Welcome. To. The. Gods. Are. Bored. Arrrrghgghghghg! Too. Much. TaB. Cola. Three. Cups. Of. Tea. Equals. Anxiety. Attack.
Sometimes I can get cranked on caffeine to such an extent that I begin to ponder my mortality with a great deal of trepidation.
The Spare and I are reading a book about Hiroshima for her Language Arts class, and that right there is enough to get me going. I think deep in every atheist lurks a believer in immortality, and deep in every religious person lurks a scientific rationalist. You just can't sail towards death without a chill.
The tonic for moments like this is to focus on something in the here and now that will piss you off. Just can't laugh and throw on the big, broad, flexible outlook after three cups of tea and a can of TaB. It's anger or anxiety. Nothing else.
So I'm pissed off.
Mr. Johnson has a grandmother still living -- she is 94 years old. She went to the doctor recently for a checkup, and he told her that most 40-year-olds would kill for her numbers. She comes from a longevity gene. Her own mother lived to be over 100.
This is not the precise view from Granny Johnson's house, but it's a close enough approximation. Back in the early 1950s she scrimped and saved and worked her fingers to the bone so she could buy a little waterfront property. And she bought a doozie, a fabulous lot on the Severn River about six miles from Annapolis, Maryland.
I'm not much of a Chesapeake Bay person, having grown up in the mountains. But there's something to be said for strolling out on the pier, pulling up the crab traps, emptying them into a pot, and steaming your supper. And eating it on the picnic table on the beach, as the cruise ships out of Annapolis float by, filled to the plimsol line with tourists who wish they were you.
Healthy 94-year-old Granny has a gorgeous place. But she turned her power of attorney over to her son. (Not Mr. Johnson's dad) And this son wants to put Granny in a home.
Son says Granny's running out of money. He even cancelled her daily newspaper ... the one she read religiously, looking for grocery bargains and gossip.
Not surprisingly, Granny doesn't want to go live in a nursing home. Almost no one does, but certainly no one does who has a waterfront property to die for like Granny's.
The bored gods know that this is no time to be seeking any kind of mortgage. But for the love of fruit flies! What bank wouldn't give a 94-year-old a reverse mortgage on prime waterfront 40 miles from Washington, DC? Granny paid off the property long ago. She owns it free and clear!
One thing Granny doesn't qualify for, of course, is state aid. No wonder! She's a millionaire! But Son has not tried to find Granny any kind of volunteer visitor service (we've got a huge one here in Snobville). He moans about having to go see her to pay her bills, because he wants to take cruises with other peppy young retirees like himself. And he won't even consider a reverse mortgage or an equity line of credit. It's shove Granny into a home and sell the place, or nothing.
Last night Son yelled at Mr. Johnson's mom because Mr. Johnson's mom can't take Granny in for a few weeks just now. The funny thing is, Granny doesn't want to be taken in. Gee. I wonder why. SHE LIVES ON HIGH END WATERFRONT, THAT'S WHY! Why would she want to go spend weeks in a cramped condo with a daughter who's sicker than she is?
The moral of this rant is: Do everything you can to keep your loved on in his or her own home for as long as is humanly and safely possible. Because the clock is ticking, and your turn is coming, and your kids are watching how you treat Granny.
In this case, Granny's evil Son has no children. Which is even better, because when his day comes to move into the nursing home, no one will even go to see him. Why should they? I hope he likes stewed prunes and Jeopardy. Rat's bastard.