Bonus Years

Bonus years.

In 2013 I was hit square on the head with a tree. It broke my neck and gave me a severe concussion. The doctors at Albany Medical Center were amazed as doctor after doctor passed by. I should be dead, they said.

That accident changed my life. Both physically and mentally. I won't get into the boring physical stuff other than to say that I can sort of get around, but not like I did.

Mentally is another issue. I thought long and hard on this. "You're really unlucky!" people would tell me. No, I'm lucky. I should be dead, yet here I am.

In the various hospitals I go to, and they ask whet happened and I tell them, they look both shocked and sad. "I don't care what happens," I answer. "I could end up with a walker or a wheelchair and I don't care. These are my bonus years. I shouldn't even be here."

But something very real happens around the holidays now. My mom and dad have passed, and so too all of my grandparents, and aunts and unclues. Pamela is gone. My two best buddies, my dogs Ruby and Chevy have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. I have friends but they can't visit my apartment or the hsoital because of the pandemic no-visitors rule. My daughter,

Becky Gibson Schott

, to whom I've given control over many healthcare decisions that have to be made, cannot visit.

For the first time, the holidays are truely depressing for me this year. The rehab center I'm in is working to get me to where I can go home to my apartment. I don't want to go there and be truly alone. At least here, I have a snoring roommate and aides that bring me ginger ale and Lornadoones.

I am going to look at assisted living homes shortly. For my mental health, it may be the best option.

Merry Christmas to me. But hey, on the bright side, these are all bonus years.