Annie's Footnotes

“Faster!” my son yells, as I inch my way down the driveway.  “Come on!” my grandson chimes in.  If they both weren’t wearing such big grins, I’d smack them with my cane. Instead, I proceed with caution, making my way very slowly down the incline of our driveway, crossing several fingers and praying that I won’t fall. Again. Walking downhill is scary for me these days. Even trying to ride a “down” escalator feels threatening because I have a lot of problems with balance and depth perception.  There are other weird, daily constraints. My hands get the shakes, for no apparent reason. My feet unexpectedly “freeze” and feel as if they were glued to the floor. I have hallucinations. I can’t smell baking bread—or anything else. I tire easily. I fight recurring battles with depression.  More worrisome is the cognitive decline. Some days I have trouble thinking about more than one issue at a time; other days it’s difficult to make decisions. I can’t remember names and proper ...

  She was sitting at a table by herself, watching couples on the dance floor. As techno music blared and dancers swirled, she sat contentedly, quietly watching. I also was sitting by myself, but with considerably less poise. I kept scanning the roomful of women, looking for someone I might have met at a previous event organized by PFLAG (Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). I saw a few familiar faces but no one I knew well enough to approach.  Still, I really wanted to dance, and I kept returning to the handsome woman in the red turtleneck. But I couldn’t walk across the room and ask a total stranger to boogie, could I?  I poured myself a Dixie cup of white wine. If I was going to do this thing, I would need some serious fortifying. A few sips later I stood up and headed across the room. As I arrived at her table, the DJ was turning up the volume and I had to shout to be heard: “Wanna dance?” She nodded yes and off we went. For the next 15 minutes we rocke...