IN THE MORNING

I wake up, alone.

Because it's (less and less) clear to me if I'm capable of taking care of myself (if it's prudent) - there ARE unseen dangers; using the bathroom, boiling water, pulling up my pants... swallowing water. Everything I do requires focus and patience. I put up signs around the apartment that say, "CHARLIE, TAKE AS MUCH TIME AS YOU NEED".

So today, after days with my mom at sea, and a week with with my aide, Mary, I wake up alone feeling vaguely exhilarated.

(I guess I'm a loner).

I'm in the living room in the new hospital bed (stiff, homely with noisy motor) -my old bed, (antique, capacious and untouched in the next room).

I wheel into the bedroom to dress and stop to stare at the bed. The bed is a prize. High and wooden with clean deco lines, I covered it in a white, chenille, Martha Washington bedspread I bought from Bates Bed Spreads of Maine, on Ebay.

I have new respect for the bed.  The bed seems smug and confident. The bed seems to say, I'm fine, I'm better off without you. The bed has moved on.

But this morning, I wake up in the practical, hard, hospital bed in the living room. I wake up chilled because I can't get under the covers. It's physically impossible (for me).

When I get into the bed at night, my sheet and blanket are folded up at the top of the bed by my pillow.
I use the remote to make the bed sit me up and then unfurl the sheet and blanket toward my feet. I can never get it to cover my legs. But I have a talent for sleep so even though I'm cold and lie awkwardly constricted  with my arms wrapped around the metals side gates of the bed (it's a single, I'm used to a double), I'm able to sleep, deeply.

When I wake up, I find the remote. push a button and the top of the bed lifts me up.
I push my useless legs over the side. I grab the arm of the wheelchair. I sit up.
My upper body is unstable (like I'm being tossed around in the back of a truck).
But once I am right and still, I find the sliding board and put one end under my butt and the other end on the wheel chair and slowly glide into the chair.

As I slide into the wheelchair, I hear morning traffic on 42nd Street. The gentle morning roar comforts me. I know who and where I am.

I hear a dog yelping. I hear the exhaustive gunning and breaking of the M42 at the bus stop on the corner.  I hear the Falun Gong protesting the Chinese Embassy across the street. There is one last square of morning sunlight in the corner of the room, the last of the summer sun.

Looking out my window, I can see the color of the the city is changing; more black, more contrast, more saturation. The cool air warns, "Be industrious, Embrace ambition, Make a list".

And so I do.