It's 5am at SFO. People have been lining up for coffee at not-yet-open shops since 4:15am
I promise myself I will stop with these early morning flights, then I do them again, sleeping restlessly for two nights: the first, to wake for the 24-hour check in; the next, to rise in the dark and make my way to a waiting vehicle. (My sister, who slept on the couch last night, didn't feel well at 3:30am so I called a Lyft.)
7am, LAX. The lines for coffee are even longer. I didn't realize when I booked I'd be up before dawn to fly one hour then wait for almost three before heading to my destination. My first world problems.
All of us were cranky yesterday. My father took offense at my trying to remove extraneous pill bottles from his dresser. The jumble was confusing his caregivers and they were setting the wrong ones on his bed table. He thought I was insulting his medical knowledge, and I was impatient to get things organized. My sister, who arrived in the afternoon, quipped that the berries she had brought were going bad and should have been cleaned and stored more effectively. I just said “Okay,” too tired to be offended at her audacity.
All of this after an aborted attempt to get our dad to a hearing appointment. This time I scheduled a wheelchair van, but before we could get on the road, the bumbling driver cemented his incompetence by not even trying to attach the wheelchair seat belt. Dad demanded he be taken out and he was right. I spent another hour or so making a complaint.
It occurs to me that my father and sister's squirrely attitudes were likely tied to my departure. I'm a task-oriented person with some juggling skills and the last two weeks provided a multitude of balls to keep aloft. Our tiny family, including our dad, is stretched trying to meet the needs of a 90-year-old mind and body. Each day offers opportunities – both amusing and touching – for patience and compassion.
I managed (barely) to steer clear of an eruption with my wonderful sister whose complex world view includes a range of astonishing miracles and intrigue. And I became a vessel of empathy for my dad, to the point I embodied his fear and frustration.
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Now it is 10:30am (Pacific time) and we must be over Arizona. I’ve just awoken from some deep place and cannot focus on my book. All I want is to write. It is as if the translation of mind to written word is saving my sanity, keeping me grounded while the world roils on in an epoch of turbulence.
I imagine my Southtown neighborhood will bring me back to normalcy with its errant Chihuahuas, Beto election placards, Mexican women watering, and breakfast tacos within blocks. This evening I will take a stroll with my old dog and greet my neighbors under the big Texas sky.
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