Since Mom’s amnesia and inability to walk, I’ve visited nearly every day, first in the hospital, then in the nursing home, now at the house she shares with my sister, Katrina.

On the bus it’s an hour and a half each way, minimum, and between the bus rides I spend several hours with Mom. We do not discuss philosophy. Our most interesting conversations wouldn’t interest you at all, dear reader, as I ask about her childhood memories and such, hoping to rebuild the damage in her head, and we exercise, hoping to repair the damage to her legs.

Mostly, though, Mom sleeps, or sings hymns. Sometimes I sleep, too. Sometimes I sing along. “And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own…”

I low-key enjoy these days with Mom, but it’s exhausting, and leaves me mentally empty by the time I get home. Every day.

When I’m tempted to feel sorry for myself, I remember that Katrina has it far worse. Living with Mom, she tends to her all the time I’m not there. Getting Mom off the couch and onto the commode is more difficult for Katrina than for me, and often she can’t do it. When that happens, Mom sits in her soiled diapers until Doug gets there.

Of course, it’s most difficult for Mom herself.

Slowed by her age and recent health issues, she rarely gets on my nerves like she used to, but after spending hours with her every day for two months, and all those tedious butt-numbing bus rides, I’m low on energy, with no interest in writing. That’s why this blog is basically dead, or pretty close.

Things will pick up again — fresh posts, maybe even several days a week — once Mom’s recovered enough that Katrina can care for her without my daily help. But I’ve been more and more pessimistic about when that might be.

Several days ago, Katrina broke her arm, which makes things even worse. Wearing a cast, her just-barely ability to hoist Mom to her feet has been cut in half. She simply can’t do it, so Mom is stuck in whatever chair she’s in, until I get there.

If I’m hours away, Katrina calls a friend of Mom’s, who can be there in half an hour, unless she’s out of town. On Wednesday, after I’d gone home, Katrina knocked on a neighbor’s door, and two strangers (a mother and her pimply teenage son, as Katrina told it) came over and pulled Mom off the couch and into her walker.

During my visit the next day, Katrina & I brainstormed how to get Mom standing when I’m not there. We’ve been exercising with her, and Mom gets physical therapy (one damned day a week), and she is getting stronger, but not strong enough. We’ve tried very thick cushions to get her sitting an inch or two higher, because sitting higher makes standing easier, but none of these tactics seemed to be helping.

Our bright idea on Thursday was to put risers under the couch — it already had three-inch legs, and now they’re on four-inch risers. But still, when Katrina tried helping Mom off the couch, they couldn’t do it.

And here’s where some sunshine bursts through.

During my long bus ride home, Katrina texted that Mom had gotten herself off the couch — without any help at all. Who knows how and why? Katrina hadn’t even been watching.

Whatever’s the why, Mom’s success standing is huge news. She hadn’t stood without help since before her surgery in March, when Mom’s health went to hell.

Good news continued through the evening, with texts telling that Mom had gotten up again, to switch from the couch to a chair, and then stood from the chair and walked to her bed. This, after several nights when Mom slept on the couch, because when I wasn’t there, nobody could get her standing to walk to her bedroom.

This morning, Mom got herself off her bed, walked into the bathroom, and took a shit. Seriously, alert the media. It’s the first time she’s used a porcelain toilet in two months — everything since March has been in diapers, or on a portable commode.

For a week, we’d planned that today would be the re-launch of our twice-monthly family breakfasts at Mrs Rigby’s Diner, but all three of us — Katrina, me, and Mom — knew that the risk factor was not zero. Getting Mom into her wheelchair, rolling her out to the car, getting her up from the chair and into the car, then back in the wheelchair for the restaurant, then into the car again, then into the wheelchair again at home and up the (new) ramp into their living room — at every transition, there’s the possibility that something could go wrong, and Mom could land in a crumpled, painful, possibly broken heap on the ground.

