Pregled posta

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Yesterday, I asked a friend to check on Jean. When she arrived, Jean was dressed to the nines, happy, and looking as if she was headed out.

In fact, she was. On her own. She had convinced a kindly neighbor to jumpstart her car, which not only would likely have killed the battery permanently (hybrids can only be started so many times), but also could have killed herself (or worse, someone else). It's been well over 2 years since Jean has been behind the wheel. Her confusion over receiving her handicapped placard in the mail and believing it to be a driver's license makes clear she is a danger.

My friend explained to the neighbor that he could not start the car for her and that her driver's license had long ago been revoked. He agreed to refrain from doing so. Jean lost it. I mean really lost it. Lost it like she used to when we were kids. Screaming, threatening, saying nasty things. My friend said she really now understood what she was loathe to believe about the kind, spirited, funny, intellectual, lady she knew as my mother. It was not pretty.

The key, wrapped around her wrist, could not be secured. She was not letting go. So, we are (meaning I am) faced with a task I didn't want to do: move the car. This has been tried before. It's going to require, in my estimation, a either a thief that can hot-wire the car, or a cop willing to protect me when I try to wrest the damn key from her and get the tow truck to take in the vehicle. It's not the deal I wanted, but it's the one I have to make.

The photograph above is of Art Rosett, my contracts professor in law school. He was one of my favorites, and he died recently. He was also my Torah study professor. Sometimes he would give us difficult scenarios that involved a contract going off-kilter and, using the Socratic method, he would question us about how to get the contract back on track. Each time we'd make a suggestion, he'd bring up another problem our suggestion would give rise to. It was as if we were in a giant whack-a-mole (but with no stuffed toy at the end)., Finally, he would say, "Listen, you guys aren't looking at the obvious. Sometimes you gotta void the contract."

There's a contract we as children make with our parents. The contract is that they will tell us what to do until we're a certain age, and then we will leave. We'll visit on holidays, bring the grandchildren, and generally "stay in touch." There WILL be good times, a few disagreements, and a lot of tolerance for who we are. We will visit them in the hospital if they go, and we'll remodel their bathroom and pull up the throw rugs so they won't trip. When the time comes, we'll get them the care they need and they will be grateful to have such loving children. We will memorialize them when they are gone, mourning their loss and celebrating their lives.

The contract does not contain a clause that says, in the event of Alzheimer's, surviving parent (hereinafter, "Parent") will grow to hate attendant child (hereinafter "Child"). Child will only have access to Parent through third party intermediaries. Further, Parent may, in the event of Alzheimer's, choose to take no medication, ignore all symptoms, and spend her remaining years angry, frightened, depressed, and confused. Upon death of said Parent, Child will be left with the memory that Parent forgot that once they were close.

Nope, there's no fucking clause like that. Contract: voided.

I took these a while back trying out my reversing ring for my 50mm f/1.8. This is the closest thing I'll get to having a GT-R. It seemed fitting to put it on my son's rug.