Mom is in her late 70s now, and while she’s always been incredibly independent and strong-willed, I’ve noticed a significant shift in her emotional well-being recently. She seems more anxious and restless, and it’s starting to affect her daily life. Small things that never used to bother her now seem to cause her a lot of stress, and I’m at a loss about how to help her through this.

That’s what my son called it when he phoned me to ask: “How you doin’ against the ‘vid?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I asked him — three times — what he said: “Are you saying ‘vid’? What the hell is a ‘vid’?” Something in the corner of my mind hinted that it might be a term having to do with gambling, but I hadn’t placed any bets lately. Or at least I didn’t remember if I had.

Of all the things that can be canceled or delayed or rescheduled — a meeting, a dentist appointment, even a tax deadline — a storm moving in, chased by thunder and lightning, refuses to bend to anyone else’s schedule. Between the curtains on the window over my sink is when I first see the trees swaying wildly in the wind, then notice that the late afternoon sun is lighting up a huge thunderhead cloud. Fluffy white columns billow higher and higher. Below it, a blanket of dark gray clouds moved in.

While we’re grateful for the assistance that home care provides, I must admit I’m quite new to this experience, and I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed about what to expect and how to best utilize the care services available to us.

When we arrived in the strip mall, we were surprised that the restaurant had outdoor seating by the shopping center’s fountain. We decided to dine indoors due to the Florida like weather we’ve been experiencing.

The clothes are from my friend Jennifer’s closet. She called us over because she was ready to clear some space from her ample wardrobe and wanted us, her friends with similar figures, to get first dibs.

I freely confess that I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid. My bike has flashing lights fore and aft, I wear a red helmet and sunglasses, and I’m dressed in either orange, yellow, or fluorescent green.

We’re contemplating the idea of downsizing, yet are unsure about whether it’s the right move for us and, if so, how to go about it.

While other birds are beautiful in some gaudy, outlandish way — like cardinals, orioles, goldfinches, or even robins — the tiny wren’s beauty lies in its simple, classical, dappled brown look, like a tiny refined Englishman in a tweed suit.

Tonight, our first concert is in Prague. We have rehearsed, but now that the performance is drawing near, tensions are high. It’s hot. The performance hall we are in does not seem to be air conditioned. 

My mom recently moved to the area so that I didn’t have to worry about her being alone after my dad passed away. While I’ve enjoyed all the quality time I’ve had with her, she’s yet to make friends here. I’m fearful about her well-being once school is back in session.

I started, of course, by saying goodbye to colleagues — teachers, secretaries, custodians, counselors, and even a few administrators — but then I bid farewell to the places and things I would miss.

Like most pet owners, we subject our poor Baxter to many nicknames. Some are run-of-the-mill like “Puppy” or “Puppy-Schmup.” We call him “Booxie” and “Booxinator.” On days when Baxter is freshly brushed and walks with a certain swagger, I refer to him as “Lord Buxton.” This is always pronounced in an awful English accent for absurd reasons that I can’t explain. I hope you agree with me when I say it is our absolute right as pet owners to be reduced to sappy ridiculousness when it comes to our pets. No explanations required.

One of the most prevalent myths that gives me pause is the belief that receiving home care means giving up my freedom and independence. I worry that inviting a caregiver into my home will diminish my sense of autonomy and control over my own life.