I cannot stress enough that neither Katrina nor I know what we’re doing, helping a disabled woman to stand. There’s been no training. We’re making this up as we go.

But Mom’s pretty stable when she’s walking, and I’d be there to help her through all the ups and downs, and I haven’t dropped her yet, so we did it. Or rather, Mom did it. For each and all her transitions, she stood with either no help, or minimal help from me — so little help that I’m sure Katrina could’ve managed it without me.

Breakfast was great, spirits were high, because Mom can now get herself standing, provided she’s on a tall enough chair, and/or there’s someone to help yank her up. Her head is still foggy, but that’s recovering too — she’s more lucid than a week ago, which was more lucid than the week before that.

Which means, Mom is borderline back.

I’m still going to be at their house, helping any way I can, for several hours daily. That won’t stop until I’m not needed. If you’d asked on Wednesday, I might’ve guessed that would be August, or September, October… This afternoon, it feels like “not needed” might be mere days away.

And jeez, I would love to have my lazy, good-for-nothing, plenty-of-time-for-so-so-writing-life back.

5/15/2026

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TUESDAY — Walking around town, unwinding from too much work for too many days, I started saying out loud, “Holy moly,” and soon, “Holy moly!” with an exclamation point.

Call it silly, stupid, childlike, pathetic — choose your adjective. They all apply. I was saying and shouting “Holy moly!” for no reason, but if you try it yourself you might agree that it’s fun to say. Go ahead, say it — say “Holy moly!” out loud, in an amazed tone of voice.

I said it on the sidewalk, shouted it at the bus stop, whispered it on the bus, and said it again in the store, at the park, on the subway platform, and on the subway. When I got home, I shouted it from the fire escape, “Holy moly!” and people on the street looked up. Everywhere else I shouted it, some people stared, and most people tried to ignore me. The response is only some of the fun, though. It’s fun saying “holy moly,” even if nobody notices but me.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Coming into the hotel, I observed a probable violation of city, state, and federal law: A woman was at the registration desk, inquiring about a room, and Mr Patel told her, “We have no vacancies.”

That’s not true. 410, down the hall from my room, is still empty, and I saw the guy in 402 carrying stuff out this morning.

It’s illegal, and ought to be, for a landlord to refuse tenants based on certain factors, and that woman was black.

Still, sometimes it’s not about color or gender, even if it’s a black woman. The landlord did the right thing, I’d say. That lady’s skirt was too short, her boots too shiny, her face under extreme makeup… She was a hooker, I think, and I think Mr Patel thought so too, but this is not a hooker hotel.

Sorry, but life is a series of snap judgments. If it wasn’t, everything would take too long.

Goes without saying that prostitutes perform a valuable public service, often under unpleasant circumstances or customers, and their work should be respected and shouldn’t be illegal.

Once upon a bad time, though, I lived in a hooker hotel, and I would prefer not to again. If that woman rented a room here, it would be unpleasant for everyone on her floor.

Whatever agency you’re supposed to call to report the crime I witnessed, will not be getting a call from me.

♦ ♦ ♦  

WEDNESDAY — I just met the man who lives in the next room. Through the thin, hollow walls, many times I’ve heard his Mexican soap operas. I’ve heard him moaning and masturbating too, though he doesn’t do it loudly. To eavesdrop, I need to turn my radio off and be very quiet myself.

I was coming back from the toilet when he came bounding up the stairs, carrying crutches, so we said hello, shook hands, traded names, and I immediately forgot his but still remember mine. Then he unlocked his door and went into his room.

He’s built beefy and wasn’t limping, so I wondered but didn’t ask, what’s with the crutches? And what was that guy’s name again? Dang, can’t remember. To me he’ll always be Mr Mexican Soap Operas Too Loud. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Must’ve bitten my tongue in my sleep last night. There’s been a bit of tongue-flesh hanging loose from the underside, hurting slightly but mostly just annoying me cuz it feels funny.

