The Blog of mamapolo

Today was the fifteenth day Tim has been back in our hometown at the rehab/nursing home.

I inquired today, expecting a rebuff, if there was another room we could move to, since Tim's room-mate, a nursing home resident for twelve years (which, in my mind, excuses a great many idiosyncrasies!) was there first, and had the bed by the window.

As senior resident, he felt, and rightly so, that he had control over the room's functions, including heat, light, and sound. He insisted the Venetian blinds be drawn tightly closed, day and night, allowing no natural illumination and creating a spaceship atmosphere. He does not like blankets, and sleeps under a sheet and a light chenille throw. He gets cold, so the heat was always set on "broil."

As an added attraction, he is apparently fascinated (as are most men) with remote controls, and uses them liberally. Approximately 4,922 times daily, he pressed the volume up button until his TV was screaming out the answers on "Family Feud" loud enough to be heard in Philadelphia, and when that paled, he hiked his bed up and down, foot up and down, head up and down, the bed's motor whining in protest.

I don't know if it was bothering Tim, but in my sleep-deprived and raw-skinned state, it was driving me to distraction.

I imagined sitting in that room was like being an embryo in the pregnant belly of a hot-blooded motorcycle mama, roaring through the night on her Harley.

Anyway, to my surprise, within 10 minutes of making my request for another room, we were on our way. His new room has no room-mate (although there is a bed waiting for one). We can control the heat and the blinds, and the quiet was blissful.

Maybe because I did not have to try so hard to hold onto my sanity for the twelve hours I was there, when I left this evening I discovered the answer to a mystery that has been bothering me for two weeks.

The mystery was: How come when I LEFT the rehab hospital, it was a mere hop-skip-and-jump to the main road, but when I entered, it was a long and winding road that led past all the convent buildings? Each night I mentally remarked to myself how amazing it was that night shortened the trip. Each morning I puzzled over how come daylight lengthened it. Was it something to do with one of Einstein's theories? I've heard that the sunlight bathing a wheatfield has weight. Maybe the sunlight drenching the convent during the day pressed down the road and flattened and stretched it? It seemed unlikely.

Anyway, tonight I realized the problem. There are (duh!) TWO entrances to the grounds. The first one I happen on on the route in leads to the spiraling journey. The SECOND one is direct and uninspired. Ah!

Flushed with having solved this conundrum, I exited the convent grounds and headed through town in the gray sluicing rain of a November night. At the red light where I turn toward home, there was an Oriental girl in pajamas (not the traditional 'comrade' pajamas of the Chinese worker, but ribbed white leggings and long-sleeved top cheery with bright yellow flowers).

She was standing in the almost-a-downpour, her long black hair clinging wetly to the shoulders of the pajama top, screaming angrily into a cell phone, the middle finger of her unoccupied hand thrusting furiously and repeatedly toward the moon.

So, either there was an enraged Oriental girl standing on a street corner in the rain making obscene gestures at the man in the moon, or I am very tired.

Or both.

Good night. I am only up to solving one mystery per day.

Mama