construction

The repetition is reassuring. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and hold your breath.” After the first experience of having my liver scanned–I had confessed my nerves to the technician–he asked me how I felt. I told him the first breath is the hardest. You don’t know how long you’ll be holding it. Lying in a shallow cylinder filled with very loud noise and muffled, tinny music, seconds feel like minutes. Once the rhythm of the process is clear, it’s not difficult. The repetition feels like a test that you’re smashing. Yes! I held my breath. I kept still as a statue. Now, I can breathe again (for a moment, before the “breathe in” recording recycles).

Keeping still is essential or they have to stop and restart the scan. One time, I cried but stayed completely still. The tears were silent as they rolled down the sides of my face into my ears and onto my neck. The technician asked if I was okay, if I wanted to stop. I said, “No. I’m okay.” And we kept at it. He didn’t say anything about it at the end, didn’t comment as I carefully wiped the tear stains with the edge of my hospital gown. We all have to wear two, one as a gown and one as a jacket, with a pair of ugly, ill-fitting, hospital pants. Today, they offered me a heated blanket, which I took happily. They blow cold air into that narrow tube. It’s hard to stay still when you start to shiver.

The contrast burns just a little. It’s cold, running through the tube on my arm and wrapped around my thumb (to keep the tube from catching in the machinery and getting yanked out of my arm). This is my favorite part, not the mildly uncomfortable sensation but the chilly, stinging knowledge that we’re five minutes from the end of the scan. I don’t hate that narrow tube but I do hate what it represents. Now, the wait begins. This is the worst part, the worry, the anticipation, the sour-tasting hope. What will the scans reveal?

I arrived home oddly tired, from the stress, and determined, as usual, not to think about the wait, not to watch for the notification that I have test results in my medical chart. Two of the contractors repairing the leak in my bathroom came into the kitchen as I emptied the dishwasher. They use the microwave every day to warm up lunch–a homemade taco bowl for one, meatballs in red sauce for the other. We always spend a few moments talking: one has a baby due next month and momma-to-be is at that stage of pregnancy where nothing is comfortable. The other is a foodie. We compared experiences eating Indian food and he told me about a Nigerian place he’s going to try soon. It’s far south of me, closer to Washington, PA so I probably won’t get there.

They’re silent about the scans, of course. But one of the other contractors fusses, offering to move his vehicle so I can park closer to the house. He’s mournful, pitying, which always feels incredibly uncomfortable. They all know about the cancer because I joked with the GC one day that I’m going to have a nice tub before I die. I’m not dying but awareness matters. The life insurance company won’t insure me until I hit the five year mark–they know the score and so do I.

One of my nieces and I are planning a hiking trip to the Isle of Man, 100 miles around the whole of the island. The hike is called the Raad ny Foillan–pronounced rad na foil yan–the Way of the Gull. I’m hoping we’ll convince the family to go with us, at least for part of the trip. I think my dad would appreciate the idea of all of us visiting the homeland together, though I’ll acknowledge that I rarely act in ways that would please my father. Still, this is a trip I’d love to make. Something about it calls, like I’m a salmon rushing to get upstream.

Construction work is nearly complete on my unexpected bathroom renovation. I was planning only to repair the shower. Then, when the GC pointed out the obvious, that I’d have to replace the shower tile, I realized that I’d also have to do something about the matching tile with which the previous owner lined the entire bathroom, including the built-in jet tub that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I’m not re-tiling the outside of that bathtub, I’m replacing it. You see what happened, right? From there, it was only a short jump to replacing the useless jack-and-jill sinks with a smaller vanity and STORAGE. This is how one starts with a minor repair and ends up with a renovation.

I’ll admit to a moment or two of panic as the workers carried bag after bag of my former bathroom out of the house. The only reno I’ve ever done is DIY. This has been an adventure in learning new strategies and new coping mechanisms. They have taught me much about efficiency and tidiness while working. And laughter. There’s been something delightful about listening to the plumbers giggle together. Not so much the noises four men made as they carried my new freestanding, and very heavy, tub up two flights of stairs…those sounds feature in my nightmares.

Early in the project, one of the young men, not quite an apprentice but definitely not a grizzled icon of construction work, slipped and fell through the newly floor-less bathroom, leaving a foot-shaped hole in the second floor bedroom ceiling. He wasn’t hurt. That’s the most important thing. He was CHAGRINED and has very gracefully endured my teasing ever since. He’s also done a great job on the repair, including repainting the entire ceiling because the sheen on the new gallon of paint didn’t match the original (even though we had the empty can to take to Sherwin Williams). File that under unsolved mysteries!

It’s theoretically possible that I’ll be showering in my new bathroom this weekend. I sure hope I don’t hate the experience because I’m never doing it again. Maybe to the other bathrooms? If I do any more renovations, the kitchen is probably next. Some maniac former owner decided that the cupboards should be painted with floor stain, probably because they knew they were leaving a mess for a future owner. The floor stain is a misery–a curse on their gardens for the struggle they left with us. They also added cheap storage at the ceiling level that I was initially excited about. All the love to that naive younger version of myself, the one who thought she wouldn’t hate having to get out the step ladder every single time she needs something from those cupboards, which has proven to be way more frequently than the younger version of myself anticipated.

