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.”
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| 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!”
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| 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.
