Utter madness

“Welcome to my life — utter madness,” texted my niece from Fort Lauderdale.
I planned to fly there to visit my niece. An annual surgical-strike, four days, down tomorrow, March 22nd, then back home Monday, March 26th.
Last year was my first try, after flying to my deceased wife’s mother’s 100th birthday in Deland, FL two years ago. Everything had to be rigorously planned to avoid unpredictables. My confidence is marginal. —A) No more cheering-section (my wife), and —B) my stroke 25 years ago.
Loss of my wife was more influential. My younger sister’s oldest son married shortly after my wife died. I lacked gumption to attend; doing so woulda meant numerous phonecalls, plus plane-changes along the way. Plus a tiny cigar-wrapper TurboProp to Lynchburg, VA. Driving there was beyond-the-pale.
Primary was the fact my wife died = I was a wreck. Phonecalls are challenging: I have slight aphasia, a stroke-effect. Mainly stuttering and difficulty getting words out. My wife made phonecalls.
A nephew, my northern DE brother’s only child, also got married, but immediately after my wife died. I could attend that, and did. It was just a day-long drive.
Last year’s trip to Fort Lauderdale became an immediate hairball: a tire went flat the day before my flight. I had to drive to the airport on the mini-spare, the donut. 50 mph max.
And once down there my trip became Smartphone-city. I used GPS to get from the airport to my niece, amidst a torrent of texts and phonecalls.
“Giving other drivers a break may be okay where you come from, but not in south FL. Don’t let anyone cut in front of you — PUT THE HAMMER DOWN!”
And “Why Commercial Boulevard instead of Cyprus Creek? Yer GPS is WRONG. We never go that way.”
Then “Turn right on 12th!”
“Too late! I’m in the middle lane and already half-way through the intersection.”
“Cut-cut-cut! Engage Connor-Jeans (‘genes’). Everyone does that here in south FL. Be assertive!”
I portray this to be worse than it actually was. It became a wild rocket-ride in a creme-white rental Cherokee, GPS lady quietly nattering on my iPhone: “turn-right; straight on Commercial,” etc, etc. Try to -a) not get lost, and -b) avoid crashing mightily in flames.
My mother’s maiden-name was “Connor.” She could be very Irish. My niece’s mother, also my sister, was very much a “Connor” = take action! I’m more like my paternal grandfather, also a “Robert.” Anyone named “Robert” in my father’s family was automatically despicable. This included my “Uncle Rob,” my grandfather, and of course me. But I was despicable to my parents, not my grandparents. My “Uncle Rob” was in deepest doo-doo with my grandmother, perhaps because he sold Fords instead of Chevrolets. (I’m not making this up!)
I got there; I successfully located my niece in deepest, darkest south FL. Tiny bungalows cramped will-nilly with bathtub swimming-pools, all awaiting the next hurricane or rising sea-levels.
The trip became multiple misplaced driving-glasses, all recovered. Plus a weekend trip to a Googled Urgent-Care to treat a swollen fingernail. 145 smackaroos.
Now to try again. Allegiant no longer flew to Fort Lauderdale, only Orlando-Sanford. Check out flights to Fort Lauderdale, Delta/American/United all involved cigar-wrapper TurboProps out of Rochester, plus Jet-Blue wanted a fortune. Then wait hours in JFK/Philly/Atlanta for a connecting flight.
Southwest had actual airliners out of Rochester. They could get me to Fort Lauderdale with a connection at Baltimore-Washington, except departure was at the crack-of-dawn. Southwest is also cattle-car seats.
I haven’t done a change-planes since my wife died. But it seemed do-able. The wait was only an hour or two.
Then the madness began. I happened to reconcile my credit-card statement, and wondered what two transactions were. I thought they might be legit, but my bank declared them fraudulent, and froze my account.
Great; I planned to use that credit-card in Fort Lauderdale. Despite my difficulty making phonecalls, I called my hotel in Fort Lauderdale wondering what I should do.
“Can’t they overnight you a replacement card?”
“I already tried that. I gotta be here to sign for it, and I got other appointments. I know I have a HUGE IRS tax-refund in my checking, so how about a blank check?”
“No personal checks.”
“Yer getting my Irish up,” I commented.
“Sorry Mr. Hughes.” Click!
Before this trip I was feeling scared. Now I was mad. Connors never get angry; instead they get mad. I’m not much a Connor, but something is in there.
I called my credit-card bank: they promised a new card overnight.
The insanity got worse. My motorized garage-door began acting wonky. No water was in a toilet-tank; it wouldn’t flush. And now this morning it sounds like a nor’easter is cancelling my connecting flight to Baltimore-Washington.
I’m told it’s my politics and religion, topics I avoid. If I would just become REPUBLICAN, and start going to church, all would be sweetness-and-light.
It’s gonna take a full frontal lobotomy for me to do that, at which point a friend regals me with “a bottle in front of me is better than a frontal lobotomy.”
I have too many tub-thumping CONSERVATIVE REPUBLICAN friends, and I don’t wanna lose ‘em. I also have many zealots trying to convert me. I don’t wanna lose them either.
The nor’easter is making things impossible. It’s not like I hafta be in Fort Lauderdale. So an entire morning got blown shutting things down. Car reservation, flight reservation, mail-hold, hotel reservation: all phonecalls, often into ridiculous time-consuming surveys. Never again do I call Southwest’s 800-number.
Plus texts and online chats. And madness on this laptop.
I glanced out my garage people-door, and there was my replacement credit-card. Those clowns had to UPS-express that replacement for a trip I had to cancel.
And of course “activate credit-card” online took me to Never-Never Land. I had to phone the bank.

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.