Samma Lamma Ding Dong returned home to us from his internship in Dallas on Wednesday night. On Thursday, the four of us and Zoë, John’s girlfriend, went out for dinner to celebrate my birthday early before Sam leaves us again for his second semester, junior year at Iowa State. I decided to continue the celebration of aging on Friday night by working on a sinus infection. I had peaks of feeling good on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon, but it’s now Monday and I can relate to Leslie Knope from Parks and Recreation when she says, “everything hurts and I’m dying.”
Maybe it’s not that bad.
But it feels like it.
I usually conjure up concerns for my own death every time I’m ill. It’s just something to pass the time.
If it’s really bad, I text Scott and tell him to send the angel of death and begin planning my funeral and oh, here’s a couple of details I’ve worked up in addition to the binder I have for you. Yes, there’s a binder. I mean, let’s be honest. I have three men- one husband, two sons. I can just picture it- I die and my corpse lays there in bed. All three of them are standing around me, looking at each other with great concern about the next step.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know, Dawg, never done this before.”
“Should we call someone?”
“Yo, who do you call for this, tho.”
“Should we move her?”
“Where? Where do we move her? Doesn’t someone have to come get her?”
“Yeah, but where do they take her?”
“Can they just bury her in what she’s wearing right now? We don’t have to dress her, right?”
“Wait. How’s Dad gonna eat?”
“I think he’s supposed to call that Alyssa lady who makes the meals. I saw her picture and number on the kitchen door.”
“Who’s gonna do Dad’s laundry?”
“That’s you, Dawg. You live in town. I’m headed back to Iowa State.”
So yeah! Of course I have a binder! Step by step instructions on who to call, what to do, where to dispose of me, what to tell people. I’m not an idiot. I love my boys, all three of them, but I’m a realist.
Upon said death bed, I usually text out instructions to friends… Julia gets my wardrobe but she has to finish any scrapbook projects left undone; Megan can have my Pyrex and anything fun from my kitchen.
But they all have to help Scott through life. Every time I tell him I want to teach him to cook or do laundry, he says, “Oh Deb, we both know I’m going before you.” But do we? We do not. I think it’s his “subtle” way of getting out of how to learn to do domestic stuff. He can get through the day and take care of the dogs (of course someone reading this will have to remind him that the dogs need yearly heartworm shots and occasional doses of flea and tick meds. All the meds in are in the “dog drawer” in the kitchen and are labeled with dog’s name, the type of med and the distribution schedule.) Beyond the the every day and dog stuff, he’s going to need to some help.
Recently, in one of our “what if” discussions, he said, “Can I hire someone to come in and just smell everything to make sure it’s clean?” Sam laughed. “Yeah, Dad, it’s called a cleaning person and she cleans stuff.” You have to understand that Scott has no sense of smell whatsoever. It’s not recent, it’s always been that way and it can pose some potentially problematic situations. I recently returned home from a weekend retreat and walked into our bedroom only to be met with an odor reminiscent of John’s football days when I would pick him and his buddies up from practice and drop all of them off while simultaneously hanging my head out the driver’s side window, gasping for fresh air.
Deb- “What is happening in here?????”
Scott- “Oh yeah, I didn’t know what to do with all my clothes. I walked 25 miles this weekend. I was going to put them in the washer but there’s something in there, so I hung them around the room to dry.”
It was in the 90’s all weekend. And while I know work is really stressful right now, and walking helps him think things through, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, TAKE WHATEVER IS IN THE WASHER OUT AND PUT EVERYTHING IN THERE AND CLOSE THE LID.” I threw sheets and clothes into the washer on hot with plenty of vinegar to kill whatever has been harboring there all weekend. Truth be told, if I had just given the command, I’m positive the clothes could’ve walked down the hallway themselves and jumped into the washer without help, like a mass suicide mission. This experience couldn’t have been pleasant for them either. I diffused some lemon oil in great proportions and deep cleaned the bedroom and master bath.
This is after one, solitary weekend. This is why I worry. This is why I prepare.
And now you understand the why behind my binder, my discussions about who we call for food, and my concerns about what will happen if I decided to check out.
So for all of you reading this, if I don’t recover from this sinus infection, which I’m certain is highly likely, please take note and check on my sweet husband. The boys are fine. They can cook and clean and do laundry.
And just to be sure, drop by and smell the house from time to time.
I suggest you leave on a vacation by yourself for a week. My wife did this and not only did I learn to appreciate her more, I actually HAD to learn to cook and clean. Necessity is the mother of invention. It was a great way to ease into that “what if I had to…”
The binder is so organized and smart. I hope you feel better soon. Sinus infections are no joke.
Feel better Deb. Still funny while “dying.”
Hahahahhaahahahahhaahhahahaha
Hahahahahahahahahajajajajajajajajajhahahahahahahahhahahahajajajajjaja I can’t stop laughing! Priceless!
LOL. Love it. You always make me laugh.