Substitute Shoveling

I was on the first watch during a storm which eventually dumped 17.5 inches of snow on us.  I wanted to go out to shovel with John, but he insisted I must not do it.  He was right, of course.  If I fell, he’d have an unplowed drive as well as a real emergency on his hands.  I’m still not entirely steady on my feet after a second total knee replacement.  I countered with an offer to get up and stay in the living room until he came back in.  I was concerned that no one would know if he slipped and fell until we found his frozen body under a car.

John said, “You wouldn’t even have to come downstairs.  Just check on me every 20 minutes.  You could probably see me from the window.”

John cleaning the Jeep

We agreed that he would wake me before he went outside to shovel.  I thought I answered at his first call at midnight, although I could have slept through a couple.  I stumbled out of bed and set the timer for 20 minutes.  The silly timer beeped once after only ten minutes.  It’s a modern (emphasis on “dern”) instrument with an automatic snooze alarm.  I, of all people, DO NOT need practice waking up.  I can do it first time, every time.  Golly Pete!  It let loose with a five minute warning.  What wouldn’t I give for a timer that times the number of minutes I choose, not what it decides is best for me!  Bet it was designed by a liberal Democrat.

I could hear the regular scritch, scritch of the shovel on the paved surface, so I knew John was fine.  I intended to go down for a show of solidarity so he would know he was not alone, but I sat contentedly at the computer desk.  After he came in, I went back to bed.

I don’t know that John was impressed that I got up for the second time for a snow watch.  He said he had to call me two or three times the first time.  At 4 a.m. he spoke to me at the top of the stairs.  That must mean he couldn’t rouse me from the ground floor.  He was out shoveling before I could stand up.  Better late than never.

That last interval of sleep was not so pleasant.  I got back in bed, and my first thought was the mattress was shot.  Several years ago John bought a memory foam mattress topper that I have loved.  Admittedly, I’ve given it a beating, but up until the wee hours I had been totally satisfied with it.  I winced when I got in bed because it felt like I was sitting on something sharp.  Rolling over, the object seemed to be following me.  Ridiculous!  Was it my nightgown bunched up in the wrong spot?  Surely I was not getting bed sores!  Seven hours a day, or rather night, is not unreasonable.  In my half asleep state, I pulled at the gown and twitched the covers about.  Lise would call it “flapping” from my post-hospital days.  Either I got rid of the object or I fell asleep.

I struggled through layers of sleep when John called.  After some incoherent noises from me, he went back downstairs.  Oh!  This mattress was becoming unbearable.  What a shame!  I’d loved it from the moment it went on the bed.  I was as tired as could be after three hours of sleep, yet I didn’t want to get back in that painful bed.  To make matters worse, I knew John had had his normal amount of sleep and might stay awake the rest of the day.  Bummer!  Bummer was the operative word.  My bum hurt.  I said to myself, “Don’t just sit there hurting, get up!”

Antibiotic, instrument of torture

Something fell to the floor and hit my foot.  It was a tube of antibiotic ointment that I’d used on a sore toe almost 24 hours before.  The pain did not immediately subside because I was semi-permanently indented.  My back side must have looked like memory foam, now with an impression of TUBE.  Which would recover quicker, memory foam or memory flesh?  I’m sure the man-made substance was the winner.  I’ll be lucky if I can sit without pain the rest of the day, all caused by an instrument of healing.