Big Blue

I was sleeping in the basement a couple of weeks ago, and I heard a loud crash in the bathroom on the first floor. I didn’t rush or worry; I knew what had happened.

My husband had performed an awkward pirouette and smashed his noggin on the bathtub. He was okay, as usual, but it was evident that the indignity of old age and infirmity were slowly chipping away at his confidence.

He was shaken and stirred but otherwise good for a few more miles.

I went back to bed, and I thought, “I need to have more fun.”

The next day, I put my beloved Subaru up for sale. It was difficult, I can’t deny it. I had worked hard to pay for that car and even though it sat like a stone in my sloped driveway most of the time, it brought me a bit of joy knowing that I could pick up and go whenever I wanted to. Those days are gone — at least for the time being while Scott recovers from his first knee surgery and awaits a second.

I wonder how it will be after the second knee is sliced and diced. He’s supposed to go back to work in September, but I truly have difficulty imaging it. It’s been three months since the first surgery and he still can’t do anything: not a dish or the laundry or even the simple task of letting the hound out into the yard. He still has to crawl on his hands and knees just to get up the stairs.

We hired a lawn service, a wonderful young man who does double duty picking up after Viggo, and then the mowing and the trimming.

The lawn service cost us a grand for the season but it’s worth it knowing that at least one essential activity is covered. It’s frankly a grand we didn’t have because Scott’s on disability, and I’m hardly working these days except writing the odd magazine piece in between carting him back and forth to physio, the nail nurse, and doctors’ appointments.

We’re counting our pennies once again just to pay for hospital parking, and wondering when tomatoes started to cost $4.99 a pound. I can’t remember the last time we had steak, and we’ve given up even the luxury of an A&W breakfast. (Since when has a breakfast sandwich, hash browns and coffee cost $30?)

I didn’t sell my car to pay the bills but I did sell it to have cash on hand for the upcoming months. My tidy little nest egg sits in my personal account ready for action, with me protecting it like the mother of a newborn. I have no intention of going on a vacation (can’t this year, anyway) or going to the track. I intend to just watch the money, proud of the fact it’s after tax money that’s mine to do whatever I want with it.

My nest egg will spring into attention if there’s an emergency, or we have to move, or the dog gets bitten by a toddler, of course. It’s already been helpful in a family emergency we didn’t see coming.

But like I said, I wanted to have some fun, so I bought myself a new chair. It’s a Lazy Boy but not one of those honking big Lazy Boys. It’s more like a Stressless Chair, small with an ottoman. The kind that usually cost $3,500 but mine is a knock off with a five year warranty in case the leather gets poked or ripped, or another derecho hits the neighborhood like it did two years ago.

My new chair is blue, and reminds me of the blue suede shoes I saw on the legendary Pinetop Perkins, when he played the Ottawa Bluesfest twenty years ago. He was old as dirt, about 95 at the time, and he existed on Benson and Hedges, bananas and McDonald’s (but even Pinetop might have balked at $30 for breakfast.) He wore all black at the show, except for his shoes — they were blue and suede and whimsical.

My new chair will probably last me for the rest of my life, and will follow me into any home I get put into — I will insist on it!

I intend to put many more miles on that chair than I ever did on the Subaru.

When I sit in it, it makes me happy. I can sit in it, and watch Trump destroy the world. I can watch my money account on the iPhone. I can drink a good long Margarita or a cup of tea in it without worry that I’ll void my warranty.

And I can talk and sip with my bestie in Stittsville, who has her own chair and calls me every Friday for Cocktails with Mavens.

I’ll never be lonely as long as I have my chair and a viable Internet signal.

I should be in a Bell Canada commercial, you know like the one where the old lady sits in her apartment on her iPad and waves at her grandson who is singing in a bar? Maybe someone can set me up, and the royalties can keep me going for a season.

I can watch the neighbours in Big Blue, and hug Viggo’s big stupid head without putting my back out.

And I can talk to Scott for hours, as we discuss the various methods of preparing chicken. Air fryer? Oven? On a sheet pan or dressed up with a nice citrus sauce?

Ah what a life.

I guess this is what growing old looks like for many people who don’t have money or resources.

Sitting in a chair watching the world go by, waiting to die.

At least I know when I go, I will go out in style.

In Big Blue with a drink in one hand, and the remote in the other.