A Million Nails and a Decision-Impaired Man Laughter, Love and Surgery If I Could Buy Time In A Bottle A Chevy To Remember Bob And The Other Woman, So To Speak I Want To Be Treated Like a Dog I’d Hate To Be A Man! Bob is on a Diet

A Million Nails and a Decision-Impaired Man    Last Thursday in purgatory, I mean Home Depot, my husband, Bob, stared at nails for forty-five minutes.   “JUST BUY SOME SILVER ONES!” I said, seething. I know men can’t ask for directions, but I didn’t know this problem included asking for help in general. Bob gave me an ‘it’s more complicated than you think’ look and said, “If you helped with anything around the house other than setting the table you’d know how difficult this is.”   Now, it is very foolish for Bob to engage me in this type of debate because when it comes to the ‘I do more around here than you do’ business, I always win. Not only can I out-itemize him, but I can also remember what we were both wearing the last time I did said chore, and what, of course, we ate.   I blew on my fingers as if I was about to crack a safe. “You never empty the bathroom trash can.” I began my list.   “What about the dump?” he countered.   “My feminine side doesn’t care to go to the dump.” I grabbed the nearest box of nails and threw it in the cart. “And how about the cat litter? Maybe your male side would like to pitch in and  . . .  ”   “I’ve cleaned it for years. You did it the first time yesterday!”   It is not wise to argue with a therapist. “Dragging up the past is a no-no.” I wagged my finger at him.   He took the offensive. “And why can’t women read maps?”     “Oh that’s hormonal. Women can read maps the first two weeks of the month, but after that, forget it.”   A little Home Depot man in an orange apron came down the aisle with a huge cart. On the side, it said, “Do not ride.” This of course gave me an uncontrollable urge to take it to the parking lot and sail it from one end to the other. He slowed down near us. Bob feigned a coughing fit until he passed by.   “Excuse me!” I yanked another orange clad worker by the elbow, “could you help us?”   The worker turned around and with a toss of her long blond hair said, “Sure.”   “What type of nail would I need for a galvanized roof?” Bob asked just as smoothly as Kevin Costner.   “Let’s see,” I said later. “If it’s another man, you can’t ask for help. But if it’s a woman, you can. Now, that makes a ton of sense.”   “You know, you make fun of me a lot.” He walked away.   I felt awful.   We drove to Cumberland Farms to ask for directions home. Behind the counter was a man. “I’ll go in,” I said, fully expecting Bob to stop me, but he didn’t.   And we spent the rest of the ride home comparing fear stories. We laughed at things like my dread of hiccuping and burping at the same time because when I was little, my big brother told me that would make you die. Then there’s the dark doorway phobia I’ll never get over. And the myriad of ‘what ifs’ that only occur to me at 3 am. And when I wake Bob, he’s never once turned away and discarded my anxieties as silly.   So we both decided that his problem with asking for help was only a big deal if we made it one. And in the grand scheme of life’s legion of trials (many of which we wish would never happen) there are certain tests that we just don’t need to pass. And that is simply because a great many of them really, in the short as well as the long run, don’t matter one darn bit.    Top of Page   Laughter, Love and Surgery   Recently Bob had surgery on his left knee at Cape Cod Hospital. I’ve never seen such anxiety. We had a long talk. “Relax. Relax. Breathe in through your nose and slowly, to the count of four, breathe out through your mouth.” After doing this exercise for a full five minutes, I was finally calm enough to drive him there.   Bob, whose bizarre sense of humor is only matched by his surgeon’s, had a plan. When Dr. Kinkead came in, Bob was already in his hospital gown. The doctor said, “It’s your left knee, correct?” Bob, having anticipated this question said, “I know it’s the end of the day and you’re probably tired so I wanted to make sure you knew which knee to cut.” He lifted his gown to expose both knees. On his right knee Bob had pasted a cut-out of a surgeon’s outfit, complete with a stethoscope and scalpel. With a black magic marker, he had drawn a circle with a line through it around the surgical pasties, indicating a no-surgery zone.   Dr. Kinkead went into hysterics. Then he made his own mark on the correct knee and pulled the gown back down. Bob jokingly said to me, “I bet he drew a goofy smiley face.” So I lifted the gown, and sure enough he did.   There’s a tender bittersweet camaraderie in hospital waiting rooms. The looks we give to strangers contain a rainbow of emotions. We smile with fear. We wish the best for each other’s loved ones, knowing the worst could happen. We wait, looking at our watches although we just checked the time one minute ago.   There’s a phone in the waiting room so patients’ families can receive a call from the surgeon when the operation is over. I saw an older woman with her daughter. When the receptionist said the doctor wanted the woman to pick up the phone, she did, obviously with trepidation. Then she came back to her daughter and whispered something. They stood up, gave each other an ecstatic high five, then hugged for the longest moment in time.   When Dr. Kinkead himself came to talk with me after Bob’s surgery, I was petrified because all the other doctors just called. He spoke for several minutes, but I didn’t hear a word. All I heard was, “Everything’s fine.”   