Hope for a Cool Pillow. Margaret Overton

bought a gun?!? Are you kidding me? You’re not supposed to tell me that.” I was appalled. I counted on him to be the sane one.

      He shrugged.

      I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. I thought about the gunshot wounds I saw in the trauma patients at work; they were usually self-inflicted and often in the elderly. I didn’t tell my therapist when it happened because there was no reason to ruin his day too. I thought about Nathaniel, the patient whose dementia and prostate problems had made his daughter nearly insane with anxiety. Maybe dementia is a special kind of disease, a projectile disease, designed to particularly torture the loved ones. Who could think that up? Outside the office window, the setting sun reflected off the buildings along the Chicago River. The light had turned the sky a mystical, otherworldly deep blue, the hypnotizing color of pollution at dusk.

      I left the office feeling more relaxed, if not actually better. My therapist was perfect for me. He understood cognitive dissonance because he had it himself. It’s the thinking person’s alternative to pulling the trigger.

      Around this time I turned fifty. As a gift, two friends bought me a session with a famous astrologer. I naturally thought the entire idea was ludicrous. I’d spent my whole career in a scientific field—specifically medicine, sub-specifically anesthesiology—which does not lend itself to astrological interpretation or intervention. That isn’t to say those of us in medicine don’t acknowledge that more crazy stuff happens when there’s a full moon. But I’ve never been one who “believed” in astrology. I occasionally read my horoscope in the newspaper mostly because it was next to the Jumble. It never seemed to reveal anything meaningful. But I was at a low point; dementia takes its toll on family as well as on the afflicted. Besides, I figured the astrologer could make an educated guess as to whether there might be love in my future. I obviously wanted a pass on long life if it involved senility and I didn’t much care about fortune, as I knew that work suited me better than leisure. Leisure—in my case—usually meant bug bites, puffy eyes, and large credit card bills. I made particularly bad decisions when idle. I’d read articles about people who won the lottery; it ruined most of them. So I knew better than to relax and let tranquility destroy me. But who didn’t want love?

      Out of curiosity I visited the astrologer—a doughy woman with thinning hair—who worked in a Chicago office south of the river near the old Carbide & Carbon building. She recorded our conversation and spoke with startling accuracy about my past. She stated that my birth circumstances were unusual and I didn’t fit the typical description for my sign. I had been born in the brief time span between a lunar and a solar eclipse. “Your life must seem fated,” she murmured, her voice deceptively bland. “As if life pushes you in a particular direction." I had not thought of my life as ‘fated’ as much as a litany of incredible coincidences. Sometimes I had an uncanny ability to see signs that strangely forecasted events, even warning of imminent danger. I typically ignored them.

      “Taurus fits you better,” she said. “Read that horoscope in the paper.” Perfect. I’d been reading the wrong horoscope my whole life. No wonder it seemed useless.

      “There’s something highly significant about your chart, an unusual division of the elements. You have four planets in air signs—it gives you an uncanny ability to communicate, and extreme curiosity. You’re mentally young for your age. Quality or modes—five are in fixed signs—that’s a sign of tenacity, not an Arian quality. The downside of tenacity is that you don’t know when to let go. You need to learn to trust your intuition. Even if intuition goes against what you’ve been told.” I agreed with her that I didn’t know when to let go. But my intuition was better than I thought? What if my intuition told me not to trust my intuition?

      “You have lots of planets in work. Innovation, creativity, research. You like finding things out and putting a different spin on it,” she said.

      “Between now and April 9, 2013, there’s a new development level. Then a static period. Until the new moon in 2016. You’ll want to lay the groundwork for any creative work before 2013. There will be a lot of wasted time and energy during those three years. You’ll feel guided by others. Use it to do inner work. Maybe go to an ashram. You’ll want to have flowers, perhaps buy some property.”

      I had to ask. “What about love?”

      “I don’t see much happening with your Venus. Have you tried Internet dating? That might work for you.”

      I had tried Internet dating. It did not work for me. I was actually writing a book about how it did not work for me, among other things.

      One other thing the astrologer mentioned—I should prepare for my mother’s demise.

      Each time I visited Mom, I stopped at the grocery store first. I would call from the car and she would give me a list of things to buy. Then I went to the Jewel and bought half the things she needed. Later I went back to the store to get the things she’d forgotten. I did this every week not because her memory deteriorated, although it did, but because I kept hoping that the deterioration was temporary. After Vicki moved in, I only had to make one trip because Vicki would give me a complete list. Usually the list included a box of Depends. Only Vicki could get Mom to wear Depends.

      I liked going to suburban grocery stores. Or rather I liked going to a single suburban grocery store. In the city of Chicago sales tax is higher, parking is a nightmare, and getting groceries into my building requires more steps than launching the space shuttle. On the other hand, suburban grocery stores tend to grow freakishly large. They carry every food item made except the ones I usually buy in the city. While shopping for my mother I typically spent an hour walking in circles looking for the same items I bought the week before. This was due to an organizational layout that defied comprehension or memorization. A pharmacy had been attached to the grocery store, further confusing the issue, and the products that I used to know where to find in the grocery section ended up being sold in the pharmacy. Like liquor. Why would wine be located in the pharmacy? It’s not like it’s good for you. Maybe it’s because booze makes you feel better in a way similar to calamine lotion or witch hazel. Sympathy cards are placed next to batteries. Think about it.

      It did not bother me to buy Depends at the grocery store. I bought them for my aunt when she was alive, then for my mother, and I’m sure I’ll buy them for my sisters and for myself when the time comes. They are just large sanitary napkins with bad branding.

      One sunny spring day I was in the checkout line with lactose-free milk, a box of Raisin Bran, a loaf of multi-grain bread, some boiled ham, Mom’s favorite cheese, and a box of Depends. The adult diapers were the last item to be rung up.

      The cashier looked to be about my age. About fifty. We could’ve easily gone to school together and been part of the same stoner crowd which I’d thankfully survived and left behind. She passed the Depends over the bar code reader, then leaned across the conveyer belt and placed a warm hand gently on my arm. She looked me squarely in the eye. I saw deep compassion in her lined face and not a trace of humor.

      “Would you like me to put these in a brown paper bag for you?” she asked, nodding slightly, girl-to-girl, stoner-to-stoner, eyes never leaving mine.

      I realized in that split second that she had decided the Depends were for me. They were mine. I was the leaker. I was fifty and leaking; it showed plainly on my face. In that moment, I knew there was nothing I could say or do to convince this woman of my actual continence—she wouldn’t believe me anyway—and so I simply showed my appreciation for her empathic treatment of my problem. I nodded. “Thank you,” I said. “That would be great.” I laughed all the way to the car.

      My mom’s dementia taught me to open my heart again—nothing breeds humility like helplessness. Her helplessness made me humble. Or maybe it was the other way around. But I learned to let people be nice to me. Even if it means they think I’m incontinent. I’m sure one day I will be. So it helps to laugh about it. In fact, laugh whenever possible. As for the gun issue, I’ll get to that later.

      For some reason, I returned to the astrologer shortly after my fifty-first birthday. Once again, I heard good things about my career. Always about my career. I heard