After I get home from work in the evening, Randy and I walk in a cemetery. We park in the same place. We walk the same path.

For years now, we have seen a black truck parked, in the same spot, where a young man works out by his truck. We never spoke to him until Tuesday evening.

About half way through our figure eight walking path, the young man approached us and asked us if we saw an old lady back a ways. We did see her. He told us that he was concerned about her. He talked to her. She seemed overheated and like she was struggling.

We told him that we would circle back and check on her.

She was bent over the grave of a 5 year old girl who died in 1964. I told her that the young man that spoke to her earlier was concerned and I wanted to make sure she was okay. She did look overheated.

She told me that she was taking care of her little sister.

And that she still had to go see her mother, her husband, and her son.

I asked her if she had a car parked nearby and she said she didn’t. She rode the city bus.

She was about as far away as you can get from the cemetery entrance where the bus stop is. It’s a fairly large cemetery and hilly. I asked her if we could give her a lift to the bus stop. She said she would like that, but she still had work to do.

We told her to take her time. We still had a walk to finish and we had nothing pressing to do anyway.

When she finished tending to her graves, we helped her into our car. Randy rode in the back seat.

As we were pulling away, we saw our son Joey walking by. He walks in the cemetery every day as well, but we rarely run into him. He looked at our car a bit confused and waved. We waved back and offered to drive the woman home.

On the drive, she told me about her family and her life. She lived alone. Her husband passed a year ago.

She told me about her children, grandchildren, her son who died, and her daughter who didn’t survive birth.

The drive took less than 15 minutes.

We got to her house and I helped her out of the car. We made sure she got safely inside and made our way home. I told Randy that Joey probably thought we kidnapped an old person.

When we got home, Joey was standing in the kitchen with his arms spread out wide “Are….you guys kidnapping and killing old people?”

I told him that as far as he knew, she got home fine. Which was funny, but later, I thought it would have been funnier to say “I really wish you hadn’t seen that.”

Anyway, I wasn’t going to tell you guys about this because I thought that no matter how I presented it, that it would sound self-congratulatory. Randy begged to differ. He said it was a funny story. He conceded the Joey part was funny. The rest was fairly heartbreaking.

The thing is, I am grateful this happened.

I got a lot from those minutes. For a few minutes, I didn’t feel blinding anger and terror. For a few minutes, I let my thoughts step away from the fact that persons with a working uterus are in peril.

For a few minutes, I stopped thinking about the fact that women will soon have less autonomy than a corpse.

No one can take the organs from a corpse unless the previous occupier of the corpse agrees to that in advance. But women? We’re losing our autonomy.

So many states are planning complete abortion bans.

Women are going to die. It is unfolding now.

I have no doubt we will right this wrong, but I have no idea how long that will take. I didn’t think there was any chance the former guy could have lasted his whole term which happened. Who knows how long we will have to fight this? No matter what, women will die. Or be imprisoned.

I’m not surprised, but suspecting that Roe v. Wade would be overturned didn’t prepare me for the actual event. It’s like when someone you love is slowly dying. You think you are prepared, but you’re never really prepared.

I’m frustrated. I’m terrified when I see pro-choice people on social media saying “Maybe just accept Susan Collins bill where most abortion is legal, just not late term with some medical exceptions.”

That’s already what we have. And no one has to lose any rights.

No late term abortions are being performed on a healthy, viable fetus. That’s not a thing.

Late term abortions are usually traumatic and devastating because parents are losing a child they wanted. Why do we have to take away a person’s autonomy for something that isn’t fucking happening?

We should not compromise.

Not one bit. They do not get to take any rights. We will fight subjugation.

If we compromise, even a little, we’ll lose everything. If we compromise, these psychopaths will exploit that. We cannot compromise.

Also, I suggest that everyone pick up a few pregnancy tests and Plan B. I’m sure most of us know at least someone with a working uterus. They might need them in the near future.

For all that is holy, pay in cash. Don’t let them track you and turn you into a criminal.

If you know of anyone who uses an application to track their menstrual cycles, suggest that they stop immediately. Don’t order sanitary supplies online. Pay in cash when you do buy them.

This is not hyperbole. This is coming to pass.

We have to take care of each other.

If you get a chance to do something nice for someone, I promise you, you will feel better.

At least, for a few minutes.

Little Kitty lives across the street in Car Guy’s house. He is a tabby like our Gertie.

Little Kitty has two tuxedo brothers named Leo and Big Kitty. They don’t visit, but Little Kitty does. He visits every evening when I go outside to sit.

Sitting outside helps my mind relax a bit. It’s like if my brain had a bra on all day and then got to take it off. I have no idea where we’re going to travel. Perhaps, I’d right a past wrong. Or suddenly, have the means to retire from my job. Who knows? As long as the path doesn’t get dark, I’m happy to see what fantasy my subconscious has lined up for me.

I’ve been spending a stupid amount of time the past few months (probably over a year) looking at properties on Zillow. I look at everything. I can’t get enough. We aren’t selling our house or anything, but if we were, I know the market, man, I got this shit.

So, I was considering one of the condos I had looked at earlier. Adorable. Nice deck with a view of downtown. Exposed brick. Smallish kitchen with a fabulous island.

Then, Little Kitty shows up.

Little Kitty: Meow

Me: You know, I was just about to close on a half million dollar condo downtown.

