Every time she has some place to go, she procrastinates. The thousand little things that she lets slide each day become uber important. Cleaning out the refrigerator, cleaning out the parrot cage, sewing, putting the dishes away, whatever it is. She thinks that she can get ready in 15 minutes. "It only takes me 15 minutes." she claims. It never takes 15 minutes. It takes 15 minutes to clean, 15 minutes to sweep, 15 minutes for her breathing treatment (that comes later), 15 minutes to get dressed, 15 minutes to put on makeup, 15 minutes to get in the car, putting the walker in, wrapping up the oxygen machine and then unwrapping it in the car, plugging it in, turning it on. 15 minutes to get to the car, get in the car, catch her breath, put on her seat belt. Before she leaves because of waiting until the last minute, a concentrated look of exasperation covers her face, she leans against the chair from rushing, huffing and puffing. It never takes 15 minutes, we are now at 45, at least. "I haven't done my breathing treatment." she says, all are ready to go and after she has been sitting at the table all morning watching TV or playing solitaire on her Kindle, or bowling on her Nintendo DS, knowing, all the while, she had to go out. "I'm not going to do it." she declares, as a martyr like facade covers her expression. How long will it take? "15 minutes." she says as she huffs and puffs. Just do it! I don't want to go and watch her struggle any more than I want to watch it each day, anyway, gasping for air sometimes as fish out of water. "I'll just do a little," she says as she sits down pulling out and breaking off the slender, white, plastic tubes that she mixes in a clear plastic canister attached to a mouthpiece. All are poised, ready, waiting, trying to appear calm, disinterested, suspended from moving forward. She lifts the container periodically to check the level of the liquid. I wait to see when she will decide it is enough. 15 minutes later we go.
I may sound like I am complaining, but when she is gone, I will wish for just 15 minutes more, I will wish she was here to procrastinate.