The original Words for Wednesday meme was begun by Delores and eventually taken over by a moveable feast of participants when Delores had computer troubles. The aim of the words is to encourage us to write, a story, a poem, whatever comes to mind. If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please let us know so we can come along and read it. This month the words are supplied by Granny Annie and can be found here. This week's words are:
Here is my story: Somewhat unwillingly, I have taken on the onerous responsibility of helping out my neighbour, Pat. Unwillingly, because responsibility really isn't my favourite thing. I don't mind helping out occasionally, but long term, day to day, is wreaking havoc with the slothfulness I've become accustomed to. My days, once run by tight routines, are now haphazard, napping in the afternoons, staying up too late, sleeping in each morning. The tare of being responsible, being needed, is no longer comfortable upon my shoulders, as it was when I had small children depending on me. But there is no one else, apart from the nursing home staff, so I shall remain steadfast with my word, I will not let her down. Once the staff advise me that definitely she may come home, or not, I will revise my options, at the moment things are a bit up in the air. Some days she'll phone me and say "they've said I can come home as soon as a new shower is installed". Other days, she tells me there is sad news, she isn't going to be allowed to come home, which has me stomping about, arms akimbo, wondering out loud "how much longer am I going to have to trot across the yard, twice a day and feed that budgie." With a yawp or two thrown in for good measure, a combination of gulp at the thought of more responsibility and yawn because I'm tired of it all. I'm no savant when it comes to animal care, this is why I have a cat, who is largely independent, needing only food and water laid out. A bird needs a bit more. He likes to toss his seed husks around, and of course he poops all day, so the cage needs cleaning, paper on the bottom tray must be changed. Mitchell, the budgie, is a happy little bird, whistling and chirping, but he isn't quite used to me yet, my voice is not the same as his Mum's and of course I don't sit there all day to keep him company. He has a little radio, tuned to a music station, so he isn't too lonely, Pat always turned it on for him if she was going to be away from home during the day, so now I do that for him. Curtailing my freedom is vindicated, knowing Pat can concentrate on getting as well as possible without having to worry about her beloved Mitchell. Being mentally challenged, (although Pat herself says the word retarded), she isn't really capable of caring for herself anymore. But with a home care team and Meals on Wheels, perhaps she will manage. Or perhaps they will decide she needs to stay in the home. All in all, things are pretty copacetic around here. So far.