“I’m actually fielding this junk!”

“I worry about him,” my wife told others.
She died over four years ago.
I had a stroke in late 1993. It was serious, but I recovered. Except for slight aphasia, in my case difficulty assembling words for speech.
My wife covered for me, phonecalls and fielding hairballs, like the Social Security Administration.
Perhaps six years ago my wife developed cancer. I was told it was lymphoma, but guess it was breast-cancer at first — no primary site — that spread to her lymph nodes.
We sprang into action. Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce) in Rochester administered strong chemo that beat it back, so we thought she’d survive.
But the cancer returned.
I took her to all her cancer treatments. Driving for her, especially in Rochester, was intimidating. I used to say she was “automotively challenged.”
“How come you always know where we parked in this garage?” she’d ask.
“Simple,” I’d say. “We parked on the third floor, so we cross over, then walk down the ramp to the elevator-entrance.
Returning is also simple. Use elevator back to third floor, walk up ramp, and there’s the car.”
“Why do you always know to turn right outta this garage? I wouldn’t know right or left, and people would start angrily blowing their horns at me.”
“Right is south,” I’d say. “We live south of Rochester.”
“How do you know right is south?”
“Because that’s where the sun is.”
“What if it’s cloudy?”
“I been up here when the sun is out. I know where it should be.”
“I never could do it,” she’d say.
She thought it unfair I was always driving her to her cancer treatments.
So she arranged radiation at a hospital in nearby Canandaigua (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”).
She felt she could drive to that, but I woulda taken her.
We also occasionally used that Canandaigua hospital for blood transfusions.
“Theatrics,” I’d say. “I gotta wheel you up there in a wheelchair for the Emergency-Department to ascertain things are serious.”
“I ain’t usin’ no wheelchair!” she’d say.
So much for theatrics; she’d hobble inside barely able to walk.
I miss her immensely. She was the best friend I ever had. She actually liked me. Most didn’t — an intimidation gig. Mostly adults, like my hyper-religious parents, and/or other Bible-beaters.
My questioning things (dread) was a threat to their dominance.
So they convinced me I was a rebellious scumbag. —Like I’m gonna lead a rebellion. (Go figure!)
Then along came college, and my wife-to-be, and they all valued my opinions.
After college I had to walk out of my family, although I think my mother was depressed at losing me.
That made my father angrier still, that I didn’t return the Prodigal Son.
I finally shut him down. That was my bus-driving experience. It gave me confidence I sorely lacked.
Compared to some of the jerks I parried driving bus my father was angelic.
The other day I had to be hospitalized at that hospital in Canandaigua.
I have an inguinal hernia, and it inflamed.
Intestine had popped through the hernia, and was killing me with pain.
Just going to the hospital is a logistical challenge, since I have a dog.
I hafta drop off the dog for boarding while I’m at the hospital.
Fortunately a kennel is along the road to Canandaigua.
So call the kennel to see if they can take my dog.
I also have arranged for that kennel to pick up my dog if I hafta use the ambulance. —No ambulance this time.
And I’ve made so manay phonecalls since my wife died it’s no longer as intimidating as it was.
I’ve learned to mention I had a stroke, and may have difficulty getting words out, or slurring.
At the hospital they stuffed the intestine back where it belongs, and I was eventually discharged after the pain subsided.
Yesterday I fired up this laptop to stream a railfan site over the Internet.
I do that on Saturday afternoons because the classical-music radio-station I usually listen to (WXXI) airs opera, which I can’t stand. Murders, stabbings, gun-shots, jilted lovers jumping off 150-foot castle parapets into madly roiling ocean.
Or 350-pound stringy-haired blonds screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs.
Uh-ohhh....... Site alert!
Here we go. Engage brain-cells! They’re lobbing me a new website.
I tried to log in. CRASH!
I still had their old site on; I had logged into it that morning.
“Get temporary password” for new site. CRASH!
“Contact us.” My contact became a “ticket,” but I couldn’t see it. I was “blocked.” Hafta log in to see it, or any responses. Can’t log in.
My cellphone rang; it was from Ypsilante, MI. I didn’t answer. Who do I know in Ypsilante, MI? They probably want money.
They left a message, It was good old *******. (No names, I don’t want preverts hittin’ on her.) I called her back.
“Better I call than we exchange e-mails.”
We dorked all over trying this-and-that. But I kept getting their “404,” wanting me to log in.
******* put me on hold to ask someone about it.
While waiting I tried logging in from their 404.
BAM! Got it.
The old waazoo: try it and see what happens. (The way I learned computers.)
“If you’re still there, I’m in!” I shouted.
“Computers,” ******* said. “Sometimes ya just wanna throw ‘em out the window!”
“Not this kid,” I said. “I have too much fun with mine.”
She hung up. I’m now logged into their new railfan website.
No Wagnerian bellowing for this kid!
“I’m actually parrying all this craziness,” I thought later.
Hospitalization, ‘pyooter hairballs. No prostate, total knee replacement.
72 years old (soon to be 73), had a stroke, and no more wife.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one.