He lies in the dark all day and night. His rotund body, belly as hard as a rock leads the way. Mice scurry in the dimness. Joe reaches for the hot roast beef sandwich from a local bar. His eyes close as he chews. His one and only pleasure: food.

Medicine bottles line up on the table, his nebulizer, inhalers and glucometer. Used test strips litter the dirty carpet and sticky table.

This mean young man and cantankerous elder has turned into putty in our hands. He weeps as he thanks me for helping him with his medicines, for changing the small bandages on his feet. His hands are cold, his legs are stick skinny, his arms flaccid. He grabs the walker as he tries to make the 10 feet to his commode. He stumbles and bumps into the chair, the table, the litter.

A lady friend helps him with shopping and some cooking and commode cleaning. She is a friend who is a lady. She has known him for years. Syl has her own low income apartment in the old high rise building that borders the expressway. Taking care of herself has now become, for her, a day's work. She has health issues herself. She won't leave Joe behind. She won't leave him alone. Syl gets nothing in return except, sometimes, screamed at when Joe is at his lowest, when he is seeing the army on horses and the Indians with fire in their hands. His hallucinations drive him crazy. He knows they are not real but, he says, like a vivid dream, they haunt him worse than reality. They have their own meaning.

Last week as Syl returned alone from having her lungs drained of fluid, Joe yelled at her that his hip was so painful he could not get up. The nurses aide had to lift him entirley by herself. Syl said she was sorry. She is always nice, always calm.

Long, long ago, Joe had a wife and kids. From his stories they sound like a typical Italian-American family. Gravy and lasagna on Sundays, brick-laying and carpentry work during the week, trips to Atlantic City for a week in the summertime when the heat was too bad to work or cook or tolerate in the city. For reasons he can now not remember he and his wife divorced and he rarely saw his kids.

I wonder and wish I had the nerve to try to contact those kids. Two sons and a daughter that live their lives in whatever way they do with or without wondering about the father they never see, have not seen most of their lives, a father who got along for years without them, who probably didn't support them financially or emotionally.

I could imagine them walking into his house now. No matter what their lives are like it cannot be worse than Joe's, unless they are dead or rotting away in some alley. They'd see a house on a street that is broken apart, empty litter strewn lots, loud music from some houses, big pit bull dogs in two others. They'd see boarded up windows. Their father's house is barely standing. The dropped ceiling tiles falling, the hot water heater broken for 2 years now, the rugs dirty and sticky, the sofa sunken all the way to the floor, the mice running and climbing into the trash cans, the medicines, the walker, the hospital bed. They'd see Sylvia, a dark skinned black lady sitting in her own corner with her own medicines and her knitting.

I wonder if they'd be glad Joe is paying his dues or heartbroken as any human being would be. I wonder if they'd judge Syl or form wrong opinions. I wonder if it would matter to Joe.

Now, at every one of my visits he says..."this is no way to live", "I can't hear, I can't see, and I can barely move". "There is nothing left for me".

and I wonder...

Today the air was all of a sudden thick and hot. I forced myself to think about a day last week when hail tore threw the sky and bounced off the sidewalks until it piled up and caused congestion and slippery streets. I remembered a very cold day a few weeks ago. I was wrapped up in a down filled coat, a long scarf, and a wool hat.

Momentum helped me get out of my car and I flung my big green bag over my right shoulder..a shoulder that will definitely need Bayer Aspirin four times a day when I am in my 80's from all of the abuse it takes these days.

Hurrying, I entered a senior apartment building where the doors automatically open for you. AHHHH! The nice things about being old.

There was a bit of a commotion in the lobby. I was trying to reach the sign-in book and show the guard my I.D. card. Then I made my way to the line for the phone system. Each tenant has a code. Punching in the code allows the tenant to ask who is there, see you from their T.V. and then, IF you pass inspection, buzz the door to open so you can get to the elevators. (Sometimes a patient will say they cannot see me at that moment, to come back another time...) But not today, today I was granted permission to enter.

