Bless Their Hearts (An expression that indicates endearment, but often includes the idea that a person is somehow out of line or inept, that they cannot help this imperfection and that we love them anyway.)

It has been raining and windy the last few days, more April than May. The sun is out this afternoon, but pops of wind stir the purple iris stems and the sage blossoms. Today it is better being inside and looking out than out and looking in. The image is better than the reality, but that is the way life often is.

We went to a concert this week. We don’t go out nearly as much since I began hauling my walker and oxygen around. It is cumbersome. My slow walk becomes even slower. And, once inside the theater, I am concerned with the noise of the oxygenator disturbing others.

When we attended concerts in the past, Lydia and I were aware of elders who were dependent upon, or at least inconvenienced by, medical equipment, walkers, wheel-chairs, oxygen tanks, and such. We were sympathetic with their situation and admired their gumption to venture out to concerts despite the evident difficulty. “Bless their hearts” we would say, empathizing with their quest for live entertainment despite the obstacles they faced. Certainly, it would have been much easier for them to remain at home by a stereo or television. “Bless their hearts.”

Our previous forays, post-walker, had been to a local jazz orchestra. There we were below the median age and were relatively unnoted. I was not alone in using a walker, though I didn’t see anyone else on oxygen. The event this week was a much larger and generally younger crowd. I need to point out here, that I am generally nonsocial. Nodding and saying hi is the apex of my social interaction. That being said, we became victims of the best intentions of others. The usher cut us out of the herd like the best Wyoming cowboy, inserted himself between Lydia and I in order to help me to my seat, and followed me giving verbal directions like the best of back seat drivers. Convinced that I was secure in my seat and unlikely to wet myself in the near future, though, should the need arise, I was penned in by a column on one side and the 15 people who would need to empty the row on the other side. I did a quick bladder press and decided none of us would be inconvenienced in the near future.

The usher backstepped down the row, Lydia under a full court press, backing up as well, to return to me once the usher had cleared the row. Seconds later, the usher appeared on the other side of the pillar with my walker. I was handed my oxygen hose and given a quick check of my vital signs. Having been assured that I was in no immediate medical danger, the usher assured me that he would be leaning against the wall directly opposite my seat should I need anything. I offered sincere thanks and turned to converse with my wife as the row filled with other attendees. I was smothered and embarrassed by the attention.

We began to preview the program and people-watch (the second-best part of any concert) when the usher appeared by the pillar and a supervisor poked her head between us from the row behind. We’re going to find you better seats they chorused happily. I had chosen our seats carefully when ordering tickets, so that my machine and I would be as inconspicuous as possible. I was not willing to move despite their best intentions. Lydia and I spent a considerable amount of social energy persuading the do-gooder-duo that we were quite fine where we were. Moving would just be too much of a project. Ultimately they accepted our assurance that, though deeply appreciative of their kind efforts, we were fine where we were.

By intermission my energy was flagging and we decided to leave. Not an easy project as Lyd had to go around the rows to get my walker while I carried my oxygen bag back hence we’d come. Our movement did not go unnoticed. Once again our usher was hovering like the best helicopter parent. Once reunited with my equipment, I was assured that he would lead the way, creating gaps between groups of talkers like the Detroit Lions on Sunday afternoon. He was soon joined by another usher and together they created a flying wedge out the door. Lydia went to get the car while my fearless duo assured her that they would remain to assist me off the curb and into the car. For 15 minutes we shared mindless observations about the weather, the crowd, the crowd, and the weather. I’m not sure Lydia had fully stopped before my cart and I dropped from the curb while repeatedly assuring the usher that we were just fine. We stowed the walker often into the car. Mollified and with many thanks and fond farewells, we drove into the night, relieved at the quiet, ready for a nightcap.

Please, don’t misunderstand. I appreciated effort and solicitude that was offered us, truly. It is simply that I am not the kind of person who wants to be singled out and fussed over. It was over the top and, if anything, it emphasized that I have a disability, that I need more help than I once did.  I understand their intentions. I appreciate them.

Bless their hearts.

The Road