Cont. PART 2
Before I leave the bathroom, I wash my hands, COVID precaution, even though I already have it. Have to be responsible. I step out of the bathroom on to my squishy carpet. Funny I didn’t notice that when I waddled in here. I walk upstairs and am standing in flood. I walk into the kitchen and see water cascading out from under our kitchen sink. I am so confused.
How do I turn the water off? I reach under the sink and I don’t have the strength to turn the stupid knob off! I need to get this cleaned up. I don’t want to wake Chris. I can’t turn the water off. I am going to have to wake him up.
“Chris! The water. I can’t turn off the water.”
He can, and he does.
I begin to pull 35 years of towels out of every cupboard, drawer, and off the floor at the end of our bed. He tries to use the mop. Clearly not thinking right. He disappears into the garage. I know what he is doing.
I have enough presence of mind to take pictures. I don’t want the insurance people in the house. The insurance people surely will appreciate that. I can take pictures. And I do.
I keep laying down towels, soaking up the water then dragging them outside. I am unable to lift the waterlogged area carpet. He comes into the kitchen dragging the wet-vac.
I go lay on the bed for a rest.
Then I remember the guitars. I head to the closet under the stairs. I open the door and grab the first guitar. The case is wet. I cry. I call Chris. He comes down and helps open up the guitars to get them dry. I know he wants to cry too. He is musical. He sings. Or he used to sing. The way he has coughed, I doubt he will ever sing again. The guitars and cases are open and drying. More wet vac. Well, he wet vacs. I go lay down again. I’m lazy like that.
Chris calls his carpet cleaning company cousins. They bring their truck over, and now we have hoses running through the house. The cousins leave, and Chris pulls gallons of water out of the carpet. He has the fans on, and the windows open drying up the carpet. Did I mention we live in Arizona, and we are having unusually hot weather? That means like 117. It’s coming in useful, drying up the carpet and walls and our lungs.
I’m back up. Together we manage to roll up and pull the area carpet outside. We take a moment to sit and see the hardwood floor bubbling up under our feet. We see the molding along the wall bubbling up too. And I smell the moist stinky carpet. I wonder, “Is this good for Covid19? For our lungs?”
It was a long putrid smelly cat day. Sans cats. I finally get back to the guest room at night. It is probably the stinkiest room in the house. I don’t care. I collapse in bed and wonder what demons will infiltrate my mind.
In the middle of the night, I wake up, and Chris is at the foot of the bed. He holds a small vile and moisturizer.
“I sterilized my CBD dispenser. I think this will help you sleep.”
“It’s too oily. Really. I don’t think this is a good idea.”
He jabs a full eye dropper into my mouth and down my throat. I grab my water bottle hoping I can swallow the tasteless oil. Nope. I run for the door. He doesn’t follow. He isn’t the hold your wives hair back kind of guy while she, well, you know.
The next two days we spend cleaning, resting, getting sicker, and he asks as I lay on the floor barely able to breathe, “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Hospitals cost money.”
A couple of mornings later, who can keep track, Chris finds me on the floor in a different room. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, do you?”
The next Tuesday morning I lay on our bedroom floor.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?”
I manage to breathe in and out. I don’t want to go.
I know, I am a wimp. A no insurance, costly wimp.
TO BE CONTINUED….