Once again, I convinced my sister to attend a cultural event with me. This was produced by the same two Black women who’d brought that fabulous Juneteenth extravaganza to life a few months ago.

From the description, the event sounded similar to a poetry slam, but set to trap music. Unlike a slam competition, poets weren’t given a time limit, a factor I missed. The total points awarded that night ranged from the mid 70s to over 100. I had no idea what a perfect score would have been nor how many judges were present.

General seating consisted of a row of four seats on either side of the aisle, so my sister and I took up half of a row. Two other Black women, who had each come to the event by themselves, joined us near the start of the program. By the end of the night, one couldn’t tell that we hadn’t all planned to meet one another there.

One of the best aspects of the event was the audience participation. We were vocally supportive for the brave poets. Three out of eight poets flamed out, forgetting their words and needing either to restart a few times or outright read the words from their phone.

Between the contestants’ performance was special guest poets. The audience reacted more raucously to them. Not only were they seasoned performers, but they took their craft to surprising levels that either shocked the hell of us or made us laugh out loud. My favorite line of the night occurred when one of the featured poets stated that his bed was made out of “I wish a nigga wood (would).”

The evening’s theme was “Toxic AF,” so every poem involved relationships that took the poet to hell and back. Most ended their performance with them vanquishing their ex toxic partner.

By the end of the evening, I was happy that none of my relationships had taken me to such depths of anguish. That’s the silver lining to being so focused on myself and my own goals.

Proving once again that I can have a meaningful celebration even if it’s midweek and for a day, I started off my birthday with a light breakfast at home, followed by a mango smoothie at one of the coolest coffee shops in town. As a matter of fact, one of my prolific poetry-writing friends had sent me two of his latest self-published books of poetry for my birthday. Since he freely passes out these gifts of poetry, I knew he’d love to have them regifted in a space that he’d feel at home with his writing buddies if he were here instead of in Austin.

Places such as this coffee shop, together with its take a book/leave a book area are numerous in Austin, but scarce around here. I tried to find such a place when I initially moved here, but had to ask for a recommendation when I kept striking out at several different places.

Most of the selection looked like “airport books,” but then I saw two copies of the same Holy Bible. Not sure if people had lost their religion, but I placed the two good books together and inserted my friend’s poetry books in between. Hopefully, future readers will be interested in some good words along with their religion.

Speaking of religion, I found a jewel of a book among all the “airport” books about a Pakistani young woman who was attacked by religious fanatics. I’d placed this book on my ever-growing booklist when it first came out. As I sipped my smoothie and started to read, I suddenly stopped. I saved reading it for when I returned home. I was excited to read it aloud to my father, who was currently confined to bed. (Turns out, he wasn’t interested in the story after four times of me reading some chapters to him.)

Next up, shopping. Normally, I only buy gas, groceries and occasionally food when I go out to eat. However I made a birthday shopping list of things that needed replacing, starting with sports bras. I exercise at least five days a week, so I usually wear a sports bra versus a regular one. The most challenging thing about the whole experience was trying to take a selfie that included both my tiara and the bra. I know, first world problems!

Across the parking lot, I shopped at a shoe store, not knowing whether I could actually get a stylish flat shoe. In the past, all the comfortable shoes were either sneakers or outright ugly. Once again, I found a jewel.

I felt like a sucker to marketing when I looked over from the checkout line, and spotted a bunch of anklet socks. Truth of the matter is that I needed to replace the socks that I used for dance class. At least I wasn’t just buying frivolous stuff because I needed them to support a fun way of exercising.

Now that I’d bought my new shoes, I got my nails done. Of course, my freshly painted blueberry toes couldn’t be seen while wearing my new shoes, but that wasn’t the point. I knew from the onset that I would intertwine pampering with shopping.

I ended part one of my birthday celebration at a sushi restaurant that I’d never visited before. The spicy edamame was inspired, which I coupled with my favorite sushi combo of avocado and unagi with the newest palate pleaser: a crunchy crab mixture. Along with miso soup and jasmine tea, lunch was divine.

