Nikki

Nikki is the author of the award-winning Sam Tate Mystery series, as well as a stand-alone thriller and two non-fiction books. Check out the rest of the site, and please subscribe. It's easy and free. New projects in the works include an ebook of short stories, a YA novel, and a new Sam Tate mystery.

Apple Watches Over Me

Aug 022022
 

How’s your summer been? Bumpy, right? Between inflation, residual COVID, tangled travel plans thanks to an overwhelmed airline industry, a cruel war that drags on, and crippling heat, it hasn’t been all fun and games. The mood is as heavy as the air.

I get it. I was coping with shoulder surgery on one side, a broken wrist on the other, and a dog whose health was rapidly declining back in May. Between one thing and another, my already thin social life was reduced to few encounters unless they were sparked by an Instacart delivery.

Then I bought an Apple Watch.

I know; it’s a watch with a lot of stuff I don’t need. Although having a phone you don’t have to remember to take because it’s already strapped to your wrist is pretty cool. Now I just have to remember to put in my earbuds so I’m not talking to my wrist or straining to hear the voice at the other end.

For the most part, the watch mimics the phone, even if you’re not carrying the phone. I like seeing the time, the date and the weather right up front. If you’re using your iPhone to navigate, the watch will display the map as well. Not only that, when SIRI tells you to, say, take a right, the watch will make the sound of a turn signal. The first time I heard that, I laughed out loud.

It’s very freeing to be able to walk and keep my hands by my side, swing them freely, or furtively check my inbox for messages, which it reports with a discreet ding that doesn’t sound like marimbas or chimes.

I can’t take pictures, although I have no doubt that’s coming. Anyone remember when that level of gadgetry was only available to a member of the CIA or MI6?

While I recover from various surgeries and injuries, a fitness program suitable for a twenty-something may not be appropriate. That’s why I didn’t sign up for Apple Fitness. However, I did set up a basic health profile and some modest goals, including a lot of walking. Inside of nagging me, the watch cheers me on with, exhorting me to “keep it going” or applauding me for meeting or exceeding my target number of steps or minutes or calories or what have you. It reminds me to rise out of my chair, a task I’d previously relegated to an hourglass I kept at my desk until I accidentally broke it one day.

My watch urges me to reflect at the beginning and end of the day. It’s big on deep breathing. I’m offered a light show, but honestly, I find the color choices a bit unnerving. I’d prefer to close my eyes.

Somehow the Apple Watch acts as guru, guide, motivator, and minder. Yes, it’s a tool and a toy. Okay, it’s collecting and using a lot of data about me and my preferences. No, it can’t replace my human buddies. It’s simply a nice addition.

Excuse me, I’m told I need to stand now.

Safety First

Jun 272022
 

I was a little anxious as a kid. A lot of things scared me: werewolves with red eyes, creepy crawly things, barking dogs and hissing cats, and bullies. As I grew a little older, my worries transformed into larger and, on occasion, justified concerns. For instance, I never believed that crouching under a wooden desk would protect me from a nuclear missile.

Some people are born to plunge headlong into this and that adventure without thinking about the consequences. Some people are born practically paralyzed with fear. I was somewhere in the middle, willing to do certain things but only after a lot of consideration.

At the same time, I also felt protected. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a very strong family unit. I never had any doubt that my father, my mother, and even my siblings would come to my defense in a nanosecond. The one thing that safety net never prepared me for was its absence.

I’ve been on this planet for decades now, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable as I do these days.

Part of it is age. While I’m a healthy senior woman at an ideal weight, I am senior. I’m less strong than I used to be, less agile with less stamina, more discomfort. I’ve had three joints replaced and I’m in line to have two or three more done in the next five years. I exercise every day and walk miles with my shoulders, back, and head held high. My friends and even my physician like to tease me about being bionic. Trust me, bionic beings aren’t stiff in the mornings.

