Church, bras, oxygen

Took Mom to church today. She looked good -- good color in her face, a nice outfit not diminished by her neon green running shoes. Good energy, too -- she was cogent and funny.

Arriving at church, I found a Lincoln Navigator -- just about the biggest car you can buy -- parked in a handicapped slot, no handicapped permit, no wheelchair icon on the plate. I have a handicap tag for use with my mom, and thought of leaving angry note under the wiper thanking the driver for taking the slot to protect the sides of the extra-wide vehicle. Maybe the driver had delivered a passenger needing more help than my mom, but tags are tags! But probably at church one should try to suppress one's the attack-dog instincts.

Back at her place, we ate at the grill -- pancakes for me, pizza for Mom, a salad for Julia. The nurse had called this week and said Mom's bras don't fit any more, so, up her room, the women undertook some measurements while I stayed discreetly around the corner, happy to be excluded. Mom wanted to go the store and get some, whenever that trip is made, but we negotiated that Julie would get a selection and bring them back to her, as she is not quite up to a shopping trip, putting on and taking off clothes in the changing room, etc., etc.

Leaving the place, I saw a woman in a wheelchair by the elevator, whipping a thin plastic cord back and forth, back and forth. It was her oxygen cord, stuck under the wheel of her wheelchair. Multiple ailments! Everybody there has them -- quite possibly, everybody everywhere does. I stopped, thinking I'd offer help, but her face was not welcoming, and it seemed like she'd figure it before too long. Being there, it's hard to know who would like help, and who would bite your head off.