Titles, Inc.

No, It Won’t Turn Up

A sneaky rotten thief crept into my rehab room and opened my top drawer, looked into my tiny shiny black patent leather purse and stole my Chase Visa credit card.

This scum spent $416.98 at Walmart in Sherrilville, IN, $627.97 at Walgreens; address unknown and $2,502.46 at a Chase ATM in Merrilville, IN. (Who knew you could get that much cash from an ATM?)

When I reached into my purse for coins for the Coke machine, I immediately missed the blue card. I emptied the purse on to the bed; no card. I looked through the near-empty drawer; no card. Puzzled, I called Art who immediately advised that I call Chase to report a stolen card. How could it be stolen? Ridiculous. I’d feel foolish calling in a misplaced card. Besides here comes my dinner tray.

After dinner it was still misplaced. I phoned Chase who logically wanted the card number. I explained it was brand new, I didn’t even get a statement yet for the few inexpensive items Bonnie was good enough to shop for me.

With enough questions and answers they did give me the shocking news. Of course they forgive you the stolen amounts which had been added only in the last two days.

I took this information to the manager of the rehab facility and he was equally distressed and called the police. The officer said we’d never catch the person. They take this kind of job, steal what they can and disappear. “Worst are the caregivers in your house. All smiles and hugs, your best friend until they locate all your valuables and then they’re gone.” My shock registered on my face. “Oh yeah.” He assured me, “all smiles and they give them good care too. Until goodbye valuables.” He’s the guy in uniform. You gotta believe him.

It reinforced my decision to stay here until I can competently get up and down the steps and be self reliant again.

Of course the caregiver may not consider my wonderful costume jewelry “valuable”, but I can’t risk it.

---Florence

Rehab. Love, Mary.

Speaking of flowers.  I got a beautiful bouquet with a great card:

I appreciate your kindness and compassion.  I want to be like you when I grow up.  Mary.

Really, I had no idea Mary felt that way about me.  I was honored and thrilled (and happy that Mary lives miles away so that I don’t have to live up to that vaunted image).  But I showed that card proudly.

The next day, “Mary” comes in.  She goes up to the flowers on the windowsill. “I’m Mary. They delivered this to the wrong room.  When my friend didn’t get it, I traced it here.  But you keep this bouquet.  The florist is making good their mistake.”

I’m looking at this Mary dumbfounded.  “Does this mean you don’t want to be like me whoever you are?”

---Florence

What About Rent?

The ladies in the store said yes, they hired this very nice young man I recommended. Not only is he a University of Chicago graduate who worked in the U of C library, but he is Lauren’s friend’s son.

He fills in on days a lady can’t come in and it works out fine. Unfortunately he can only help out until he has to leave for his real job. He’s very excited about it. And what is it? A not-for-profit organization. Acting in a motherly fashion instead of a reporter, my first question was not “which organization,” but instead I asked sharply ,“Are you getting paid?” He said “Not much plus food stamps.” Food stamps used as currency? Well, why not. Everybody eats. Oh yes, the organization is AmeriCorps.

---Florence

Not Your Usual Volunteer

What a body!  She was tall and skinny as the proverbial beanpole, but with gentle curves where they should be.  She was covered in a black body stocking if that’s what you call this covering that makes you look like a naked body painted black.  She was stunning, long neck, smiling black face, small head topped with bright yellow tight curls.

“What do you do here?”  I asked.  I doubted she was a visitor (you don’t visit grandma like this) and she was too wholesomely healthy to be a patient.  She said she was a volunteer from Highland Park High School.  A Young boy nearby bobbed his head up and down “me too.”  I asked, “Do you know Natalie Shay, my grand-daughter?”  Of course they did, everybody knows Natalie, Queen of the Graduation Prom.  So we beamed all around and I rolled away.

I told Natalie I met two of her former classmates.  “Joanne is a model.”  Figures.  Absolutely.  “And she isn’t a student.  She’s a teacher.  She teaches Art History.”  Now that’s the surprise.  I thought she was seventeen.  I saw Joanne again.  She was dressed more modestly in a tight blouse covered with sequins.  I hope for more sightings.

---Florence

Rehab. Bummer.

Chemotherapy # 4 was a bummer.  And that’s too gentle a word.  Think of your most expletive word and attach it to Chemo 4.  (I’m thinking Rat’s Ass, something I’ve never said but it just popped into my mind and it’s perfect.)

Not only did it lay me low but I can’t seem to rally from it now that some time has passed. The doctor tries to reassure me that this is typical - #4 is cumulative and everyone has a setback.

So I was again this whimpering limp body doing a lot of sleeping, dozing all day long and restless at night.

I am recovering to where I get out of bed and sit in the wheelchair and I’m not always nodding off in the chair.  I rolled it out to the porch just now, with a book in hand, but boy it’s hot.  I turned around fast.  At least I’m moving in the chair again.

The oncologist and my concierge doctor say not to be discouraged.  Easy for them to say.  The victory now is getting out of bed and spending the day sitting in the wheelchair, after I have already experienced the glee of walking carefully up the steps in physical therapy.

Chemotherapy controls the cancer, but sucks up all your energy. 

I just checked the calendar.  It’s only been two weeks and five days since Chemo 4.  It feels like months.

Patience.  Patience.  I can do it again.

---Florence

Rehab. Orchids.

I’m beginning to understand the beauty of the orchid.  I always thought: dumb plant.  The long dead stick with a flower stuck on the end.

I’m looking at the one on the windowsill.  The stick curves gracefully at the top.  The large flower followed by two smaller ones and buds along the arc ending in a dip.  Lovely.  Even the baby orchid in its tiny pot, a heroic short stick with a cluster of three little flowers perched on top.  Adorable.

My window sills are lined with beautiful plants and flowers.  One is from Margee.  Young Margee from way back.  Way, way back.  Wonderful to get your prayerful message.  I don’t know how to reach you to say thank you.

---Florence