I'm trying to recruit one of my kids to help me get my mother to the P.E.O. meeting on Friday, the first one since May 5, the last one until October. I can't get Mom in and out of the car because I'm only two weeks past my hysterectomy--no heavy lifting.
One daughter has to work at 11:30 am on Friday, the other at 11 am. They are both college students home for the summer.
They usually get up at 10 am, having been up until 1 or 2 am, so one of them has to adjust her lifestyle for Grandma unless I give up and locate some taxi that can take a wheelchair.
"Why does Grandma have to go to P.E.O.?" asks Marie.
"She enjoys it," I argue. "She doesn't have that many things in her life, and she gets bored. I can pay you because otherwise I'm going to have to pay either a caregiver or a taxi driver."
"You don't have to pay me," moans Marie. "I can do it."
"Really? That would be great. But I will pay you, really."
"I don't want to fight about something so trivial!" she shouts.
A P.E.O. meeting trivial?
This meeting is the almost biggest event in my life for the whole month of June. I've been calculating how to get there, how to get Mom there, in spite of the ban on me doing any lifting. It's been on my calendar for two months.
And don't get me started on how much it means to Mom. She is bored. She hasn't left her building since May 18 except for one ride around the block in her wheelchair.
One way or another, we will get there.