Painting The Carport, Part I

I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may be moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction — or experiencing a death. I’ve often joked that at least one of these things may lead to another.

I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may be moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction — or experiencing a death. I’ve often joked that at least one of these things may lead to another.

I told Zack the other day that construction of the carport (with me as his up close and personal painting assistant of several days) could have led to a breakup, had it continued much longer. He joked (as usual) that he liked to think of that possibility as “trading me in on a newer model.” I joked back that he was lucky I didn’t prefer to think of it as homicide.

If we had a video of the two most stressful days, he would never have believed it. Who was that impatient, grouchy man? It was like Laurel and Hardy on the way to divorce court. Zack can become so focused on the job at hand that he blocks out everything else. In part, this is a survival tactic during recovery from paralysis. He was having a hard enough time keeping his precarious balance on the scaffolding, holding the sprayer level — at a challengingly high level for his recovering arms. His hands and fingers weren’t working so well either. I was having problems of my own. But he wasn’t aware of or interested in those.

Assisting Zack during his recovery from Guillain-Barre hasn’t been easy — mainly because he’s chosen such difficult challenges all the way through, at whichever level of recovery he’s been. We call our ranch the Rehabilitation Camp. Never one for patience, he’s pushed and pushed, refusing to allow the syndrome (and the recovery) to hold him back more than or longer than absolutely necessary. Zack is a man of purpose. He has things to do. Even when he wasn’t ready to take on a certain project, he assumed that with my help, we would make it happen. And so we did, often with great difficulty (and often distress) — because he wouldn’t give up — or wait until he was better. Zack wasn’t going to sit around and wait. I’ve often insisted that this drive has fueled his recovery.

Zack’s refusal to accept even understandable restrictions required more of me than he had any right to expect. He never seemed to realize this, and I rarely pointed it out. I figured I could at least try to do whatever he asked of me. It never seems to occur to Zack that I’m physically unable or ill equipped to do certain things, lift heavy items, etc. He often doesn’t register that after helping him for hours, I still must find time for my own chores, shopping, cooking, laundry, paperwork, bill paying, maybe even a little writing, catching up on a myriad of things, etc. (Whine, whine). Sometimes I must actually rest, an alien thought to Zack. This seems to perplex him. After all, what have I to be tired about?

“You complain that you don’t have enough time, yet you sit for hours at your computer,” he tells me. He doesn’t realize that sometime sitting’s all I can manage. (So why not in front of the computer?  When Zack needs to rest, he watches old movies. We all have our opiate of choice).

Things ARE so much easier now that I’ve gone from caregiver to assistant. I even have a little time to myself, much less than he thinks and worlds less than I need. I have the feeling that to wrangle a full day or two off from THIS demanding boss, I’d need to be so sick in bed that I couldn’t function. And not wanting that, I won’t complain further. I figure if HE can push himself to come back from total paralysis, persevere through the physical disabilities and challenges he still must overcome, then I should be able to follow along.  Next week I’ll describe our painting scenario, and you’ll better appreciate the inclusion of the joke with which I’ll close (not that I approve of physical abuse. I am however a fan of self defense).

A man sporting various casts and tubes lies in traction in the hospital, black and blue, covered with bandages. His visiting friend asks how he ended up in this sorry state. “I’m not quite sure,” the man replies — and goes on to describe a livestock show he and his wife attended. “We were viewing an exhibit of bulls, each with a sign showing how many times the animal had serviced a cow in the previous year. “Look, honey, this one says 63,” says the wife. That’s more than once a week. Hmmm.”  She gives him a little wink. They move from stall to stall. “Wow, this sign says 150! That’s more than twice a week. You could sure take a lesson from this bull here,” she chuckles and pokes him in the ribs. The next sign reads 365. “Honey, that’s every day!” She gives him a long, meaningful look. “Yes,” the man answered his teasing wife, “but I’ll bet it wasn’t with the same old cow.”

“And that’s the last thing I remember before I woke up here.”

Have a great week everyone!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/