For two hours, the electrical grid malfunctioned in the county. Just in time to attend my Sunday morning hot yoga class. Before leaving for class, I asked my father’s caregiver to help me carry our generator out of the garage.
Even though Dad had a fully charged portable oxygen machine, I erred on the side of caution. I didn’t want the caregiver to leave before getting the generator, knowing that my 84-year-old mother couldn’t help me move it. Of course, my sister could have helped later on.
As a matter of fact, my sister was the only one who knew how to work the damn thing. I’d meant to learn how to operate it sooner, but similar to the situation where you’re not motivated to fix the leaky roof when the sun’s shining, I’d forgotten all about doing so until then.
I called my sister and had the caregiver leave her phone number on voicemail. I also texted my sister since I knew she was at Bible study and would attend church immediately following. I figured that in between, she’d explain to the caregiver about how to work the generator.
Then, I gathered my things and drove to yoga. Normally, that’s an uneventful straight shot down the street from my neighborhood. Without electricity, even for the traffic lights, that short trip was scary.
At the most dangerous intersection, a woman in the left turn lane eased her humongous SUV into the intersection. I gambled that no one on that fine Sunday morning felt fatalistic. The cross traffic respected our presence. She completed her left turn as I continued straight.
Once I safely arrived at the studio, the instructors all proudly announced that classes would continue. They assured us that since the previous class was hot, our class would at least be warm.
Given the power of cell phones, they all had flashlights and our yoga instructor still connected her phone to the portable speaker. The harsh glare of the emergency light made visibility possible and we still had a strong, crowded practice of motivated yogis.
On the drive back home, there were still no police directing traffic at the busiest intersection, but as soon as I’d safely transversed, I became far more hopeful since the next traffic light worked. As I neared home, I couldn’t tell whether the lights had returned in my neighborhood until I arrived home. I’d purposely left the breezeway light on. It was off.
Dejected, I checked in with Dad and the caregiver before attempting to take a phone-lit shower. When the caregiver informed me that my sister had not called her to explain how to work the generator, I silently fumed.
I took a deep breath, trying not to allow the good vibes from yoga dissipate so soon. My mind mulled over how my sister didn’t apply any of her Christian-ness and “charity begins at home” to the emergency situation at home.
Although Dad’s portable oxygen machine had enough juice until she’d arrived, what if the caregiver had needed to move him from upstairs? The chair lift would have needed the generator to work.
The electricity returned as I calmed myself down. Since no emergency arose during the outage, I knew there was no reason to address why she hadn’t contacted the caregiver. She would have just brushed it off, causing me to get angry all over again.
One of the best things about being an older adult with a temper is that I both accept my limitations and minimize interactions that would flare my temper. Also, I accept that my sister wouldn’t have reconsidered her actions based on hypothetical harm that Dad may have suffered.
After all the internal drama, I watched several videos to learn how to work that antiquated generator. Mindfulness is not merely being meditative in a yoga class. It is also being aware that when the electricity is on, that’s the perfect time to learn a new lifesaving skill.