Steroids, Priceless Pearls, and James Taylor, Oh Boy!

Dennis and I have a history of celebrating our anniversary on the wrong month or day. We also have had a few years where we didn’t celebrate due to bad health for one of us or sometimes both.

This year our 19th, we were making it happen, no matter what. Dennis saw James Taylor was coming to town on the anniversary weekend. James Taylor holds a special place in our relationship. His is the music we play when I learn to do nursing procedures for which I have no training. Medical people always do this; they just assume I can learn medical procedures with one demonstration or, worse, a DVD that others go to school for. Yes, I can master the skills, but the learning curve is tough on both Dennis and I. Anway, James Taylors’ voice is so calm and dreamy that he calms the shrieking voice inside my head that is saying, “You are going to go to jail for murdering Dennis” while I learn.

We wanted to go to the concert to celebrate our anniversary, but Dennis and I are always nervous about making plans we can’t cancel. But it was James Taylor, and he is 75, we decided to think positively and book the tickets.

Since we didn’t celebrate last year, we would do it right! A leisurely dinner somewhere nice in downtown Atlanta, which we never go to. We might even get presents for each other! Put on fancy clothes; I would wear make-up and the good fake jewelry, no Birkenstocks for me or support socks for Dennis; it would be an Anniversary Extravaganza.

22 Days to the Anniversary Extravaganza

We were in Athens at the Tax Assessors conference and out for dinner at our favorite restaurant in Athens, George’s Low Country Table. Dennis was tucking into his oysters when he mumbled loudly, “I’ve got a mearl a mearl in my mouth.” Sure enough, he spits into my napkin, a tiny pearl in the making!

I immediately Googled it, and finding a pearl, even a small one, is a rare occurrence and is supposed to bode good things to come. It is also a reminder of beauty made from comfortable things. I was excited and took the dull little baby pearl and put it in a bag in my purse.

The following day, Dennis woke up feeling horrible. He had a low-grade fever and upset stomach and wouldn’t get out of bed! I can count the times Dennis wouldn’t get out of bed. He missed the conference that whole day.

We stopped at the Urologist on the way back to Woodstock.

21 days to anniversary extravaganza

Dennis had a Urinary Tract Infection. No big deal. They started him on antibiotics and grew out the culture, and we went home.

Fifteen Days later to Anniversary extravaganza

Dennis was not getting better. The Dr. called and told us his culture, for the first time, won us a trip to the Infectious Disease Doctor. Booooo, another specialty Doctor has been added to our roster, and the new antibiotic made his tummy upset and grumpy.

14 days to the anniversary celebration ( morale was sagging, and an extravaganza was out of the question.)

Dennis was feeling a bit better but still nauseous and really tired. I was wearing out, too, because of a painful hip and no sleep.

10 days to the anniversary night out. We were going out for our anniversary because we had $300 in James Taylor tickets.

I have been hobbling around like Fred Sandford for about six months. Lifting the wheelchair ramp in the van for the last 9 years and doing numerous other physical tasks was wearing out my body, so that day, I saw an Orthopedic doctor. The cure was a series of cortisone shots and oral steroids. Boooooo. Auntie Lee-Lee treasures her sleep. Without sleep, my personality becomes much like the Quaker Oats guy, but without the yummy oatmeal, diabetes, or cool hat. Now was not the time for me to be grouchy when Dennis felt crummy.

Five days until we had to go to all the way to downtown Atlanta, the murder capital of the United States, to see that old goat, James Bloody Taylor, howl like a dying cat.

Guess what the Dr. did? He put Dennis on 3 days of IV steroids. Not the patsy steroids I was on, the big guns.

Both of us on steroids, together 24/7 driving to Godforsaken Downtown Atlanta to see a senior Citizen steal our hard-earned disability insurance money while he lip-synched.

Dennis has a long, storied history with steroids.

In an infamous incident, he backed up the entire parking lot at the MS center for over an hour because he wouldn’t move out of the cashier line until “Stinky,” an employee who thought that was an excellent vanity plate, drove his car out of a handicapped parking spot. Stinky was not handicapped, except for an incredibly low IQ.

Three Days Before the dreaded Anniversary we had to go to or waste $300.

Dennis and I drove downtown for three days for his IV treatment of Steroids. He didn’t sleep each night while the medicine coursed through his veins, making his heart beat a mile a minute and making both of us irritable.

The Last Day of Steroids and the night the we could get James ******** Taylor over with, go home and get back in bed.

The day started better than anticipated, I was doing Dennis’ hair, and he told me to look in the plastic bag in his backpack. I looked, and inside the plastic bag was a beautiful silver box with a silver ribbon. OOOOOOHHHHHH. I opened it up, and Dennis had made the tiny pearly he had found in his Oyster at George’s Low Country Table and hung it on a silver chain. It was the perfect gift. A reminder of what we try and do every day, make something beautiful out of discomfort. I love it and will always wear it. Never mind that he could get the pearl to the jewelers and back without my knowledge, and the ability to drive or use his fingers is a testament to his resourcefulness and love for me.

2pm: Dennis’s last treatment is over; we have four hours to kill until dinner. No problem, I had researched and found an excellent coffee shop nearby where we could have fancy coffee and pastries and relax. Caffeine for two people cranked up on steroids is a great idea, right?

Wrong.

