POTTED PALM

I fall out of my new hospital bed and land on the hard parquet floor.
I'm not hurt but I cant' move. It's clear to me that my progression is moving because I can't really even sit up or pull myself along the floor to get to a phone.

I have to get to the bathroom.

I have rolled under a very large potted palm leafed plant in a big fat terra cotta container.

There is my emergency button - hanging around my neck - a sexy pendant , a necklace.
But I don't want to use it because I don't want to experience what I know will be the ensuing drama.

I lie there. It's around eight in the morning. I make various attempt to save myself. I can't move.
I push the button.

Ten minutes later the ER crew is in my apartment, commenting on my nice view, playfully chastising me for not wearing  a seatbelt.

And I openly weep. Because I have no control and there are strangers surrounding me in my apartment at eight in the morning. Thirty minutes earlier I was dreaming about summer stock.

MARY

Mary is my new (and my first) health aide, and today was her first day.

Mary works hard and has a meek smile. 

When she listens to my orders, I suppress a grin because I enjoy playing out the role of Lord of the manor. I am so excited to have someone do things for me and ask me what they can do next!I can't believe my good fortune!

Mary's from Trinidad and so I'm looking forward to funky eggs and Trinidad fried rice and macaroni pie. (She suggested these as possibilities).

As we were folding laundry, she told me she prays G-d allows her to follow her purpose -  helping people. She talked about "land marking" which has something to do with connecting to as many people as possible.

"In a positive way, I assume?"

"Of course, yes."

"And what happens if G-d doesn't allow you to fulfill your purpose?"

And Mary's answer is the hub to which all questions like that are sent.

"Only He knows his reasons, only He knows why."

LAKE GEORGE "BLU" (2)

We elevator down to the new restaurant at the bottom of my building.

The restaurant is called "Blu",  that's blue without an "e".
"Blu" is the fourth go for a restaurant in this particular space. But Blu is more upscale than the others. You can tell it's classy because The "B" in Blu (on the sign and menus and matches) is artistic and inky and blotty. It's terrifically artisian and spontaneous. And the waiters at "Blu" have accents and toady about like the place is venerated.

Blu is mostly empty because it's really at the end of nowhere. The whole block at the end of west 42nd Street has been reinvented - with glittering highrises and fancy parks. But the area doesn't lure the kind of New Yorker who want to blow big money on fancy Steak and Formaggio e frutta . People around here are looking for burgers and fries before they ride the Circle Line or tour the Intrepid.

But the owners of "Blu" were smart to put tables outside. I pass these tables every day (in my wheelchair) and I often feel I should divert my path away from the one or two outside diners so that they won't have to take in the sick and disabled as I wheel by).

Tonight, the outside tables are tempting and I suggest them to Car but we forgo them (too noisy and windy) - "the light's no good," and pick a table inside.