"cats so, so far away: there, where at night Dr F (retired) coats himself with, then eats, his own poo …"
And then in the morning, _this_ morning, Dr F (retired) attempts to loot my gluten-free oatmeal made with lactose-free milk.
Standing beside the microwave, I look up just as he is cresting the wave of his blue terry towel bib which, in his tsunami-haste, has dropped to his feet on the abruptly vacated Residential Care Facility* dining room floor (the barriers of furniture and people having retreated in the drawback of his determination).
His momentum breaks at my side, his agitated face in profile, Dr F (retired) reaches down to the seat of my wheel chair on which I’d placed my breakfast, and scavenges my oatmeal.
A tug-of-war ensues: each of us clinging with both hands to the plate on which rests the bowl of (one would think) Lifesaving oatmeal.
S., one if the care-aids, intervenes and rescues my cereal just as pink-faced Dr F (retired) was gaining the upper-hand; just as my blue $2-West-Jet-blanket “sarong” was beginning to slip off my waist.
So, so far away …
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*how I got here is a traumatic story for later but it is generally a great place… so a traumatic chapter with a happy ending. It could have been so, so much worse.