Little Kitty: Meow

He either leaves after a few minutes, or tries really hard to get inside our house. Which would be a disaster as Alfie isn’t a friendly kitty. It would be stressful.

I mean, Little Kitty did cut my internal bedtime story short. I hadn’t even got to any decorating. I’m glad he showed up though, I’m always a little bummed when he doesn’t.

I told Randy that I don’t think the cat looks like a Little Kitty. I think he looks like a Geoffrey. With a G.

Randy told me that I couldn’t call him Geoffrey because that isn’t his name and could confuse him.

So, I only call him Geoffrey in my head.

I don’t actually call him Little Kitty, either. I call him Bubby. Which is what I call Gertie and Alfie at least half the time. Cats are Bubbies. Bubbies are cats I guess.

I worry about Little Kitty crossing the street.

He seems pretty savvy most of the time. But if that other tabby from down the street comes up and chases him? He’ll darts across the street without looking. That other tabby pisses me off. He’s a dick. I don’t know his name, so I call him Mean Kitty.

If I get distracted while Little Kitty is on my porch, he will reach up with one paw and give me a tap on the shoulder.  Like “Hello….you were just petting me a minute ago? I believe you weren’t quite done. Right?”

I look forward to my visits from Little Kitty. Even though most of our encounters end with “No…you can’t come in.”

I hope he stays safe.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have at least a small issue with insomnia. I managed it okay, all the way up to around age 40.

I don’t type so much as I retype. I have to backtrack at least every few words. For instance, I just wrote “all the way up to around age 400”. Then, I decided that wasn’t a typo. I feel 400 when insomnia is kicking my ass. But I digress.

Anyway, around age 40, my insomnia meant I slept between 15-30 minutes at a time. Sometimes, I knew by 2:00 a.m. that I wasn’t sleeping any more. That was bad. Sometimes, I knew by midnight. That was worse.

It took months of badgering my doctor for a sleep aid before he gave me Ambien. I went through 9 months of hell while he prescribed different antidepressants, each one making more miserable than the last. What a nightmare, but that’s a completely different story.

My doctor wasn’t happy about giving me 12 Ambien. For a year.

He had no problem putting me through physical and mental hell with harmful drugs, but didn’t want to give me something that one can grow dependent on? The horror! He made it clear that he wasn’t convinced I wasn’t just trolling for drugs, but was encouraged that I was willing to try other therapies before jumping to the Ambien. The fucking asshole.

Don’t get me wrong. I was happy for relief. Even 12 days worth.

What? Are you kidding me? I’m going to get to sleep one night a month? That’s like a miracle. Maybe I’ll skip a month and sleep two nights for my birthday month!

And forget about a reasonable supply of Xanax for panic attacks. I had a precious few that I kept more as a talisman than actual medicine that keeps full blown panic attacks at bay.

The Ambien worked like a goddamn charm. I would sleep all night and wake up, perhaps a little groggy, but at least I slept.

The only drawback I saw with Ambien is that I had some super strange dreams. For instance, what do you think it means when you dream that your husband’s penis turns into the ruler that Sister Jones used to hit your knuckles with in the second grade?

I took my sleep aid as prescribed. Pop one 20 minutes before bedtime and lights out.

Except, I learned something once. And I am in no way saying anyone should actually do this, but once I took my Ambien and I got involved in doing something and went past that 20 minute mark.

I had this weird, psychedelic 20 minutes where I felt funky and it appeared as if the clothes in the laundry basket were undulating. It wasn’t scary though. It was a completely, okay nearly completely lucid psychedelic experience. Like instead of going on an actual jungle cruise, you go on the jungle cruise at Disneyland. I mean, if Disney had a drug fueled jungle cruise ride. Which of course they don’t.

It’s an interesting thought, though. Right? 

Everything changed once I got past age 50. Doctors no longer treated me like I was junkie begging for a fix.

I remember the first time it happened. I had bronchitis and a sinus infection. I was miserable. He prescribed an antibiotic and then mentioned that my cough sounded painful. I said that it was painful. He asked me if I wanted cough syrup with Vicodin in it.

I thought I was being set up at first. Are you fucking kidding me? Pain killer? For a ramped up cold? 

“Uhhhh, yeah?”

I stopped having to ask for Ambien or Xanax, he’d just refill the prescriptions when they were up.

I read some articles about benzos and was concerned that I was taking way too many. I talked to my doctor about it and told him I was going to cut out the Ambien.

My insomnia got slightly better once I was post menopause. A xanax will help me get to sleep and, generally, I stay asleep. A few bad nights here and there, but totally manageable.

He was skeptical. “Are you sure? I mean, you can always get them if you want them.”

I told him I read that too many benzos can cause early onset dementia and, while my brain and I are often at odds, I’d like for us to keep understanding each other for as long as possible.

He told me that I shouldn’t worry because about dementia because that was more of a problem for my loved ones than me.

So, I have that going for me.

In his defense, I am pretty sure he was kidding about the dementia thing. My current doctor has a weird sense of humor.

I have less than a year before I turn 60.

60.

That is just so fucking weird.

A lot about aging is difficult, but I’ve at least reached the age where I can get my addictive substances at will. And so far? I’ve self regulated in a responsible manner. Mostly. Those jungle cruise moments were pretty cool.

Photo courtesy of Bruno