To market we go...

I took Rich to the grocery store today. What was I thinking?!

I have no one to blame but myself. But wait, this requires a bit of background.

Last night I chewed Rich a new one. That was not my intention starting out, but I have zero tolerance for whining, so my original effort to inspire and encourage him towards building his strength, quickly degenerated into... “look, asshole, if you're planning on becoming a professional patient, then cancer is the least of your problems, Sparky, because I will be kicking your ass...” I used my kindest voice.

So today I have to go to the grocery store, because if you're going to do this whole healthy, organic, fresh approach, you're working with very short shelf lives. I try to get Rich involved in as much as possible so he's in charge of writing out the grocery list, and I also use this to help spark his appetite. Then he says he wants to go to the store with me. Because he's been thinking about what I said last night. And I'm right. So he needs to get more active. He wants to go to the store with me. Well, Yippy Skippy.

Two meals, four hours and three naps later, Rich is ready to begin the excursion. Bless his heart, he was being so positive and determined. A little too determined. When we pulled into the parking lot he tells me he wants me to park at the back of the lot so he gets a really good walk from car to store. REALLY? Well guess what—it's 92 freakin degrees outside and while that sounds really yummy to the freeze baby in my passenger seat....um....NO. I split the difference and park halfway, right next to the cart return. I hand Rich his cane and help him out of the van and he reminds me that he is going to need his blanket. I am now walking through the blistering hot parking lot, VERY slowly. Carrying a blanket.

I console myself with the knowledge that people will be staring at me carrying a blanket into the grocery store and therefore will not notice that I obviously cut my own hair last night with electric clippers and NO mirror. Why? Because I have an increasingly tenuous hold on my sanity and the meds haven't kicked in yet.

Thank GOD there is a motorized scooter shopping cart available, and within moments we are actually entering the store, where the produce section is cool enough that my eyelashes may stop sweating. I barely get lettuce in the bag when he tells me he needs his blanket. He's cold. I get him tucked in and ask him for the grocery list. By the look on his face I fear I may have just spoken in tongues. I am too hot to explain so I just wait for the gears to turn and then he tells me he forgot it in the car. I know he's not going back for it, and I know I'm not going back for it so I'm going to rely on the memories of Cancer Boy and Menopausal Bitch.

I am not past the peaches and plums when I notice that he is going to drive the scooter at the same speed he walks. This is going to be a long damn day. I go back and check to make sure the battery is fully charged. It is. Apparently Rich does not have the hand strength to squeeze the speed control thingy beyond a crawl. Now I figure that I'll just attack this in sectors, gathering as much as I can while keeping him in sight and then we'll move on to the next sector, and this is after all a 24 hour grocery so I'm good. As an aid to keeping him in sight, the scooter has an antennae like projection with a safety orange triangular flag on top. What the F$%# is THAT for?! It might be helpful except that it is not as tall as the top shelves of the aisles so I can't see the freakin' flag unless I'm in the same aisle he's in, in which case, I don't need the flippin' flag. It is at this moment that I decide grocery stores should have cash bars. If ever there was an occasion that called for a stiff Scotch neat, THIS is the occasion.
We FINALLY move past the disjointed maze of produce and bakery and enter the more orderly section of neat, straight rows. My relief is short lived.

I quickly surmise that Rich does not comprehend the total volume of his body plus the scooter shopping cart. He is maneuvering the aisles as if it is just him. ..not him within a contraption that is larger than a shopping cart. I also assume that he is concerned about side-swiping the shelves which is why he's commandeering the center of the aisle. If there were a double yellow line, he'd be so busted. The fact that he's bundled in a blanket and shivering is probably the only reason people are being so patient, but they quickly figure out that I'm responsible for him and they have no problem shooting dirty looks my way. I decide they just don't like my haircut. I repeatedly urge him back to the right lane, and he persists in protecting the items on the shelves.

Now would be the perfect time for me to give Rich a mission. Something that will contain and focus him. My first choice is to send him back to the pharmacy section—far, far from the frozen foods, and have him get me the extra special PMS meds with the exclusive anti-homicidal ingredient. I know this man. I could finish my shopping, load the groceries in the car, get a manicure and come back to find him still reading the labels. But he's trying so hard to keep up, to help remember the missing grocery list, to remember how we used to do these things together, to be positive in the midst of something that is clearly uncomfortable for him both physically and emotionally. I can't bring myself to alter a moment of this adventure.

I go with the flow. I am peaceful even as I realize that yet again I have chosen the wrong check out line. I try not to think about the minutes that are ticking by on Rich's Energy Meter. He's sitting out of the way watching people check out, go by, go ballistic over nonsense. I try not to look at him. It is the perfect distance and venue to realize how terribly frail he looks. During yet another lull in the action I feel compelled to look in his direction and find him staring at me, and when he see's he has successfully captured my gaze... he sticks his tongue out at me, and then grins. And one more time I think, “yeah, I can do this.”