Buy aconites

The bottom bit of my October calendar says “Buy aconites.” I’ve been looking at that directive for the last thirty one days, since I turned over to October. Buy aconites. I haven’t a clue what aconites are. I’ve spent thirty one days not bothering to learn.

That I don’t know is interesting, not alarming. I simply am not motivated to find out. It has occurred to me, over the course of the month, I must have written this before the accident in March. It is written in legible cursive.

Since the accident my handwriting ability is gone, illegible. My printing is awful, too. Little right hand fine motor control. Even silverware is awkward. Fortunately, fifteen years of watching my son-in-law’s continental style gave me courage, and I find myself fairly adept. Even a little smug. I’m better, when he has a mustache.

Before I turn the page and forget aconite forever, I Googled it. They are Eranthis, or wolfsbane, a herbaceous perennial. I recognize them as the little yellow flower that Weaver watched for every spring. How ironic, both our lives have changed so this year. This very week she is off line and moving from the farm she shared with The Farmer for three decades.

When I thumbed forward to October and directed myself to purchase aconites I had every intention of adding another spring flower to my cottage garden. Now I’m barely concerned with the weeds. 

Even the calendar no longer interests me. I have not ordered a new one for next year. When I clean out the files for the year, I’ll probably pitch the fifteen or so lined up in a file folder. Or, put them in a basket on the closet shelf. I’m comfortable with the Google calendar now, but not with writing on my paper calendar.

Today I had a letter from a Medicare auditor, about a claim from a provider of cognitive therapy. It was the claim for the therapists in July who helped me figure out to remember through the list app on my phone. The claim is denied; Medicare doesn’t provide this. But, Medicare did provide it in the hospital.

Makes me angry. Trying to figure out who I am and who I’ll be is like treading molasses. Those therapists did me a service, and now they won’t be paid. I’m working on a letter to the Medicare auditor. I’ve turned the page on aconites.