2:45 Waze takes us to park in a parking garage? Hmmm. That seemed strange, but I did it. We approached street level in the lobby of a very swank condo. We followed the walking directions to my excellent find, The Llama Cafe. It’s not there. We wander. We finally find some police officers; they don’t know of any coffee shop. I say, “But here it is on Yelp as the coolest, hippest coffee shop in Atlanta, and Waze says we are right here.” Apparently not. The Police officers were indifferent to our plight; do they not take an oath to protect and serve? Dennis’ head vein started pulsing.

3:15 We gave up on the coffee shop and started trying to find the parking deck. Suddenly, Waze wakes up and says again, you have reached your destination! And we had The Llama Coffee Shop. Oh. It is not very big at all. It’s basically just your average small coffee shop with a few pictures of Llamas on the wall. We paid for parking for this? Dennis is eerily quiet.

3:45 We head to the parking lot. We enter and cannot find the van. YES!, I wrote the space down. This Parking deck is enormous, I am sweating, and my size 10 double narrow, only fit for orthopedic shoes feet hurt because I am wearing ” my fancy orthopedic shoes.” Meanwhile, Dennis’ head vein has branched into two pulsing worms.

5:15 I am at a loss. But wait, here comes my knight in shining armor, a parking lot attendant, and he is so happy to see me and help me that he comes running to hug me. It’s a big energetic, and too-familiar hug, and his proximity lets me smell that my new friend (boyfriend?) began celebrating our anniversary a few hours ago with a bottle of whiskey. Still, surely he can help? I explained our situation, and he told me he would help me find the van if I bought him lunch. Absolutely, deal. So, he started running, yelling, “C’mon, this way” For the first few minutes, I thought he knew what he was doing. But he kept going in circles and yelling, “C’mon, this way, you’re going to buy my lunch, right.” This went on for ten minutes or so.

Eventually, we passed a sign with a number to call for help. Despite protests from my new friend, who saw his free lunch slipping away, I called, and a very meek Concierge from some hotel showed up? Why, I don’t know? I don’t think she had ever been in the parking deck before, and my friend was scaring her.

5:30 The fancy concierge gives up and calls a guy on a golf cart. A handsome young man comes who actually knows what is going on, looks at where I parked, and knows immediately where I am and what the problem is. He drives me to the van. I am giddy with relief, getting closer to a potent cocktail and going home to bed. I call Dennis, “Where are you? I’m on my way?” He doesn’t know; my soused friend and the concierge lady have abandoned him.

I am not kidding; I can’t find Dennis.

Tonight is not a celebration; this is the wrath of God for some long-forgotten heinous crimes Dennis and I have previously committed.

6 p.m., there will be no leisurely romantic dinner.

6:15 I’m driving around this God-forsaken parking lot with my windows down while Dennis yells out, I am here, and I honk my horn. I finally found him.

6:30 We get to the nice restaurant across the street from the concert; the bar has no tables and no room.

By this point, Dennis and I, full of coffee and steroids, feel homicidal. Luckily I have noticed that James Taylor’s key demographics consist mainly of two groups of people, couples over sixty and gay women. This particular demographic is who I always seek out in a crowd. If I need an aisle cleared for Dennis’ chair, or he is stuck in the mud, or I just need help with Dennis in any way, these are my gals. Better than any men, they jump to it and get it done, no fuss, no muss, and never wait around for praise, like some men do. I saw a table of lady couples and gave them my I am a hopeless straight lady face, and sure enough, they cleared a space for Dennis and me in the bar and, when we were done, guided us through the bar and through the throngs of people on the streets, they probably would have waxed Dennis’ wheelchair if I asked.

James Taylor

We got there. Great seats, now start singing, you old codger, so we can go home.

Then…

James Taylor came out, and his voice washed away all the day’s frustration like a snow cone in the hot Georgia sun. A peaceful calm passed over us as we held hands. James Taylor’s voice is like Zanax for your soul. And when he sang Sweet Baby James, Dennis wept sheets of tears. You see, we have our own sweet baby, James, grandson, and there was a time when Dennis thought he would never live to see grandchildren. There was a time when he didn’t want to live to see his grandchildren.

This was a celebration, after all. WE MADE IT; WE PERSERVERED! It didn’t look much like the original “extravaganza,” but that’s ok. This is what our anniversary looked like, and we are happy to have it.

I find myself rubbing my little talisman, Dennis’ pearl, not for luck; I don’t believe in luck, but as a reminder to keep striving to make the toughs into something beautiful.

Next year, we will celebrate our anniversary in our bed with Uber Eats from a nice restaurant, a nice bottle of wine, James Taylor playing, and a stuffed Llama.

We may be resilient, but we aren’t idiots.

A few corrections to the previous Blog, now that my brain is not on Steroids.

1. James Taylor has never stolen anyone’s disability check.
2. James Taylor has never been found guilty of lip synching at a concert.
3. The Atlanta Police Department, by in large, is full of courageous officers, underpaid men and women, who risk their lives and put up with untold crap. Finding Llama coffee shops is not on their list of duties, yet they were still courteous and tried to help.
4. Atlanta is not the murder Capital of the United States.
5. Not all gay women are the can-do butchy type; I have gay women friends that make me look like a lumberjack.
6. The Llama Cafe is adorable, and the homemade crepes look delicious; we could not partake because we were saving ourselves for our fancy dinner.
7. Dennis and I have never committed heinous crimes (that we can remember.)

With love and gratitude,

Auntie Lee-Lee