I’m not a child. Stop treating me like one.

I’m a man, handling my responsibilities, like taking my cat to the vet alone.  I arrange the payment with the vet and my beneficiary agent, playing email tag one afternoon.  The invoice was processed and the bill was paid.  The electric wheelchair got drenched in the rain.  I emailed the wheelchair vendor.  Parts were ordered.  It will probably be a week or two before the parts arrive to fix the wheelchair.  I knew what the problem was.  I wrote a newsletter for my care agency.  Now that’s being an adult.  Four hundred dollars sit in my dresser drawer.  I need food but my staff are too busy or there is only one attendant here.  Of course, my senile roommate has food.  His food fills the refrigerator.  I emailed a farmer from the farmer’s market to bring me some vegetables.  He bought them.  I asked for a BLT, but my attendant said it was against her Muslim religion to touch pork.  I wanted ice cream at eleven at night, but another attendant said it was too late.  I have to wait for assistance while my staff prays.  I’m an author with responsibilities.  Then an attendant says, “I need to respect the staff.  And no one wants to work here because of me.”  It should be a honor to care for an author.  It makes me wonder what I’m doing.  They don’t want me to be like my roommate, but they sure act like it.  New York is so close now.  Things have to change, but will they? 

And the beat goes on …

Life never goes how you plan.  Living in a group home with two mentally incompetent roommates, I lose perspective of who I am at times.  I’m tired of the nonsense I deal with daily like having to drive the electric wheelchair four miles to get straws.  I stared at the capitol, wondering why the republicans make it so hard to increase Medicaid.  Are we that greedy?  The answer is yes.  Some people don’t care.  I headed to the theater to see my first play for over a year.  “Welcome back, Steve,’ said the house manager.  I’m loved by many and I am an author. 

Laugh or Cry?

“Steve, you need to stop screaming at people,’ said one attendant to me.  “Steve, you have to get a tech to fix your Morse code headrest.  It’s broken and I’m not a tech,” said the same attendant.  “I’ll call the manager.  She’ll know what to do,’ replied the attendant.  I laughed and sighed knowing I am the one to fix it.  Luckily, another attendant came to fix it temporarily with a gator belt, allowing me to write an email to the wheelchair vendor to repair it.  He answered the next morning and it was fixed the next day.  Of course, the same attendant asked one of her co-workers, “Did the manager get a tech to repair Steve’s contraption?”  I laughed, knowing it was me, who solved the problem.  It is always like that.  I never get any credit from my staff for anything, but if I yell at them for a thing I won’t hear the end of it.  I’m tired of it.  An author shouldn’t have to live with two mentally incompetent roommates, who are “polite” according to my staff.  They don’t have responsibilities or make decisions.  Sometimes I want to die but I can’t quit now.  I’m an author. 

Lexie spreads her wings

My niece Lexie begins college on Tuesday. She is probably anxious and nervous like I was when I started the impossible dream.  Tomorrow tonight she won’t sleep much.  That’s okay.  Dream the dream.  Thirty years ago, I started my journey with highs and lows.  It doesn’t seem possible now.  I’m getting old.  I sit by the lake, wondering where did the time go?  Lexie starts a new chapter of her life.  I’m on the verge of publishing a book that will outlive me.  It is a scary thought.  Will I get a yes or be rejected?  That’s the life of an author.  So close now but still far away like a puffy white cloud in the sky.  Years of hard work to get to this point.  I try not to think about it but ….  Time will tell.  Going to college started it all.  Enjoy the ride, Lexie.