You Don't Know. . .

Being an optimist might help protect your heart.

The mind-heart connection: Studies have linked a sunnier outlook to a lower risk of heart disease, stroke and premature death. If you’re not an optimist, here's how to fake it.

This was WaPo.  I didn't get to learn how to fake it because I've dropped my subscription, but it is clear, as always, that the satellites are following me.  I'm always two seconds ahead of the curve--except in money and love.  

I got that far this morning, but I had to take my mother to an eight o'clock pain med appointment.  It is crazy to me that when we walked in, not having been there since January, the nurse or practitioner or whatever she is lit up and said "Hello" using my mother's name.  It is crazy.  I have watched this woman in the office, and she can be a grump, but never to my mother or me.  Today she took my mother's bp and asked some questions.  Then she asked how I was doing.  

"I'm great," I said with my usual eye roll."

As it turns out, this young woman started working in a nursing home when she was eighteen, and she did that for a long time before coming here, both in nursing homes and private care.  

"She's lucky to have someone take care of her," I heard for the ten thousandth time.  I did my usual head bob.  

"You need to take care of yourself, too," she said.  

Don't I know it.  

"I haven't been out of town for five years," I said.  "I don't need someone a few hours a week," and I went into my normal spiel of needing months and years.

"What about a long weekend?" she asked.  I just looked at her.  

"I still do some private care," she said, and she wrote down her phone number on a card and gave it to me.  "Feel free to text me if you want and we'll work something out."

Holy shit, this young girl was something.  I thought for a minute.

"I really appreciate you," I said, "but if I don't text, don't get mad.  I just. . . I don't know."

"I understand," she said.  "But you've got my number.  

The doc came in.  

"How are you little lady?"

He's a swell guy, all metro and manscaped, not a line in his face.  

He looked at her chart.  "How old are you?!" he grinned.  

"I'll be ninety-five in December," my mother said.  I don't know why she didn't just say 94, but. . . . 

"What day in December?"

"The thirteenth."

He lit up.  "That's my wife's birthday," he said.  "She's here right now."

There was a new lady sitting at the reception desk, pretty, blonde (like many of us are), and chatty with a strong southern accent that I took to be South Carolina, but maybe North.  

"She's not 94," I said.  

"No. . . she's not 94."

And that was it.  He sent the script in for another month's worth of very strong pain killers.  

"O.K.  I'll see you next month," he said.  

Cha-ching!

I stopped at the reception desk to make an appointment for my mother.  

"South Carolina or North?" I asked.  She grinned.  She was no kid, but my god she was sexy.  

"Tennessee," she said.  "Sometimes people guess Mississippi."

"You know why?  You rarely meet people from Tennessee.  They don't leave the state."

"It is beautiful," she said.  "My husband grew up just ten miles from me, but he doesn't have the accent."

I wanted to ask her to go out, have dinner, drinks, maybe smooch a bit.  Some people you just like right away.  

She talked to my mother.  "What's your secret?" she asked.  

My mother told her she worked out all her life.  Exercise and vitamins.  

"My son goes to the gym every day.  I should start going with him," she said.  

"How old is your son?" I asked.  

"He's eighteen."

I grinned.  "I was a checking to see how old you were," I laughed.  

"You're sweet," she grinned.  

That doc is sure one lucky guy, I thought.  She's a real peach.  

And so I got my mother back downstairs and into the car.  It was still early morning, a pretty day.  We drove back through my part of town, me looking at all the places I can no longer go.  

Here's a true fact.  Fifty percent of caregivers die before the person they are caring for.  I keep saying. . . . 

I didn't get to read the article. CNN charges now.  I was hoping it would be something simple like an apple a day, but Q sent me the answer--quit drinking.  He's righteous now having given up the booze and loosing half his weight and halving his blood pressure and getting a raise and thinking about buying a third house.  

Try not drinking when you are a caregiver and nothing else.  

Oh, fuck. . . I shouldn't do that.  

Anyway. . . my PMA left me last night.  I'll try some Stuart Smalley shit this morning (link).  

But here I am being all cynical again.  I've had a lifetime of practice.  I'm trying, though.  People who are simple minded live longer.  

See?  It is really difficult.  

Here's something I had to search for.  When I was fixing dinner last night, I heard a beautiful version of "You Don't Know What Love Is" on the university jazz station, and being busy, I asked Siri to identify it.  When I looked this morning, though, Siri had gotten it wrong.  Fortunately, the station posts its playlist, so I just went back and looked it up.  Oh, my. . . there are a lot of versions of this song, but this one strikes to the heart of the matter, I think.  

I know what love is.  Trust me.  I do.  I've just not been so lucky. . . or maybe I have.