You don’t think much about your tongue, but you get used to its shape, and today it’s been shaped wrong, with an extra flap slapping against the inside of my lip.

Last thing before turning in, I stuck out my tongue and examined the flesh-flap hanging off it. It felt huge in my mouth all day, but looking at it in the mirror it was tiny, the size of a piece of rice, so carefully I cut it off with my toenail clippers. They’re also tongue-nipple-clippers.

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If you need crime in the streets of San Francisco, or a sweet cast of dozens from Tales of the City, change the channel. Nothing that interesting happened here today. T’was a mighty mellow Monday. All the drama was interior.

Someone was taking a shower this morning, but besides briefly wondering whether it was a man or a woman, I gave it little thought, as I stepped into the shared john and dropped trou, settling onto the porcelain to gently grunt for a few minutes. I’d brought the week’s AVA, and was somewhere in its early pages when whoever was in the shower came out and dried him or her self and left.

Soon enough someone else came in, and again I wouldn’t know who. The stalls have doors, and the people showering almost never say, “Hello, whoever’s pooping.” I’m pretty much the only one who says that, when I come in for a shower.

The shower started again, and again I briefly wondered who’s naked a few steps from me. It’s an unpleasant wondering, though, as the gender split in the building is about 95% men, and of the 5% women who live alone here they’re all of your grandmother’s vintage, same as most of the men.

So I read my paper and did my business, and eventually finished and flushed. That’s what polite people do, and so do I.

As my poop swirled away, there came a startled yelp from the man in the shower, and I realized I’d drawn all the cold water to the toilet, leaving all the hot water in the shower. “Dannit,” he shouted.
If intended as a gag it would’ve been funny, but it wasn’t intended as anything but a thoughtless flush, so I shouted, “Sorry, dude,” and he laughed.

Wiping and powdering my behind, I pondered the Emily Post of it all. What is the polite thing to do in such a situation? I could’ve announced my intent to flush before flushing, so anyone in the showers could step to the side or twist the nozzle to the wall.

Or perhaps foregoing the flush is the right thing to do under such circumstances. Unflushing would make the room stink worse and worse as the full bowl simply sits there, but nobody’s shower would be uncomfortably interrupted.

I’m still arguing amongst myself between these two options, but when it’s decided, my plan is to type and post an official-looking index card in each stall, making my choice seem ‘official’. People will follow almost any ‘rule’ posted almost anywhere.

Her name popped into my mind, so I might ask Emily Post’s perspective, before deciding. My almanac says she died in 1960, but I think she’s still answering questions. At least, I still see her byline in the paper, so they must’ve found some other woman to play the part.

♦ ♦ ♦  

This being Monday, I worked my weekly shift at the magazine. In some ways, Black Sheets is like any other office job — the phone rings and I answer it; orders come in the mail and I package them and send them; numbers and names and addresses need to be keyed into databases; there’s a filing cabinet where things must be kept alphabetically, so I sing the song from kindergarten to remember whether K comes before J or J before K, and I rarely get the letters wrong.

When the song ends, “Now I know my ABCs, tell me what you think of me,” everyone tells me what they think of me, which is rarely flattering and often a laugh. Today’s answer involved Steve dumping a bag of popcorn on my head.

Also unlike an ordinary office job, draining and hosing out the hot tub is one of my duties, as is taking out the trash and tidying the beds in the basement, which is called the dungeon for reasons obvious if you’ve seen it.

A basement is where the lawn mower waits between mows, washing and drying machines wash and dry, and there’s an ironing board, and maybe Dad’s tool shop. A dungeon, or at least ours, is quite different: it has whips on the walls, chains screwed into the ceiling, an iron mask, a rack that rises and falls, futons and mattresses scattered about the floor, jail cells that actually lock, and penis-sized holes between the rooms.

I got curious and stuck my willy through a hole in the dungeon wall once, but I was the only one in the dungeon at 1:15 on a Monday afternoon, so nothing glorious happened.

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