On Friday I avoided opening the Blogger pages. I had to go and meet Mr. P., but a head cold descended on me, and I texted my counselor, asking to postpone our session 'til next week. He texted me back, inquiring, if I wanted to make use of the hazmat suit that he has! He was joking, of course, telling me that, if I had Ebola, I should just stay home: he wasn't that committed to his job! Its fine: I was happy to have a friendly "shoot out" with him!
I should've accepted the offer of a non-existent hazmat suit and gone to see him!
Sometimes I have a streak in life, when I have to re-do things two or three times, because nothing goes right! I force myself to focus and devise different methods to ensure that, at least from my side, necessary things will be taken care of. Yesterday showed me that, when someone up there decides to slam you with one mishap after another, there is very little you can do, except hanging on grimly to what's left of the order in your life!
I told you about my van. Its already 14 years old, even though it seems like we got it only yesterday! It has electrical problems, the engine mounts are cracked and, from time to time, various things refuse to work. We decided to wait with repairing it or buying a new car. Money is short.
I spent the whole day at home, nursing my cold, but towards the evening I began to worry about dinner. Cooking it was out of the question: I was too sick and, besides, didn't want to spread my disease around. Sonny affirmed his desire to clean up (I should've known then that, something was wrong in the Universe - he never volunteers for that job!), so it fell to me to go get some food. Roberta hopped off her bed, like a spring chicken, so strong was her wish to get out of the house, and we drove to a little Hawaiian Food cafe in San Lorenzo. I missed my turn on the way back and decided to take freeway. The traffic moved very fast, so we thought that, in a few minutes we'll be home, eating the ice-cream, which Roberta insisted on buying for the family.
Grrrrrrrrrrrr... thwok, thwok...
The van made strange noises and began to stall. I was in the middle lane, but managed to move to the shoulder of the freeway. Unfortunately, it was right where an exit began, so the place was super narrow, and the cars still came on from behind me with lightning speed.
I turned on the hazard lights and sat back. "Call Triple A" - Roberta piped in. I looked in my wallet: the blasted Triple A card was missing. No matter, I will just call the directory assistance for that number!
My glasses fell and ended up between my seat and the box in the middle. "Its OK", - I told myself - "you can still see everything". The phone tried to follow the glasses, but I scooped it off the floor.
I called the directory assistance. The phone cut out right when the automated voice began to give me the digits. I tried again. The number didn't work!
I sat back and looked at Roberta. "Something is going on..." - I said weakly. What could I do? I asked her: "Please, pray!" In my own mind I also prayed, asking God to forgive my arrogance or a misdeed, which brought this lack of the cosmic favor to us.
I called the police. The phone dropped the call again. I re-dialed and heard the lady-operator admonish me for not staying on the line.
"I did stay!" - I started to object. I guess, my tension was too high, because her voice became threatening, and she hissed: "Don't you yell at me!"
The woman who writes these lines loves to get into a good fight. That was not the time to do it! I bit my tongue. The operator assured me that, they'll send someone to help us.
We waited for a long time. I decided to try my phone again. The directory assistance, who, except for it's stubborn refusal to understand my accent, always comes through for me, this time let me down. It gave me four different numbers for Triple A, and none of them worked! I tried the toll-free directory assistance, and, finally, got the real number.
Before I finished that call, though, a towing truck showed up. The driver parked in a narrow strip in front of us (cars whizzed by, crossing into the next lane to avoid colliding with us and making me squeeze my eyes in fright). He told Roberta and me to get into his truck and began to hook up the van to tow it.
I grabbed the bag with food and ice-cream in one hand and Roberta's hand in another. Together we trotted to the truck, only to stop in front of the door and gaze in horror at the vertically positioned steps, leading to a seat w-a-a-y far above us!
"OK, Roberta!" - I plopped the bag on the asphalt and nudged my poor 81 years old charge towards the stair. She is pretty tall and smart and brave, but the muscles in her arms and legs don't remember, how to deal with the ordeal that we faced. She hoisted herself, and I placed her feet on the steps, at the same time pushing her ample behind up and up!
She was in! Now it was my turn. Ignoring my bladder's insistent urges and mind's uncertainty, whether I could do it, I pulled myself into the cabin. Sitting there next to Roberta, shaking like in a malaria fit with the truck's movements, I let go of my anxiety. I patted Roberta's hand and asked the driver, where he was from.
The attack of the negative energy was over. The driver took us and the van home, where I helped Roberta down (at one point she was literally sitting on my shoulder). I went to the bathroom and came back to see the van being unloaded. Before, I would've told myself that, I had to just stay with the driver, no matter, what my condition was. Now I took care of my responsibility and of myself, took it easy and in stride.
Despite the fact that, I have no car, I feel pretty good. What is it that Mr. P. always says" Ah, this: "Be nice to yourself!" What's the use in fretting and imagining the worst, as well as pushing yourself foolishly? This life needs strength and calm, and that's how we will roll from now on!