I went to the recovery room to sit with Bob until the general anesthesia wore off. He was also given Demerol, a narcotic painkiller. I kissed him.   “Hi sweetheart,” he said to the nurse.   The nurse said he should eat and asked if he’d like crackers, a muffin or a turkey sandwich. He looked at her for a ridiculously long time, as if she had asked him to add fifty-three to the square root of 17 trillion.   “A muffin, please,” I said.   I’m thrilled to report that just two days after surgery, Bob felt great.    I thank God. I thank Dr. Kinkead. I thank so many loving people, some of whom we barely know. People who wanted to help us with chores because I’m disabled myself and can barely walk.   And I thank our cat Eddie, who for the first time in his nine years of life, fell asleep that night in Bob’s arms.   Top of Page   If I Could Buy Time In A Bottle   "Happy Birthday To You!" we sang to Bob, trying desperately to get him to stop crying and come out of the bathroom.   "Honey," I yelled over the running eater from the sink, "please come out. Everybody's got presents."   I heard him turn on the shower, but we could still hear him sobbing.   Two days later, I awoke at 3a.m. I found Bob watching TV in the living room.   "What are you watching?"   "The Yiddish Home Shopping Network."   He phoned in his order. "I'd like your Mid-Life Multi-Pak, which includes: two bottles of 'Oy Vay! I've Turned Gray!', one tube of Lipisome Facial Schmeer, one box of 'Borscht Flavor Metamucil' and one 'With Your Cholesterol, You Should Own Stock In Hebrew National' testing kit.   "You seem to be having an age thing," I said gently.   The following morning, I traced a foul smell to the kitchen. Bob's hair was standing straight up in green spikes.   It's ginseng shampoo," he said. "It's called Yucko." Which is pretty much how I would describe his hair (and the smell, while we're at it).   "I understand that just last week the American Noodles-for-Brains Association published a study that ginseng not only improves memory, but can bring people back from the dead." I said. He ignored me.   Later, Bob asked me to join him on the couch because he had something important to say.   "There's a dream I've had since high school," he said.   "Wonderful! What is it? Learning to play piano?"   He put his hand in a "stop" position and shook his head, slowly, from side to side.   "Oh no, Bob! Not the mime thing again!"   He excitedly nodded. I stood up, exasperated.   He shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated way, tilted his head, and made his mouth into an oversized frown. Then he stood up, pantomimed a flourishing long drawn-out bow and left the room as if he was walking down stairs.   Yesterday, in frustration, I phoned my friend and colleague, Melissa.   "You won't believe this," I said.   "Not the mime thing again," she said compassionately.   I looked toward the doorway and saw Bob pirouetting by.   "Plus, he's become an obsessive-compulsive mime. Twenty times a day, he pretends to wash his hands!"   She gave me an encouraging thought, which did'nt sink in until later.   The second I hung up the phone, it rang.   "Hello?" I said, but there was no answer. God, I really hate this. "Bob," I called out. "It's for you."   After that, I stopped talking to him. Not that it really matters with a mime.   Later in the day, there was a resolution to Bob's (or more accurately, my) problem. I came back from buying moon pies and was just about to open the front door when I heard giggling inside. I peeked in the window and learned my lesson. There on the floor, sitting on spread out newspapers, was Bob and our 7-year-old nephew, Benjamin, with hair so blonde (like Bob's) you'd never know he came from my side of the family.   The resemblance was enhanced by the fact that they both had white painted faces with big black tear drops. Quite incongruous with their untamed laughter. I saw that Bob had turned an important corner, and had grown far removed from his birthday sadness. It was then that Melissa's words sank in.   "If you're lucky enough to find fulfillment," she said, "age doesn't matter, even if it means becoming a mime."   I walked in and distributed the pies, only wishing (like I do in my senseless way) that time would stand still, at least for a little while.   Top of Page     A Chevy To Remember   My husband, Bob, has gone so far as to name our car.  He calls it Old Yeller.  And whenever I suggest it’s time to retire it, he lovingly pets the steering wheel and asks, “You mean destroy Old Yeller?”   We have a nineteen seventy something yellowish Chevy Blazer.  I can see the street whizzing by through the holes in the floorboard.   I hear little clinking sounds whenever we drive and if I look out the rear view, I see tiny pieces of Old Yeller leaving a wake behind us.   I really hate this car.   “It’s time,” I gently said to Bob last month, as we pulled in our driveway and the door handle came off in my hand.    “Great!” he said and jumped out of the car.  “I’ll start the gas grill.”   I brushed clumps of foam rubber (the insides of the seat) off my pants.  We went in the house. “You know what I mean,” I said.    “A woodworking show’s on,” he said, and picked up the remote.   “Sweetheart.”  I took the remote.  “Old Yeller’s had a really good life.”   “He just needs a tune-up, that’s all.”  He picked up the keys.   “It put itself into PARK while we were driving thirty miles per hour.”   “He stalled,” he said, fondling the keys.   “It stopped.  My forehead’s still bleeding.”   He stood and looked out the front door.  “I can’t,” he whispered.    “It’ll be humane, honey.”   “No it won’t,” he said.  “No ceremony, no remorse.  Nothing.  Just a push of a lever and Old Yeller’s squashed like a pancake and dumped in somebody’s scrap heap.”   Late that night, I heard him get out of bed and head to the kitchen.  I put on my robe and tiptoed in.  He was pouring himself a shot of whiskey from a bottle we’ve had over ten years.  He drank it in one gulp.  After he finished his coughing fit, I held his hand.  He said, “If anybody’s going to put Old Yeller to sleep, it will have to be me.”   I knew then, I had to go against his wishes and take Old Yeller myself.  The next day, I drove the Chevy away and got back to the house around noon.   “It was quick, Bob.  Painless.”   “Old Yeller . . .” he moaned.  Then he went back to the whiskey bottle, picked it up, changed his mind, and put it down. He opened the freezer and found a bag of mini Milky Ways and began stuffing five in his mouth at a time.   "Honey.  Don’t do this to yourself,” I tried to take the bag away but he grabbed it and ran out of the room, but not before snatching the peanut butter and Ritz Crackers.   It took two weeks to get Bob back on track.  And that happened yesterday.  He was still in bed at eleven o’clock when I called him to come into the living room.  He was a wreck.  Unshaven.  Dirty.  I wiped the chocolate off his lip.    “There’s something for you outside.”   “I need marshmallow fluff,” he said.   I took his hand and led him out the front door.  In the driveway was a car covered by a big brown tarp, which I theatrically removed.  There, all shiny and bright yellow, was the Blazer.  New mirrors, chrome, paint, engine, transmission and sparkling hub caps.   Painted in script on the side was, of course, Old Yeller.    Bob was overwhelmed, to say the least.  He opened the door and saw the beautiful upholstered seats.  Although he was too moved to say anything, I got the biggest hug in history.  And though Bob refers to this as one of the best days of his life, I know it couldn’t have been half as good as it was for me.   Top of Page     Bob And The Other Woman, So To Speak   Since my surgery, I haven’t felt much like  . . .  well, you know. Not that I’ve always been uptight about you-know-what. I mean I can say the word. I’m an adult. I can talk about IT.   So recently Bob got tendonitis of the knee and went to physical therapy. When he came home, naturally my main concern was his health, so my first question was, “Is she pretty?”   “Who?”   “That vixen who’s working on your KNEE, so to speak.”   “Don’t you even care how I’m doing?”   “Of course. What was she wearing?”   He ignored me and limped into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just feeling insecure lately.” I massaged his shoulders while he chopped celery. He winced.   “What’s wrong?” I said.   “My shoulders hurt.”   I backed up. “From what? I thought the problem was your knee. What else did she work on, so to speak?”   He stopped chopping. “If you say ‘so to speak’ one more time, I’ll stop doing all the housework and laundry.”   “Yeah, right. Like you won’t need clean underwear for your next ‘appointment’.”   “Do you hear how sick you sound?”   “You mean how sick I look, don’t you? Because I’m wearing junky clothes and SHE probably just wears a thong. I bet she has a belly button ring.”   “No she doesn’t.”   “Ah hah! And how,” I had my hands on my hips, “did you come upon that information, Mister I’m-here-for-my-knee, SO TO SPEAK?”   “Come with me next time and watch.”   “WATCH? And I’m the sickie!”   When he came home from his next visit, I had decided to work harder on my you-know-what drive. I put on soft music. “Do you want to  . . .  um  . . .  ?”   “To what?” He teased, as we slow danced to Sinatra.   “You know - what we saw those squirrels doing this morning.”   He laughed. “You’ve always had a hang-up talking about sex.”   I covered my ears and shrieked, “STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT!”   He took my hands but my mood had suddenly changed. I shooed him away and sat on the couch. “Things are so different now. I’m no fun anymore. I keep to myself. I’m distant from you. And because of my stupid spinal cord damage, I’ll never ride a bike again. I can’t even climb one stupid step and I’ll never be able to walk around Eagle Pond with you and our dog.” I tried not to cry. This self-pitying business is not my game, but it does linger on the sidelines. “I’ll never see Gracie chase her ball-y in her favorite swimming hole because it’s a stupid half-mile walk to the pond. I’ll never again see her try to bite the autumn leaves as they float away.”   He tenderly took my hands once more. “I know it’s awful but those things don’t matter.”   “Yes they do.”   “Not how you think they do. I love you  . . .  in sickness and in health. You know what I miss more than sex or any of those things we can’t do together anymore?”   “What?”   “You.”   We sat together quietly holding hands. “This closeness is what I miss,” he said. And slowly, the self-absorbed distance I’d been keeping between us began to vanish. I got up and put the Sinatra CD back on.   And then we imitated the squirrels.      Top of Page       I Want To Be Treated Like a Dog   The first time is always the toughest. I knew it would be terribly hard for my husband Bob. All through the night before, he thrashed around in bed. At one point, I thought I heard him crying.   “It’ll be fine, sweetheart,” I said, snuggling with him.   “Maybe I should cancel the appointment,” he said.   “No, honey. Don’t cancel it.