The Two Faces of Lady Luck

At nearly four months since my father's passing, the hold I had put on decisions about his condo has begun to lift. Initially, my uncle, my friends and I did a purge of personal items, but until I could decide, rent, live there (too small at 725 feet, even smaller than my current locale), or sell, I did not want to do anything with larger items. And anyway, I felt a certain level of comfort at going there and feeling as if he will be back any minute.

But I have made a decision now. And that decision requires me to deal with the furniture. A few things I will keep, in whatever of my own space I can find. Other things I wanted to give to charity. Therein lies a part of this tale. Charities want you to donate large items, but you better have an elevator. I wonder if any of the things I had were antiques (they are not) there would be less reluctance. Anyway, I called two charities, St. Vincent de Paul and Out of the Closet, and both, hearing that it was an old, non-elevator building said, "Oh, you'll have to get the stuff downstairs." I am very strong. But not that strong. And somehow it seemed rather beside the point to hire third parties to take furniture downstairs to donate (assuming it wouldn't be stolen before the charity arrived). I called a third, the Salvation Army. They asked me when I wanted the items picked up and I said, "Wait, first, I need to know whether you'll pick the items" and I said what they were "in a building with stairs and no elevator." "Yes", they said. "Yes!" I said to myself. Appointment made for today between the narrow window of 7 a.m. and 5 p.m. My friends know I am not a morning person. One of the perks of my job in a manager's position is that I can flex, coming in later and leaving later. Early for me is 9:30. So I decided to sleep over at my father's house last night to assure that I would be there and available, if not awake, when the representatives came. The feeling of his presence was strong. Trying to sleep on the couch (no mattress any longer on his bed), where I had stayed the night before his procedure and the day of and the night until he was rushed to the hospital, I found myself sporadically replaying his sleepless night before and his child-like reluctance to be taken out by the paramedics in his altered fevered state. I was not depressed, just sad, and surprised at just how much time has already passed since these events which remain fresh in my mind. I couldn't sleep. I turned on the airconditioner thinking if I cooled down, that might somehow induce it. I went to the lounger. I went to the floor. As I got up to re-situate myself yet again, I noticed a strong smell of smoke. About two weeks before my father died, a downstairs neighbor had left a pot on the stove and this caused a near catastrophe. I thought maybe it had happened again. But outside, no smell. I sniffed around trying to locate the source of the burn, reminding myself of one of my cats. I had just located the intensifying smell, seeing no flame, behind the refrigerator, when there was a loud and bright pop from the outlet behind the nearly hidden outlet. The refrigerator is big, but when I began to pull it out I could tell it had wheels, that though heavy, I could move it. There was water on the floor and Ihoped that my rubber souled slippers would ground me as I yanked the cord. I pushed the hardware back and retired to the couch having opened the sliding doors to the terrace, deciding to risk intrusion in favor of clean air. 

I don't know when I fell asleep, but I awoke at 8:30, of my own accord. Coffee. AARP Magazine with an article about how doctors don't listen to their patients. Flashback on what happened to dad and my still easily generated anger at his two main "care" givers. Not. About 11 the Salvation Army arrives. I'll have one more thing out of the way. Delightful. Two tall and brawny fellows greeted me a the curb. I had a bad feeling as I watched them watching me go up the outside steps, then the inside steps to the second floor. I did not want to hear it. "It's our policy that we don't take furniture if there's no elevator. Do you have some bags of clothes or something?" But, though it can be my wont, I did not yell. I calmly recounted my initial conversation with the Salvation Army "desk" if that is what one would call it, and noted, with controlled irritation, that I had wasted a half a day. They left the list of items uncollected with a "Sorry ma'am" and they were gone. I went home. I showered. I went to work.

The moral of this admittedly tedious story? Lady Luck gives even as she takes, and what she gave in this case probably was lot more than she took away. She took away my opportunity to have the Salvation Army "take away" my dad's stuff. But she made sure I was in that apartment all last night, a stay I have not repeated since the night I followed the ambulance to Cedars and down dad's final road in life. Had I not been there, I I believe the evidence is to a reasonable certainty (in legal terms) that dad's apartment and perhaps lives would have been lost in that condo building. Had I been able to sleep, one of those lives might have been mine since I had initially closed all the windows and several doors so the air conditioner would keep the room cool. I don't know of course. Lady Luck. Providence. A mustached little angel named Constantine perhaps?