Inch Two: A Whole Lot of Spillage

All over the floor

Starting with my sewing box. I set it down on the edge of the  coffee table, ready to mend a pocket, pretty sure it was secure.

Not.

And then there was the routine blood draw yesterday at my doctor's office. The needle went in smoothly (I have great veins), Anthony, the nurse, attached the tube to draw the blood, and...the blood, my blood, went spilling out. All over my arm, down on the armrest, all over his glove. 

Anthony quickly grabbed a gauze pad and clamped it on the puncture to stop the flood. He then stared at the spillage.

"I've never seen that happen before," he said, still staring.

Me neither. It wasn't him, it wasn't the needle, it was just my blood deciding it had its own plan.

Spillage seems to be the theme this week.

This is Concert Week, which always makes for a full schedule around here. Even without Warren being the Executive Director (a decision for which I am daily, sometimes hourly, grateful), there is still a lot with moving in the timpani and other percussion equipment (today), rehearsals (tonight, Friday night, Saturday morning), the concert (Sunday afternoon), breaking down the section after the concert, and move-out (Monday). In short, a lot going on. Not to mention his business, his teaching, the national composing consortium he is leading, and...and...and...

Yeah. His time is spilled all over the place.

As for me. things are much better on the Dad front: he is out of rehab and back in his apartment, walking with steadier and firmer steps by the day. That being said, there are still more extra tasks than usual and, no surprise, they fall on me.  I am still running on fumes way too much. 

An example? The other day, walking home from my dad's apartment (a whopping .86 miles, just to put it in perspective), I found myself wishing for the first time ever that I had a car. Forget a room of one's own (sorry, Virginia Woolf). I just wanted a car of one's own—so much so that it said it out loud as I trudged along.

Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of my starting this blog. I think (I hope) it remains true to its title: small moments. With each passing day, I find myself seeking out and finding comfort in such small moments, even if it's just putting away the dry dishes. (We still wash and dry dishes by hand; they then set for a bit on the table.)

In a few weeks, I will turn 70. That is an age I never expected to reach, given my incurable cancer of the last 21+ years, not to mention the non-cancer hospitalizations of 2023 and 2025. (My goal this year? No hospitalizations in 2026.) And yet, I am still here. 

My sewing box that spilled all over? I picked it up and put it back to rights. My blood that spilled all over? Anthony got it all mopped up. The wish for a car that spilled out of my mouth? It fizzled out before I reached home. The crunches on my/our schedules? They will play out (no pun intended on the Symphony front). 

My small moments? I hope they continue to come and I continue to cherish them for what they are: bits of joy, bits of light.