Mission of Mercy?

Mission of Mercy?

Those of you who follow my blog know me and George, my partner who were together for a zillion years living a 24/7 reality show that was a cross between gay versions of “The Odd Couple” and “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?” (G  played the Liz Taylor role) finally called it quits this past spring. (So why did you stay together so long you ask? You get lazy when moving is a bitch and you’re splitting the bills.)

After flying up each November to our PA home (where l would spend summers) and driving my other half and his dog of the moment down in his car to absolutely wreck my winters in MY home in Fort Lauderdale as the endless kvetcher (New Yorkezee for complainer) – “You left the sponge in the sink again” – this April as I was ready to take him back, G accused me of “dragging him down” to South Florida for the winter.

That was the deal breaker! I know, I know, like I’ve said before in previous blogs, if someone irks you it’s because you let them. You have no body to blame but yourself. But, I don’t care if l tied him to the bed and dripped hot wax on his hairy balls, anybody else would have sucked my cock for four hours straight every day for being able to spend the winter in warm beachy Lauderdale free!

Okay, but when you’ve spent two thirds of your life with someone, someone with whom you’ve gone through health crises and financial ups and downs and buried family and pets, it’s hard not to feel something. I was alone for perhaps the most vulnerable moment in my life – my back surgery this past spring –   but l was always there for G’s cardiac setbacks and macular degeneration, an eye disorder which, if not periodically treated with a shot literally in the eye like a 1930’s black and white Universal horror movie, can lead to irreversible blindness.

But G is the typical American male when it comes to tending to his health care needs, stoic or more likely just scared, so when he hadn’t gotten his eye shots since l had left him in PA in April, l felt had no choice but to drive up last week to take my 79 year old boy to the retinal specialist 60 miles away across the border in Jersey.  ( l couldn’t go up earlier, first because of my back surgery, and secondly because of our potentially active hurricane season in Florida where leaving my house, even shuttered, would be crazy. )

The drive up through Georgia, the Carolinas, the Virginias and Maryland was uneventful. Then l hit the Arctic, known as Pennsylvania where the temp was 17 and felt sub-zero with the hurricane force winds.

About an hour after me and my doggies arrived at OUR home in Hemlock Farms, one of the most prestigious gated communities in PA where l still pay half the mortgage, taxes, Insurance and association fees, l realized why l fucken LOVE living alone.  (When of course one of my fuck buddies isn’t around for an all-nighter.)  It was deja vu all over again. And walking my three doggies, my two mini-dachshund southern belles and my Chihuahua/terrier rebel boy who hadn’t even

My southern rebel doggies in their winter sweaters
Now you know why my southern rebel doggies are in winter sweaters.

seen snow let alone piss on it was, shall we say, a challenge.

Because he not only lived alone but was surrounded by a block of empty houses, l had gotten G, a potential victim of sudden cardiac death, a GPS driven medical alert system for which l was willing to pay the monthly fee and all he had to do was wear an unobtrusive wristband.

His typically grateful response:

“I told you l didn’t want that. I’m not going to use it.”

“Yea, but if you drop dead and lay here smelling up the house, how the hell am l goin’ sell it?” I replied only half joking.

Finally he blurted out the ugly truth: “It only reminds me I’m old.” I know the feeling, believe me I do especially after my back surgery. And his seventy-nine ain’t the new 40.

Only a week of badgering him and a call from his adult nephew 45 minutes away across the border in upstate New York who was grateful I had gotten the system finally convinced him to keep the damn thing. (Frankly regardless of age, anybody living alone should have one.)

Second obstacle: his visit to the retinal specialist for his shot in the eye. “Last time l’m gonna. These shots are doin’ shit.” Maybe, but would you take the chance when it came

House a half a block from our house now ...
Lake a half a block from our house now …

to your vision? Now there is a community van service that will take him back and forth to the specialist even though he’s in PA and the doc is in Jersey, but without Daddy Ray to push him, l question whether he would go on his own.

“Mind your own business! They’re my eyes,” G insisted. Not if you go blind and we have to sell the house.

Hell, I’m no bowl of cherries to live with, but can you understand why I go crazy after listening to this shit day after day after year after decade? The only thing

... and in the summer.
… and in the summer.

that stopped

me from killing him was the vision of me ending up in prison and getting fucked ten times a day for the next twenty years not necessarily by my type of guys.

So what do you do with an obstinate ex-partner?

Thank the God I no longer believe in that I’m only playing tourist, and that in a few weeks I will be back home in sunny, balmy Lauderdale, naked in my heated pool with one of my “loves” of the moment, “painfully suffering my lonely life” (George’s exact words) without him.

hf-bearsThis appeared recently in the Hemlock Farms newsletter, our gated community in NE Pennsylvania. Not the kind of “bears” I first think of …

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