Willie has named her Apple Watch “Wendi.”
Her Siri is very bossy, she tells me. Siri tells her to get up and walk around because she’s been sitting too long.
Siri tells her to breathe at times throughout the day because, as I have long suspected, Willie is superhuman, doesn’t require air, sleep, or food like us mortals, and will continue to stalk this planet long after I’m gone.
Siri doesn’t understand Willie’s otherworldly abilities. She tells Willie to breathe.
Willie’s Apple Watch is controlling, demanding, and obsessive. Willie says it’s just like me. So she calls her watch “Wendi.”
What can I say? Like Liam Neeson, I possess a certain set of skills. That those skills rival the abilities of one of the most technologically advanced inventions in the history of humankind is a compliment I proudly accept.
Also, I don’t like it when other Wendis spell their name with an “i” like I do, but I’ll happily share the spelling with Siri.
For the record yes, that’s how it’s spelled on my birth certificate. Indy chose the spelling because Indy thinks I’m too awesome to have a conventionally spelled name. He also has either a sense of humor or no insight because my middle name is Lynne and “Wendi Lynne” sounds like I should work in the adult entertainment industry.
“Lynne” was actually a joint effort. So Willie, Indy, and my grandmother have either a sense of humor or no insight.
Willie shared the news of my namesake as she, Indy, and I sat down for a virtual appointment with a VA social worker. Willie and I have applied to be Indy’s caregivers, a role I do not relish.
But each time I do something for Willie and Indy, something they are perfectly capable of doing for themselves but I – if I’m really being honest here – do better, they feel bad for taking up my time.
I think they should feel bad for not letting me orchestrate their move, or making me and Indy sit at Quest for four hours during a tropical storm, or hospitalizing Indy for no reason whatsoever.
But Indy and Willie are very resistant to my edicts on what should upset them.
Which, by the way, should also upset them.
Being recognized as a VA caregiver comes with benefits. Benefits I can point to and say, “Don’t feel bad for asking me to get you strawberries while I’m ALREADY AT THE GROCERY STORE. The VA is supporting my caregiving efforts!”
I can point to those benefits and say, “Don’t feel bad for storing what you called ‘seven boxes’ but is actually TWENTY-seven boxes of your Dickens’ Christmas Village porcelain houses in my garage which costs me nothing but space in an area I avoid at all costs. The VA is supporting my caregiving efforts!”
And Willie – if you’re reading this – the kids tell me the garage skinks are living under those boxes. You may want to reconsider your plans for those houses. I’m thinking less “auction” and more “trash.”
Also, if anyone is interested in a charming combination of Scrooge’s counting house and a skink in an alarming shade of iridescent blue, I’m willing to negotiate a price.
You’re responsible for the haul away.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are definitely things I do that are beyond Willie and Indy’s abilities. Take Indy’s Parkinson’s care. Now, I know nothing about electrical wiring. That did not stop me from fixing an electrical outlet, or from the subsequent shock I received after the outlet sparked and issued a stream of smoke.
I am not aware of my limitations.
But Indy, Marine, bus driver, HVAC repairman, knows his limitations. He shouldn’t be in charge of his health. Way back when his hand first began to shake, Indy told me he wasn’t worried about it, or the quicksand we’d have to wade to get him diagnosed.
He had people for that, he told me. Me and Willie. Willie and I are the people who will worry about that shaky left hand. Not him.
Then he made me pay for our breakfast.
Willie is a different story. Sometimes, Willie acknowledges that I, master’s degree and neurology experience in hand, am the best one to handle Indy. But sometimes she thinks that she, as his wife, should be handling things.
But when Willie handles things, Indy’s cardiologist takes him off medication his neurologist needs Indy to take. This takes me four phone calls, three emails, and two weeks to fix.
That was my fault, Willie said, for not explaining the neurologist’s medication to her and Indy. Which I did explain to them, but if I didn’t, can you blame me? I’m very busy running the skink Dickens’ Village Airbnb out of my garage. That’s a moneymaker right there.
So this particular day, we had our telehealth VA social worker visit – Indy, Willie, an Apple watch named Wendi, and me. The social worker asked questions. Necessary questions, but questions Indy hates. Questions that make it clear Indy’s Parkinson’s can incapacitate him more than it already does. Questions that make Indy seem every day of his eighty-two years.
I hate these appointments. His speech appointments and driving assessments and now this caregiving application. It’s like I’m executing a medieval blood-letting on Indy – I think I’m helping, but the only thing I’m doing is slowly draining Indy of everything he needs to survive.
And yes. In case you’re wondering, I have been watching the latest season of Outlander. There’s a lot of blood-letting this season. Not so much nudity though.
The VA social worker also asked me questions. She asked me about a typical day (up at five), how I relieve stress (lots of Starbucks), and if I have any caregiving experience.
I told her I’ve been a nurse for twenty-six years. I figured that should do the trick.
But Indy and Willie both sighed, rolled their eyes, and elbowed me in unison.
“Wendi,” they said, clearly exasperated with me. “You were a CANDY STRIPER!” As if my nine months of candy striping when I was eighteen are somehow superior to my two decades of advanced practice nursing.
And now that you know I was a candy striper, I’ll bet you’re back to thinking of my fictional career in the adult entertainment industry, aren’t you?
When the social worker questioned Willie, she posed the same questions she posed to me. And Willie tells the social worker she has no caregiving experience.
None.
Willie, who was a nurse for decades. Willie, who took in my grandmother when she could no longer live alone. Willie, who confiscated the car keys when my grandfather’s cancer spread to his brain. Willie, who retired to spend three days a week caring for my five nieces.
Willie, who once administered first aid to an elderly woman when she fainted at the zoo. Willie, who talked my friends through parent troubles and young adult woes. Willie, who cooks dinners for the people in her building incapacitated by falls or surgeries.
It was my turn to roll my eyes, sigh, and elbow Willie.
“Um, you were a nurse,” I prompted.
“I guess that counts,” Willie said.
Willie answered the questions. She relaxes with The Bachelor (really?). She makes the dinners (don’t ever eat anything Willie has cooked) while Indy handles breakfast (tea and toast). She and Indy don’t know what they’d do without me.
And me. Without my recording app on.
They don’t know what they’d do without me.
The feeling is mutual. It’s why I have Dickens’ Village houses hosting skinks in my garage. It’s why I buy strawberries at the grocery store. It’s why I spend two weeks undoing the damage done at the cardiologist’s office.
Because Willie and Indy are my Starbucks raison d’etre. If they’re gone, I have no excuse for a monthly car payment’s worth of Starbucks.
If I don’t have Indy and Willie, I doubt Don will continue to be cool with that tab.
I may very well wind up in the adult entertainment industry after all. Something has to finance my Starbucks habit.