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It was April 1994. The newly elected President of the United States, Bill Clinton, was appearing at a Forum on Youth and Violence and other weighty subjects to which a president is compelled to apply his wisdom and intellect, while assuming the gravitas image assumed to be held by those who inhabit the Oval Office.
I reckon when you read the title of this blog you think I’m going to rhapsodize about my Primary Care Provider – doctor - or conversely demonize him – truth be told, he’s actually a her. Fooled ya!
Hank hates prunes. At least in liquid form. At the dining table, when a caregiver/server pushes a glass of prune juice in front of him, his nose wrinkles, his nostrils spread, the lines on his forehead squeeze together, his eye’s external apparatus - lids, lashes, and brows – squish down - as though he were constipated. Ironic, because that’s the majeure raison for the prune juice in the first place -to ameliorate constipation.
Despite my battered body, non-functioning hands that make taking meds a challenge, and wheelchair mobility, I fulfill my long-time desire to act. . . as long as it’s the Readers Theatre – where the short-term memory loss of an 85 year old and the inability to move around in a set, doesn’t hamper the smooth performance of a play.