Part two of my birthday celebration unfolded hours later. When I’d seen that the local regional theatre had an opening night social gathering, complete with champagne and snacks, I immediately bought two tickets.

The bartender complimented my tiara. When I told her that I was celebrating my birthday, she offered me a full cup of champagne, which I graciously accepted. Fortunately, the bubbles didn’t get on my nerves and it was tasty. Everything absolutely worked out for the preshow event, especially since the finger food spread coupled well with champagne.

My sister was a good sport, accompanying me to the event because she usually uses the weekday evenings to catch up on her sleep. At least the show, which I’d never heard of was very entertaining. Apparently, it was a Broadway or off Broadway show…not a fact that I cared about because the champagne pre-event was the draw for me with the show being a cherry on the top.

Earlier in the day, I received a BD gift from a friend. The boxes were just as beautiful as the jewelry itself. I struggled with bracelet clasp so much that I wore it for the rest of the day, so I was lucky that it matched my colorful dress. I’ll wear the earrings for another occasion.

As much as love to make my own greeting cards, I appreciated the cards I received from my family…and not just for the gift of money contained in them! The cards reflected everyone’s personality from the religious inspired message of my parents’ card…

…to the humorous message of one of my sister’s cards…

…to sentimental and stylish card from my other sister. As a matter of fact, when I saw this last card, I knew that I’d pluck those flowers off the card to be reused on another card that I decorate for someone else.

My sister and her family came for the weekend to celebrate both Mom’s and my birthday. Since Dad was confined to bed, we ordered takeout, popped a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider for the teetotalers and a bottle of spicy red, essentially for my niece, one of my sisters, a sip for one nephew and me.

My sister and her children took shifts with Mom, so Dad had company while he ate. That was our compromise in lieu of us going to a restaurant and having someone sit with him. We’re hoping that next year this time, that Dad will be able to at least join us at the table either at home or at a restaurant.

Dad shattered his hip a few days after his 85th birthday in April and he returned a few days before Mom’s 83rd and my 53rd birthday in September. The time in between birthdays had been a long road to recovery.

My childhood bedroom had been converted into Dad’s convalescence room, complete with a hospital bed and all the accessories needed to take care of him. I never realized how warm that room was when I was a child. At least Dad doesn’t have to worry about freezing.

As much as Dad had wanted to come home, the ideal homecoming would have been Dad walking through the front door. The silver lining is Dad has to use his own strength to get in and out of bed instead of relying on professionals to maneuver him.

As Mom and I soon discovered, there are at least two wrong ways to put compression socks on a person: her way and mine. Mom’s way was to put them on as if they were a regular socks, then fight with pulling up those tight bastards every centimeter at a time. My way was gathering the full length of the sock until only the toe part was loose and putting it on like it was pantyhose. My way started off better since I could secure most of the foot before I ran into the same challenge Mom did.

After that initial experience, I looked up videos and discovered the best way to accomplish the task was inserting one’s arm through the sock, placing a thumb in the heel and the four fingers in the toe area like working a sock puppet. Next, I clasped thumb and fingers together and with the other hand, pull back the sock, turning it inside out up to the foot area. Then, I remove my hand, being mindful of keeping the heel part of the sock facing down. After placing Dad’s toes into toe area of the sock, I then pulled the sock up to cover the remaining of his foot, making sure to place his heel into the heel area. Afterwards, it’s just a matter of working the sock up his leg while smoothing out any wrinkles. Far easier in the matter of a minute or so without breaking into a sweat.

Another bonus is that Dad exercises his voice, which has become much softer over the years. Now that he’s confined to that room, whether he’s in the bed or in his wheelchair, he has to speak louder to be heard. Complicating communication is Mom’s partial hearing loss in one ear. So, if she’s in her bathroom while listening to the radio or downstairs in the kitchen with the TV on, Dad has to yell loud enough for her to hear him. Half the time, if I’m not in my own room working, I usually run up three sets of stairs to see what he wants.