The second factor in my increasing sense of vulnerability stems from my social situation. I have friends, lots of virtual acquaintances, and some kind neighbors, but I live alone. Sometimes I can find people to help me, but often I can’t. I’m used to being on my own, less a preference than a necessary habit. And as the years go by, I worry I’ll be less skilled at it.

Honestly, though, those first two factors are nothing compared with my distress over the state of affairs in the world and particularly here in the U.S. I feel as defenseless as I did when I ducked under my school desk, except the danger feels closer. Every time I think society is progressing, I’m smacked in the face by the truth. Our profoundly inequitable political system continues to provide loopholes and stymy the majority. Our broken medical system makes receiving and paying for treatment disturbingly difficult. Increasing numbers of people are turning to conspiracy theories and “alternative facts” to reinforce closely held beliefs. We’re living in the 21st century version of the Wild West, complete with unbridled emotions, galloping disinformation, and plenty of guns. Respect for life seems to stop at birth.

American exceptionalism used to mean a land of unparalleled advantages and endless possibility. Now it seems to be linked to mass shootings (we’re number one!) and squandered resources. Maybe that’s where evolution has decided to take us. Throw in a pandemic or two, a cyber attack, an energy meltdown, and a series of weather events spurred by a warming planet and what do you have? A series of entertaining books and movies set in post apocalypse times, when the hardy survivors take to the highways and byways to survive, thrive, rebuild, and connect.

Meanwhile, I’m just looking for a safe place to live.

 

 

High Tide

May 092022
 

I cry easily, almost as easily as I did way back when. It’s a triggered response. Not everything makes me cry, but whatever does—an unbidden recollection, an unwelcome piece of information, a devastating image, a piece of music; really, anything that has to do with loss—and I am ready to weep. More than seventy years on this planet and I still can’t locate, much less disable, that switch. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The best I’ve been able to manage is a near immediate follow-up response that muffles the reaction and keeps the wave from becoming a tsunami, at least in public. I’m not entirely successful at stopping the churn, but I’ve learned to take it down to watery eyes and a choked voice.

April was a cold and rainy month; there were sorrows aplenty. I had shoulder surgery, a good thing but an event that rendered me temporarily more vulnerable and less independent, despite help from wonderful friends. The international and national news pulled me low. The unexpected death of my friend of forty-seven years was a gut punch (although the quiet and dignified way in which his wife, also a dear friend, has handled her loss is a lesson in living with sorrow that is both informational and inspirational). The steady decline of my beloved dog Molly is a daily challenge.

For the record, I laugh, out loud, both publicly and privately. Well, more a giggle or a chuckle, an occasional guffaw or snort. It helps. Singing and dancing are also good for the soul, especially for someone who spends as many hours alone as I do. Sometimes, in the company of friends, I marvel at how I can be so experienced in grief and loss, yet laugh so freely. I appreciate the contradiction, appreciate that something outside me can pull that sound out of me or that I can find it within me.

In the last few years, we’ve all experienced more pain than joy. I’m told that’s to be expected at this time of my life. I don’t like thinking that way. Instead, I remind myself that crying is a release, that my reaction is a sort of cleansing process, that it’s probably good for me (as long as it doesn’t go on forever, I suppose), that holding it in isn’t healthy, and that if my friends can’t handle it, I should get new ones. That I still have more joy to discover.

I hope so. My constant companion, has a host of neurological, cognitive, and physical issues that may not yet threaten her life but negatively affect her quality of life. Pharmaceuticals help, as does abundant patience on my part. Periodically, I’m asked by the vet to measure the ratio of joy and curiosity to pain and apathy in her life. I will likely have to decide when it’s time for her to go, with her help.

Cue the tears.

Meanwhile, in the here and now, Molly wakes from her long nap. She’s gotten up and trotted over, tail wagging and eyes bright as if to ask, “What’s happening?” or maybe “What’s to eat?”

I laugh out loud.

 Older Entries  Newer Entries