This was going to be an essay about disappearing maple syrup. It was to be about the amusing bumblings of an octogenarian, but bumble is as bumble does.
Yes, I am the old woman in question. In spite of my advanced years (88), I do very well, thank you. Seriously, I write, I paint and sell art, I read voraciously, and cook, clean and drive. Not much has changed since the '70s when husband #2 finally insulted the only friends we had left, since he preferred seclusion, with us attached at the hip. While I am private and not a wholly social animal, the marriage wasn't working, so I departed. But I've noticed the road gets very narrow as one ages. More than once I have had regrets about my former marriages (two) and yes, in these twilight years I find myself quite alone, indeed. But it suits me, usually.
On the way to a doctor's appointment, I made a left turn on the busiest intersection in Las Cruces. I was on the inside lane intentionally, as I needed to make another left turn ahead. It was stop and go traffic, and I was stopped for the car in front of me. I sat still just a few seconds, and when traffic began to move, and just before I could accelerate, whoosh! I felt the kiss of another car gently banging into me.
I pulled over to a big median in the middle of this ginormous intersection. When I exited my car, I was calm and didn't bother to close my car door, thinking this would be quick. I couldn't find a dent on my fender or the back of my old Honda CRV. Before me a young Latina was already out of her (much newer) white car. At her age, I wanted to assure her, and said "I don't see a scratch on me, don't worry about this at all."
But she was not hearing me because she was screeching at the top of her voice and waving her arms, saying, "You hit me! You hit me!"
"Huh?" I said, "No, Lady, you hit me."
But she couldn't hear me because her tantrum was just getting warmed up. Now I may sound like a very calm, bemused old woman dealing with a young hysteric, but that was not the case. I haven't had an auto accident of any kind, nor a ticket, for 50 years. I pride myself on my fine driving, and friends confirm they are very comfortable riding with me. The screaming was too weird. Why was she so upset? I was getting upset. She finally said something normal. "I need your insurance."
"Sure," I said and got back into my car to retrieve my purse.
With my purse in my lap, she approached my car window and screamed, "You fucking, stupid, white bitch!"
My head imploded. That fear of losing clarity is new baggage, and when that fear is loose, it feels like confetti is swept through the brain pan by a tornado. Trying to get a grip on these explosions is difficult. Why was I sitting there taking that abuse?
I was truly angry now and said, "You're getting nothing. You're a racist!" And traffic was such that at that moment I could drive away. And I did, my hands quaking on the wheel.
I got to my renal dietician appointment and addressed more important things like kidney disease, but then as I returned to my car, I noticed a slight dent and a dusting of white paint on the side of my car. So, there HAD been a hit. I shook it off and drove home, feeling nervous and full of anxiety, but relieved to have had a good appointment with the dietician. An appointment that took a couple of months to secure.
Once home, I collapsed in a chair. It was one of those surreal days. Las Cruces was having 104-plus temperatures, and my mobile home has a swamp cooler that becomes ineffective if it is over 90 degrees. A mosquito infestation was also taking a lot of my energy, as my body was covered with welts. I tried gizmo after lotion after spray after zapper, to no avail. And I had menus and meal plans to absorb, the homework of tending my disease. This was the state of my being when there was a loud rap at the door. When I opened it, a young Latina cop in a spiffy new uniform and her partner asked me to step outside. She wanted to know why I'd left the scene of an accident and why I didn't call the police myself. I explained it all as best I could, but she added it was a criminal violation, not a traffic incident, because of that. I would be getting citations. Gulp. She asked me to recount my side of the story.
The cop listened intently and stopped me midway. "Car in front of you?" she asked. "Yes, and when it moved and I was about to follow, I got hit." She glanced at her partner. For the life of me I couldn't discern why that information was questionable. It was very clear in my memory. I remember thinking at the time that some car had only tapped me. The cop stared hard into my eyes. Why would she question my word? She thought I was lying?
When we went to view my car, the slight dent was streaked lightly with white powdery substance. (Later Google AI told me it was the clear sealer put over paint, the particles of which look white when it is disturbed.)
"Can you explain why this dent is so far forward on your car?" Indeed, the dent was on the drivers side, not far below the driver's window. That would account for why I found no damage as I looked all over the rear of my car. And later I remembered I had left the car door open on the median, so I hadn't seen it then. I could not explain it to the Officer. And my mind began to scramble for the logic of it. The other driver claimed I changed lanes and sideswiped her. "But I wasn't even moving," I said. Both stories could not be true, but the evidence of my dent supported the potty mouth girl in the other car.
Now here's where the octogenarian bumbling comes in. I began to doubt my own words. I had no reason to make up a story, but how could that dent NOT be in the rear of my car? Fears grew quickly. Was I finally losing this notable grasp I've had on lucidity? Alzheimer's? Senility? I went into a tailspin. I tried to tell a close friend, but he mocked me by simply saying an eye-rolling "Good luck." No comfort there, which only confirmed my worst fears. I was wrong. I was losing it. Until you reach these high age numbers, you have no idea how the mind can play tricks. I was devastated. But it haunted me and replayed over and over in my mind. I was certain my memory was accurate. And I felt terribly alone.
More than a week passed as I waited for the citations. I had no idea what was next. But I had another doctor appointment, and its destination took me through the same intersection. I was curious to see it again and to possible remember something I'd forgotten. What a revelation it turned out to be!
There was an extra lane I hadn't even noticed that went the same direction as the lane I was in, but it was a left turn lane only and clearly the other driver had taken it by mistake, corrected herself and quickly turned right to get back in the proper lane, but my car was sitting there, and she hit me... right where the dent is. Later on Google Maps, I made a mockup of how it must have happened (see above). I'm the brown car, she's the white.
SHE HIT ME!!!!
There are no words to relate the relief I feel. My experience was NOT a lie, a dream, a concoction. It was the truth. I still have legalities to face, but now I can do it with a clear mind and justifiable likely proof of what actually happened. I can deal calmly with my sins but not with losing my marbles!
But there are less serious events in life, and the lives of other seniors I know. We like to remind each other we are not alone by sharing little stories.
This is the story I was going to relate here, before my mind-blowing car accident.
I'm a devotee of chai tea with maple syrup sweetener, every morning This morning I prepared the cup ready for a splash of milk. I always remove the milk and the maple syrup from the fridge at the same time. Today the just-opened maple syrup jug was not there. I looked at the rear of all the shelves. Nada. I checked my kitchen cabinets. Nope. Here came the confetti storm! How can I lose a big jug of syrup? I decided to nuke the tea and just use sugar. I opened the microwave, and there, of course, was the maple syrup.
A friend of mine, on hearing this, told me how she had gotten on a scale to weigh herself, and realized the number was so high because she was fully dressed. So she removed her clothes...
And got on the scale again...
But the weight was the same. She had her own confetti moment until she noticed all the clothes she had removed were hanging over her arm.
Today another senior friend reported she went to her eye doctor to report cloudy vision. She thought the cataract replacement lens they had once done, needed to be replaced.
However, when she stood at reception, she could not remember the word "cataract." (One aging nuisance is words slowly disappear like socks in the dryer.) The word simply wasn't in her memory, and she panicked. "You know," she said to the receptionist, "that thing you put in my eye." The puzzled receptionist frowned. "You know, when the doctor put that piece of glass in my eye, " my friend shouted. She turned to see a dozen horrified patients in the crowded reception room. It got sorted, but confetti abounds!
Just you wait.