After nearly a month with this group of contractors, I have affection for some, tolerance for one, and appreciation for another. I’ve gotten to know the individual sounds of their voices, their footsteps. I have inside jokes with the GC and talk to the apprentice like he’s my son (he doesn’t seem to mind having been “adopted” by me). They’ll leave at the end of the day today and it’s possible I’ll never see any of them again. I won’t hear about the birth of the baby next month, won’t know about the foodie’s latest obsession, won’t get the update of life after the move into a new apartment in two weeks, won’t hear the incredibly loud belching (which I’m not sorry to leave behind). Life is filled with these little bereavements. Ships passing in the night, the cliche calls it.

But it’s more than that. Just as I’ve made room in my life for them, they too have created a world around this job. I suspect they do it with every project, moving their things in: a hoodie draped over the banister, house shoes by the front door for bad weather days, a ladder left in the second floor room after the ceiling repair. I found a construction pencil by the basement deep sink and a roll of blue tape at the top of the stairs. They’re incredibly tidy but also comfortable in the space, which feels very warm. I love to hear their feet pounding down the steps as they run outside to get something from the truck and their voices as they call to each other–a joke, a request, a question.

The house will be quiet when they’re gone. Even the dogs will stop their barking.

Much love.

You’ll never believe what happened to me today so I’m just going to tell you. I mean, if you want, you can try to guess before you read the rest of this paragraph. In fact, I got you. This paragraph will not include what happened to me.

This one doesn’t either.

Okay, now, I’m going to tell you what happened. Let’s see how close your guess is:

We have to get into the wayback machine. Are you settled? Seat belt on? Cool. Cool. Let’s get going …. About two years before my husband died, we started noticing some problems with our front steps. They were beginning to crack a little, not bad but you know these things don’t fix themselves. They’re just going to get more cracked and more cracked – a little like me, actually – until finally, it’s time to give up some of that lovely, lovely cash to take on the repairs.

We might have been able to repair early for less cash but once sickness entered the house, other things left, including motivation and money for early repairs. Anyway, over a year ago, I finally called three companies for estimates. I had a cost in my head and was anxious to see how over or under the estimates came in. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Since the only solution for the steps was a total demolition and re-build, and the cost was A LOT, I put off the work for another year. Yeah, I know. Shut up. Don’t remind me that, with the recession and supply shortages, all I really did was shoot myself in the foot because this year, I couldn’t put it off any longer and the price for supplies went up.

The most important part of the re-build was that the end product had to be identical to the original steps, regardless of cost implications. Why, you ask? Well, I live in a house designated as a historic landmark, in a historic district. It’s a big deal. In fact, it’s a little like living in Colonial Williamsburg. Except colder.

And now, let’s step out of the wayback machine, back to today. With the demolition behind us, and the brick walls up and in beautiful shape, it’s time to pour the concrete. My crew is out front with an absolute monster of a cement mixer. The day is cool and overcast but there’s no threat of rain. It’s perfect. Or so you’d think.

Work has been underway since 7AM. The guys are joking now and again. Every once in a while I hear, “More water.” Everything is going as planned. Then, I hear louder voices outside, voices other than my very Jersey-sounding contractor, that is. I assume (wrongly, it turns out) that it’s my elderly neighbor. (He’s a retired architect – a little curmudgeon-y but still lovely – who likes to be involved in every project so he often stops by to kibitz with the workers.)

Suddenly, there’s a loud knocking at the door. Just a heads up here: A knock at your front door is not normal when your front steps are missing or, you know, filled with very wet concrete.

I actually ran to the door, concerned obviously, and found my contractor, we’ll call him Nick (because his name is Nick), calf-deep in the wet concrete (this part IS normal) on the top step and he’s FIRED UP.

Now, a little side note about Nick: He’s older than I am, shorter than I am, and much nicer than I am. Seeing him fired up was astonishing because he is kind to the workers, polite to the nosy neighbors, and an absolute treat to me.

Turns out that one of those neighbors told our historical society that I am making changes to my house without permission. I know all my neighbors – at least, I know their pets – and I can’t figure out who wouldn’t just ask me what I’m doing and whether I filed for permission, etc.

And that makes me think that my other next door neighbor – not the elderly architect – is the one who turned me in. She’s been mad at me since one of our other neighbors (and yes, I do know which one but I’m not telling, ever) called the police one day to do a welfare check on her because her dogs had been barking for hours.

I know what you are thinking and you’re right. We are, in fact, a microcosm of the NextDoor app. Most of the time, everything is fine but every once in a while, someone’s kid pulls the petals of someone else’s tulips and all hell breaks loose.

So now, even though I am literally paying extra to make sure that my steps stay the same, I’m still going to have to go before the historical society board to prove that I didn’t make any changes. You know what happens if they don’t like what you’ve done? You guessed it, didn’t you? They make you undo and redo to their satisfaction. And that’s why Nick was absolutely RIGID with anger this morning.

He told me that the board “would be calling me.” Since he’s got that Jersey accent, it sounded a little like he was saying that I should watch for a horse’s head in my bed. But since it came from a guy who looks a little like my grandfather, I’m not sure if I should be worried or if I should expect to receive a tin of Grandpa’s favorite butter mints.

So, how close was your guess? Did you think I was going to tell you that I won the lottery? I don’t play so if I ever tell you that I won the lottery, I was either hacked or kidnapped.

Hope your tomorrow is less eventful than mine will be …. What do you think will happen if I just don’t answer the phone when they call? Can they put me in irons? I wonder if they have a dungeon for disobedient homeowners.

Stay safe.

The New Normal

Cancer Is a We(e) Thing

Repetition and/of Grief

In Case I Get Arrested