There’s No Place Like Home

Ain’t that the truth. After eight weeks in a teeny, tiny, utilitarian hotel room in Annapolis, two women and a dog have returned home to the Nation’s Summer Capital, ready to enjoy the rest of the season. The good news is that Bonnie’s treatment is over and we expect a good report when the docs re-do the scans and biopsies in the fall. For now, we are home from the war.

It’s one thing to be away eight winter weeks in Florida or up North touring Canada by RV. It’s entirely another to be stashed like witness protection in a stuffy extended stay “suite,” days on end, sneaking out for daily therapy appointments. Between a frequently napping patient, and a bored, teething dog, I was either bored or on guard duty. At one point I was so stir-crazy I would have chewed the coffee table leg if Windsor hadn’t beaten me to it.

That presented a moral dilemma. Do I place the chewed table leg up against the wall and hope the maid overlooks it,  or do I leave it alone and run out the back door? Just kidding. I ratted on Windsor and offered to pay for the wobbly cheap table. I’ll have to take it out of his allowance.

But while frequent bouts of cabin fever did overtake us, we did what we could to make the best of a challenging situation.

One day I visited my former Annapolis dermatologist, since here at home it’s harder to get an appointment than win Mega-Millions. I wasn’t surprised that years of boating and sunshine had taken its toll and some pre-troublesome barnacles had to come off my face. I left the office resembling a speckled hen.

When we went out to dinner that night, Bonnie sat with her hospital ID bracelet on and an intravenous tube sticking out of her arm, while I looked like I’d been duck hunting with Dick Cheney. My other car’s an ambulance.

At least Windsor was a wonderful distraction. Although it was ironic that we’d just paid a king’s ransom for a fenced yard at home, while in Annapolis I had to get fully dressed at dawn to run him down a flight of stairs to go out. Likewise noon and night. 

One memorable evening we came home late and had to feed the child at 11 p.m. By two in the morning, doody called. 

In a sleepy stupor, I pulled pants on over my pajamas, grabbed his leash, and headed down the steps. As I hit bottom, I could see wet pavement through the glass door. That’s funny, it wasn’t supposed to rain. When I went out I got hit with an F5 hurricane force sprinkler system, washing my clothes and tonsils. Drenched, Windsor and I made several passes, laughing (I hope he was laughing) through the sprinkler like kindergarteners. I’m lucky the hotel staff didn’t summon a straight-jacket team to take us away. Ho Ho, Ha Ha.

And as long as we’re discussing dog walking, there’s nothing more pathetic than a woman walking a dog, responsibly bending to scoop, then going into a frustrated frenzy because the poop bag she is holding is sealed at both ends. What sadist was in charge of that assembly line? 

In between dog chores and daily hospital visits we managed to have fun—especially with my own band of steel magnolias, our Diva support system, from Annapolis theatre days. You may have seen all eight Divas here in Rehoboth when we presented Jerry’s Girls at CAMP two years ago, or Nunsense many years before that. We’ve been friends since we were in our 20s, and now, in our 60s, the bond is stronger than ever. They were lifesavers during this siege, with home-cooked dinners, doggie day care, happy hours, hospital transportation, hand-holding, and that best medicine, laughter.

Back in June, when Bonnie first returned to her room from surgery, Diva Nori, an elegant and stunning blond, was on hand. Bonnie’s blood pressure hovered dangerously low, causing warning bells to go off on her monitors. Those of us in the room kept telling Bonnie to move around, shake her arms, do whatever she could to raise her blood pressure. No luck. Then, Nori peeked at her watch, announced she had to leave, kissed Bonnie on the forehead, and exited the room. My wife’s blood pressure spiked. “Well, I guess I’m not dead,” she said. 

And so it went. Time passed pretty quickly, actually. We are so thankful for our pals who visited and the two who came to get our RV and drive it home; appreciative of the true friend who took much of our accumulated crap back to Reho in her vehicle and off-loaded it into the house; thrilled that our neighbor kept our flowers alive, and sincerely honored by all the folks who welcomed us home in person, on the phone, and through social media. 

We’re back, and Windsor is enjoying his backyard without me in tow. Yay. See you ‘round the CAMPus.

Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir; Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach, For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries, and her newest book Time Fries—Aging Gracelessly in Rehoboth Beach.