From My Prison Cell

When Ila Jean left the hospital, she was living in an independent living for seniors apartment building, The Parkview. It’s a beautiful place, once a hotel. I wish I had started writing the blog earlier, because that place is quite a scene, a Melrose Place for the elderly. Lots of strange and interesting people, lots of stories. Anyone who thinks that old people are boring and uninteresting, and I don’t just mean their past but their present as well, is wrong. As I said before, she was quite independent before the hospital and not at all after. She was living in a studio apartment, which would have been perfect for her, perfect for one. But the night she came home, it was clear someone needed to stay with her. So I did. And I never left.

So in this tiny, two-room apartment, we lived for almost two months. The kitchen became my bedroom. I slept on a cot mat, on the floor, in the corner. Apparently, the kitchen was located directly over a portal to hell, because it was at all times like a sweatshop. In the middle of December, I was still keeping the fan on and the window open just to keep it tolerable. The other room, her room, had to be kept at heatwave temps to keep her warm enough. I swear she must have no blood.

There was no internet, so my freelance work  came to a halt, and my online TESOL class was put on indefinite hold. And I, who uses the internet for everything, was cut off from the world. Thank you, tech gods, for my phone. I brought a TV for “my room” for some distraction, but there was no cable connection for that room, (no TCM!), and the reception with an antenna was next to nil (no PBS either). On Sunday nights, I would disconnect the cable from the other room and run it into the kitchen so I could watch my one joy, my one refuge, The Walking Dead (and Talking Dead) and not disturb Ila, who had usually just gone to sleep.

I rarely left. She needed to be watched like a two-year-old at all times, still does. The apartment became my prison cell, not much larger, food just as bad. Because I had little time to grocery shop, she continued to get meals delivered as she had before. And because she barely ate them, I ate the other half.

It’s a wonder we ever slept. The windows were old, and every time the wind picked up slightly, they would shake and bang all night like an enraged intruder was trying to break in. The garbage truck came daily, since the place creates so much trash. It usually came around four in the morning, crashing the dumpster against the ground again and again. Workers in the hall began socializing at the tops of their voices directly outside the door around 8 AM.

I had never been so desperately trapped anywhere, at any time, in all my life. I was ready to get the hell out of, well, hell. As soon as possible.

As of five days ago, we are now in the house my uncle found for us to rent. I have a bedroom, complete with an actual bed. A yard, two in fact, with a tree in each housing flocks of birds to sing me awake in the morning. There is cable and internet, or will be as soon as I set it up. And I am now more desperately trapped than anywhere, at an time, I have ever been in my life. Because at least Parkview was a short-term situation to suffer through until something better was worked out. But now, this is the long-term solution. I am chained to it, and there seems to be no getting out of it. No escape from this prison. None but death. Hers or mine. And some days I honestly wonder which it will be.

And thus, winter begins.