There was a line to the elevators, too. Walkers and canes and electric wheelchairs crowded the hallway. Some elders were trying to get into their mailboxes. Others were greeting friends. Some were making plans for the fruit truck's visit and the outings to the casino while their washed and teased hair stayed put under plastic kerchiefs.

"Oh aren't you so pretty" a little lady sang. "Thank you", I replied. I tried not to allow my head to swell seeing the company I was a part of...I was at least 40 years younger than every other person trying to stand there. We heard the "ding" and I knew it would be another few full elevators before I would get on...and the stairs in this building are only for coming down, not going up.
The building social worker was talking and greeting people by first names as she breezed through the corrider, her headdress flying behind her. I couldn't help but say to myself..."would the real Mrs. Harris please stand up"...I wondered what she really looked like without all that wrapped and draped fabric. Mrs. Harris has a pretty face, bright pink lips and jingly bracelets over hands that are henna tatooed. The exotic fruit among the shriveling prunes.

Finally, the elevator arrived with a final "ding" and I put myself way in the back to make room for the assistance devices. The doors were slowly closing as we all heard heels clicking to a slow run..."hold the elevator please", said a faked female voice. Those old people always hold the elevator, they never press the CLOSE button by mistake. I was in the back. I couldn't reach the buttons.

Arriving, in all her magnificent costume, was an elderly man, about 6'6" tall. He had to be 80 years old wearing a woman's wig, fishnet stockings, low heeled silver tap shoes and a shimmery dress. His beard was evident. His old grey-hairy fingers revealed as he removed the gloves to retrieve his keys. After a dainty sigh, his head and hip shifted to the right and his left arm held over his abdomen. The only sound was his fast heart beat. I was too stunned to laugh. Some of the others didn't even notice! A "Hello" here and there and then: "Have a blessed day". I no longer felt like the prettiest one in the group. I made a mental note to wear nicer shoes tomorrow.

I almost missed my floor and wondered as I passed shim..what perfume was he wearing?

Just what does that mean, truth?

I am having hard time with that one. The truth for one is different for another. What is absolutely truthful today may change tomorrow. Or does it not? ever? How we feel about things may change over time...does that make them any less truthful? Then? or Now?

Is Faith Truth?

Is believing in something truth? What about the exceptions? What about when that belief is not exact or when it does not fit a particular instance or person.

Can opinions ever be truths?

Many of my blogs are in search of truth. Some of them are taken the wrong way or may be looked at from a different point of view. But they are almost always a search for truth or for true meaning.

"It is one thing to show a man that he is in error, and another to put him possession of truth" (John Locke)...there is a subtle difference. How wide is that gap between an error in judgment and the truth? How can you make the truth be seen? Be felt?

What does it matter? or How does it matter?

Why are opinions acceptable for some? How does truth matter to only certain individuals?

Are politicians EVER truthful? What would happen if they were honest?
Are clergy almost always truthful? HMMMMMM. Or are they truthful like parents sometimes are/are not....little lies for our own good? or are they just as human as the rest of us?

Are we, as individuals ever really truthful? To ourselves? Our kids? Our parents? Our spouses?

"If any man seeks for greatness, let him forget greatness and ask for truth, and he will find both." (Horace Mann)
Really? Is the truth greatness?

"The greatest and noblest pleasure which men can have in this world is to discover new truths; and the next is to shake off old prejudices." (Frederick the Great)
HMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

Prejudices....well...that is a whole other blog.

"Adversity is the first path to truth" (my man Lord Byron!)

I do not like feeling adverse...I can't help it, though. So much of the world is complacent where they shouldn't be and then get crazy about things that are self centered or founded in selfishness.
Shouldn't truth seeking be universally good? I do not think that what is sought after for our individual selves, our own individual likings and conveniences is the same. This is not truth, in the biggest, most meaningful sense.

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything". (Mark Twain)
see kids!!!!

and telling the truth and truth...are they the same?