I knew that he’d quickly tire of being in the room by himself. That’s why I went out and bought him a small flatscreen TV and attached a firestick to it. It’s the type of entertainment that he was used to in rehab. Yet, Dad had grown accustomed to having Mom camped out in his rehab room. A luxury that isn’t going to be duplicated here at home for the same long ours as he was used to.

First of all, someone dropped the ball about having caregivers. Mom had started that process with the VA back in July. However, when Dad returned home, the caregivers weren’t in place. She’s had to be the sole caregiver attending to the vast majority of his needs for the first two weeks.

Secondly, Mom’s only two years younger than Dad. Although she’s doing well to get around as much as she does, including driving and doing all the activities of daily living for herself. Yet, she cannot keep going at this pace.

Lastly, my other sister who lives in town and I both have full time jobs. We can help a little here and there, but nothing as much as help as Dad doing things for himself. I’m not sure how much of his regression has to do with his emotions or actual physical strength. Either way, I try to be as positive as possible whenever he makes an effort.

In the meantime, I’ve introduced a new hobby for Dad and me. I picked up a book to read to Dad. I’m not sure how much he’s following along since he usually falls asleep, but at least it’s quality time while we have the time.

As a family, we’d kicked the housing can down the road until we’d just about reached the end. We’d been blessed with general good health until the complications of age and reduced mobility brought us to research and strategize alternative housing.

My parents bought their current house in 1979 when they were still physically vibrant, going up and down three flights of stairs was absolutely no issue. Until this past April, both parents had slowed their gait, but were still able to amble around the house.

When Dad entered rehab after partial hip surgery, many questions arose, regarding which facility he’d enter after leaving rehab since his insurance only covers 100 days. He’s not yet ambulatory, and needs another affordable high-quality place that offers physical therapy.

Coupled with that concern, were questions about where one of my nephews, who has Asperger’s, will live. Throughout his 32-year life, he’s only ever lived with my parents or with his mother, but never on his own. The major hurdle is that he doesn’t know how to live independently and may very well need to live in a supported group home for the rest of his life.

As an only child, his peers are coworkers and 3 out-of-state first cousins who he’s not close to. Part of that emotional distance has to do with having Asperger’s, but in general, my nephew has never received on-going services outside of an academic setting to practice being sociable.

Recently, I surveyed him about his independent-living skills. For such things like shaving or doing laundry, he stated that he knew how to do them, but my sister filled in the details behind those answers. He’s only ever shaved himself once and goes to the barber every couple of weeks for the rest. As far as laundry is concerned, he washes clothes every few days, but the loads are very small since he’s still not clear on what constitutes a proper load of laundry.

Fortunately, my other sister has been studying real estate. As I’ve researched resources for adults with autism, one of the first things that I confirmed was that the current group homes had no vacancies. As a former public school teacher, I already knew that there was always more need than resources.

That dismal conclusion had a positive spin in the autism literature when it stated that families of people with autism often find creative solutions to form supported group homes.

I shared that suggestion with my real estate sister. We had an energizing conversation. She’d studied about government funding for such a place. She brainstormed about checking out hotel properties and talking to one of our first cousins who’d worked in a similar setting.

When I informed my nephew that his aunt and her family would be his future landlords, I saw the flicker of excitement in his eyes. He’d finally be able to take this milestone step of more independent living with support.

Speaking of support, Mom chose to pay the expense for Dad to remain at rehab a month longer. By that time, hopefully a chair lift will be installed, so Dad can go from their bedroom on the top floor to the kitchen/dining room/living room area, located on the second floor. Also, she’s researching attendant options since Dad will still need assistance with some daily living activities.

In the meantime, the rest of us, my sisters and Mom, continue to hold down the fort as we search for more support while arranging suitable accommodations for Dad and my nephew.