I got another reminder from the cosmos that my karma is due and payable…

I took a break from writing for a couple of hours this week to take the Corgis to a therapy visit at a local  assisted living and memory care facility for older folks. You know, do something good, clean the mind and get a little recharged for whatever lies ahead, right? Little did I know that what lurked ahead was a great big glass of shut the hell up.

I’d been feeling pretty good about signing a two book deal with Crooked Lane Books and writing the second book in that deal was starting off like gangbusters. Then the universe snapped the back of my ear and reminded me it ain’t all unicorns and rainbows, Bucko.

Now if you haven’t been to a memory care facility, or known someone who lived in a memory care  facility, count yourself lucky. Don’t take me wrong, this place is a great facility with attentive staff and all the amenities to make life with dementia or Alzheimer’s as comfortable as possible. I had a parent who spent the last few years of life in a memory care facility and watching their life shrink down to a few random memories was difficult. So, every once in a while going into the memory care facility is a bit tough and brings back unpleasant baggage. My baggage — not the men and women who live there now.

So, I’m visiting some of the memory care residents and one of them used to raise Corgis until a few years ago when her physical limitations caught up with her. Her apartment was adorned with Corgi memorabilia, photos of her dogs — you get it — Corgis were a central part of her life. When we approached her, an odd look crossed her face. “What kind of dogs are those?” She didn’t remember what a Corgi was, or that she’d ever had one.

Then one of the residents asked me, “How long have you been living there?” That kind of left me speechless, so I sat on the sofa with a dog on my lap and watched the cooking channel like all the other old folks. It might not be too long until I end up here…

After leaving memory care, through a locked door — one that I can’t remember the combination to — we escape back into general population. The residents, who don’t have memory issues, live in assisted or independent living and mill around, visit, play cards and go on outings of all sorts. A guy in an electric wheelchair zips by on his way to the BookMobile parked outside. The rack on the front of his trike is packed with suspense, thriller and mystery novels. Patterson, Stanford, Cornwell, Connelly, Crais — this was my kind of guy.

So I start up a conversation with him and tell him I’m a writer. (No I didn’t try to extort a sale from the guy taking his milk money) I told him about one of my books. He looked over the frame of his bifocals and said, “I don’t think I’d like it.”

With that, he whips out the door leaving me with my dog. Even she’s looking at me with suspicion now.

Okay, universe, I get it…