Skip to main content

Predawn Coffee

Settin´ my gleaming 2006 Harley Davidson Softail Deluxe upon it's kickstand, swingin´ my right leg over the black leather, conch-studded saddle. I undo the top heavy duty snap on my form-fitting, white leather chaps, to get to the front pocket of my Gloria Vanderbilt blue denim jeans, where I, accidently, left my circular key on the Harley Davidson-authorized key fob. With a twist, I lock my bike and check my tombstone tailight, to make sure I've shut off the lights.

The glacier white pearl literally glows on the two tone paint scheme under the streetlights, before the sun comes up.  I'm a lone rider on my daily commute among the sedans, SUVs, and trucks headed out to begin their days. I'm stopping off to pick up my treasured grande´, non-fat, no water, chai tea latte´ before clocking in to work.

How does one carry a latte´on a motorcycle? You ask. I have a method. I have a leather handlebar bag, that I prop up the travel cup in, with extra gloves and headscarves. Voila! Easy peasy. Plus, I'm only going a few blocks and traffic has yet to ramp up.

I miss Starbuck's Chai Tea latte´s. I miss that feeling of pride I had when I rode in on my Harley, that sweet feeling of being well off enough to ride in on a such a gorgeous bike and buy a decadent hot beverage before work. I miss riding my Harley.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Remember...

I remember catching fireflies,  putting them in a jar, as a girl of five. I picked pears off a tree that overhung an alleyway on my route home from school, then enjoyed the forbidden fruit. .I had a golden cat who chased a gray mouse through our living room sending my mother, 3-year old sister, and me screaming atop the sofa and chairs. We lived in a farmhouse and I watched Romper Room. A daddy longlegs skittered across my dirty kid legs as I teeter-tottered on a broken kitchen chair back. I played grocery store and laid out a bedroll for group nap time in preschool. We lived in an apartment attached to a bakery. My maternal grandparents visited and a photo was snapped. Grandma held Dawn and Grandpa held me. I held Grandpa's chin. Walking through the back of the flour-caked kitchen, I saw scrumptious pastries and colorful toys stuck in the cupcakes with my hungry kids eyes. We lived in a two-story apartment building next door to a large farmer's field.  That field was my...

On-the-job Sass

I continue getting sass from one particular caregiver. He says, "You need to communicate with us." he continues to completely miss or dismiss the concept of I would if I could . It is part and parcel to having ALS, I am losing my ability to communicate and it is his job to assist me. Part of helping me, like it or not, is to learn my routine and anticipate needs, when possible. He misses the fact that I'm failing more every day and night time is when I'm weakest. It is extremely insensitive and arrogant to expect me to cater to his needs and expectations. Pushing me to repeat words or expound on a simple one word suggestion is physically taxing on my system, adding stress which further depletes me. Cuing is supposed to be caregiver's domain, not the patient's. Here is the situation, I am being changed. In the midst of the action, as seems to be his practice, he is sidelined asking me trivial, meaningless, but energy-sapping questions. Do I want my legs raise...

Lashing Out

Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry."  Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?