write this page. Up to Friday, the fifteenth of September, 2017, I was moving right along to decent health. But on that day, something changed, when a careless or perhaps irritated cab driver threw my folded walker into the back of the cab directly into my left side (instead of putting it in the trunk with the groceries). Since that day, I have been an invalid, more or less confined to my apartment. Three months of no plays, films, ballet, opera, even dinners or lunches out, no visits to friends.
Yes, there have been a few visits to doctors, an X-ray, an MRI, even a visit from a doctor. But I cancelled a dental cleaning as not important enough (and now I’m a bit worried about that). I have many people to thank, including the heroism of Don Thomas who got me to a sports medicine doctor on Yom Kippur where I had an x-ray and a diagnosis that remained in place—an injury to the soft tissue around my left waist—until I had an MRI a couple of weeks ago. Then it was clear that I had also had an injury to a small spinal bone which was healing, and still a bit painful.
In addition to Don, Lucy Cajamarca, who has been my housekeeper for as long as I’ve been on West End Avenue, has kept me, my apartment, and the cat, Mr. Taksi, clean, sane, and even relatively cheerful. And then there’s Elyse Hilton, a writer and a friend, who has often anticipated my needs for company, reading, and literary conversation, as well as mundane help on the computer. And Paul Pombo, my accountant and good friend, who can unscramble even the worst of messes created by me and Microsoft 10. Always present is Helene Goldfarb, general guardian who goes to doctors with me and also cares for the Feminist Press, partly in my place.
Unfortunately for me, family members do not live in New York City, but in Washington D.C., Kansas, and Mississippi. Alice, like Ann J, is allergic to cats, and so their visits are somewhat curtailed. Most amazing was the visit at Thanksgiving from granddaughter and namesake Dr. Florence and husband Jason, who live in Los Angeles, so that I might meet their new baby, Paloma. And you know, if you’ve been reading my blog, that I never sent this one out. But I’m doing it now, and I’m trying to find a way to continue the blog, move it away from my physical illness and back to writing about books and politics again, or friends, some of whom are writers. I need the blog, even if no one reads it. I need it because I need to move my fingers as well as my brain. I need it because I also enjoy people who write comments. I wish some of you would be harder on me, would scold me for collapsing into mush. So I have Parkinson’s. There are worse things. I need some of that old fearlessness I once had. So feel free to scold me. I need scolding. Badly.
(begun in December, 2017; finished January 28, 2018)