Yesterday my beautiful daughter drove me to the supermarket, as she does every week. We each do our shopping, then she drives me home, whisks my packages into my kitchen and then goes home with her own groceries. Marie always makes me feel that life begins at 84, and that a rather exclusive ailment called olivopontocerebellar atrophy is something to be lived and explored.
Yesterday I learned a couple of things about my supermarketing. Marie acknowledged that she sometimes drops me at the store after her own busy day at work, then goes home for a shower, returns to the store and finishes her shopping just ahead of me. I had not noticed how much time I was spending in those aisles, and I was glad there was no taxi meter running.
The other thing I noticed yesterday was that other customers, strangers, occasionally offered to help me find something on the shelves or to load something from shelf to shopping cart. Why were they doing this? What was I doing to draw their friendly attention? I still have a pretty good grip on the shopping cart, which is a first class substitute for a rollator, and the supermarket is where I do my weekly walking marathon.
I guess that most life changes are as subtle as that, one day unknowingly drawing the attention of generous strangers, and realizing that your daughter’s love includes a lot of patience.