Two weeks on a cruise ship cured me of cruising!
Day 13. People are getting desperate. The bar is out of Margarita mix. Fistfights are breaking out at the Guy Fieri hamburger bar, as overweight men scramble for the last of the precious "donkey sauce." Women are selling their virtues in exchange for clean linens. All hell is breaking loose.
Well, maybe not that bad, but it is monotonous. Our cruise director "LiA" (I kid you not) makes cheerful announcements over the P.A. system, each seeming more desperate than the last. It is hard to put a novel spin on the same old thing, after weeks at sea. Every morning, the same breakfast. Eggs Benedict sounds dreamy, until you've had them ten days in a row, and they are often served cold. I've taken to eating corn flakes instead - kind of hard to screw up cold cereal but I am sure they will give it a try. This AM, the last of the butter disappeared, only to be replaced with margarine. Tiny, soggy bagels are offered at the buffet, undertoasted at 4AM this morning, and now just a cold, bready mess.
It is not all bad, of course. The entertainers are not too bad. One fellow plays the classic guitar in the lobby. Turns out he is an unpaid volunteer. Perhaps he gets a discount for doing this. A violin trio does interesting interpretations of popular songs - but with a cue track, much as the "piano bar" player does. A nice older couple who clearly studied Ballroom glides across the floor to everyone's amazement and applause. I saw him later and said, "You guys are great! But save some for the honeymoon!" His wife looked exhausted after the tenth dance. I wish I had that energy.
Speaking of which, I am feeling better in terms of digestion - getting over whatever I had and whatever Juan had before me. The Parkinson's thing seems stable, no better or worse - maybe slightly worse. Walking is odd - I don't try to walk like Frankenstein, it just happens. One big problem is my lifemate is always looking for signs of trouble. Juan asks where he can plug in his phone and I point to the lamp beside his bed. "There's no USB port there!" Mark says condescendingly. I reach out to move his ear buds which are blocking the USB port and he slaps my hand away. "There's no plug there!" he says, almost smugly. Ol' dementia Bob is off his meds again!
I finally reach around him and push the ear buds to one side, revealing the USB port. "Oh!" he says, "I didn't see that!" No apology. No admission he was wrong (and wrong to talk to me like I was some child). It seems he thinks my brain is already shot and I need to be cared for like some old decrepit grandpa. I mean, it may come to that, eventually, but let's not rush things! But this sort of thing causes tension. I guess he means well, but gee, it seems like he's almost enjoying this a little bit.
Oh, well. I ain't perfect, either. But, like screaming at deaf people (or refusing to repeat yourself when you talk in a whisper, facing away), chiding a memory care patient for not remembering something is just plain cruel. I remember things - too many things - but often I forget the names of these things. This is a common symptom.
Well, we are off the coast of Florida, passing the Dry Tortugas. We are 500 miles from New Orleans, which we could reach in a day, but for some reason, won't dock for two days. A day or two in the Big Easy to relax, and then back home via rented car.
It will be nice to be on dry land again.