And I have a friend who said she doesn't really have deep convictions about anything. She really doesn't CARE about many things so deeply to have arguments or discussions or screaming matches. I wondered if not caring or not caring enough to voice your opinion with vigor is the same thing. I envied that control for a while. I wanted that...just like I want to not really care about the little old lady I see on Mondays that kisses me goodbye. I want to not care about all the books I want to read or all the things I want to know. I want to not care about THE future, my future, my kid's, the world's. I want to have three favorite foods and have them all the time. I want to not like to write. I want to be able to make love without feeling incredible love. I want to be able to see my kids go out the door and not really care about what they have on or what they are having for lunch. I want that care free mind. I want to drive through my city indifferent to it's greatness and it's equal sadness and then I don't...because then I'd never feel the depth of emotion I do every single day or the keen sensitivity of life. So I gave up envy..because just like jealousy, it is a wasted emotion. I want to continue to work on virtues and truth and the meaning of life.

I actually want to continue to fight and make people feel bad if that is what it takes for thinking to take place. For truth.

"The search for truth is in one way hard and in another way easy, for it is evident that no one can master it fully or miss it wholly but each adds a little to our knowledge of nature, and from all the facts assembled, there arises a certain grandeur". Aristotle

and if we do not seek the truth, what are the consequences?

You know how much I love my friends? I am getting emails from them complaining that I haven't blogged!
I wish they were the President of some Publishing company that would allow me to do this for a living.

There is a lot going on...kid stuff: trips, proms, report cards that sent me into a coma.

I have a job where I work from home and then visit patients in their homes and then report back to the case managers. Last week I was asked to work in the office a few days. Now, to any regular working girl this would seem like nothing but for me ...it sent me in a tizzy. And I have a feeling my job may be changing. I really do not want it to change. I'll miss my patients. I am also trying to figure out my career future, my kid's summer and my school plans (I was thinking about going back to school)(I keep changing my mind). It is easier just to not think about anything and go on with things as they are...but as you know I am a planner and not knowing what to plan next has me in a tizzy.

Another tizzy.

Then today, I had the bright idea to chaperone my 8th grader's field trip...all day long. I like spending time with my 14 year old. We had a nice day. BUT...it seems when my normal routine is upset or changed it sends me in a tizzy. Product of old age? or worse...I think I am turning into my husband. I've made fun of his routineNESS for the past 21 years...now I am worse than he ever was...my routine keeps me able to do the million things I do each week...and I am starting to eat like him (I actually have been saying "No thanks" to ice cream and cookies and meaning it) and we are starting to look alike...

Ok..enough crying in my soup for no reason...

I have blog ideas backed up in my head...and will try to get some of those thoughts out on paper/computer.

But thanks for missing me...

I would put my friend A's response to my blog about the kids of today but she sent it to my email address and I do not know if she would want it public. Anyway...I get all worked up when I have a thought that I think needs to be stated..and then I get someone else in a TIZZY...that is good ...if it helps us all think and learn. I do not like if I hurt someone's feelings or am too aggressive with my opinions...
My whole point about that blog was that the kids of today have no appreciation for tradition...BOYS and GIRLS...and I think that is a mistake. I think that when parents do not realize the horror in the loss of tradition it may be lost. And that will be a shame. I cannot envision a future for these young kids without traditional values and customs that is better than a life WITH all of that...that is all I meant. It is hard work to maintain a culture and traditions and families...I am just saying sometimes it is WORTH IT.
WE, as parents, have to teach Kids these things or they will be lost forever....

the Prestige...very good..about magic. Really like it. I like Hugh Jackman

Stranger than Fiction .. my favorite movie of the year. LOVED IT. About writers and life. Has an all star wonderful cast...Will Farrell is a new favorite.

OH and another thing...my mother says I misspell lots of words! WHAT???!!!
"Like you don't even know how to pronounce them correctly".....

and you wonder why I am a little nuts!

sorry mom...............................