I’m typing out my column in protest. Well, in truth, my body is protesting. My right shoulder and arm have been throbbing for a couple of weeks with some kind of inflammatory flare-up that has limited my activities and range of motion. Who knew that clicking a computer mouse could hurt so much?
My immune system has added insult to injury by allowing me to catch my grandson’s cold. I have noticed that, as I get older, these colds are harder to shake off. They always work their way down into my chest and morph into bronchitis. Right now my voice is so husky it could pull a dog sled.
So here I sit coughing, snuffling, and moaning my way through my column while marveling at my stamina. In spite of my pain and suffering, I still manage to get up every morning at 5:30, start a load of laundry, and sort out medications for my husband, The Brit.
Every day but Saturday, I roust our Briteen out of bed. This is one very thankless job, and I’ve learned not to be gentle anymore. I used to softly caress his hair and sweetly call his name singing, “Time to get up, sleepyhead!”
But my soothing efforts were always greeted with grunts and growls that would finally form into three words, snarled vehemently at me as I quickly exited the den, having effectively poked the bear, “OK! I’m up!”
Now I tackle this morning ritual the same way one removes a bandage. Let her rip and be done with it! “Time to get up! Let’s go!”
I then make sure he feeds himself and the dog, walks her, and readies himself for school (plus Hebrew school on Sundays and soccer practice two nights a week). Prior to leaving the house with him, I do a pre-check that rivals anything NASA requires before launching a spacecraft. Does he have his homework, P.E. clothes, books, signed permission slips when required, lunch card, Torah readings, yarmulke, boots (indoor or outdoor cleats), shin guards, water, and snack?
I’m the mortar that keeps things from crumbling here at Waterman Manor. I must never waver, even when I am unwell, which is more than I can say for the man and man-in-training with whom I live. No matter how sick I am, I must pull myself together and, as my husband’s people were so fond of saying during the bombing raids of WWII, “Keep calm and carry on.” I think this saying was penned by a woman, to be repeated constantly to British men. Because let’s face it, when it comes to sickness and pain, men—no matter where they are from—are wimps!
I’ll never forget a visit I made to the student health center at Arizona State University when I was a student there. I had to get blood drawn and, as I passed the nurse’s station I saw a pitiable site. I recognized an athlete who was sitting in a wheelchair hyperventilating and sobbing simultaneously. The man was a terrible sight and I asked a nurse if he was going to be all right.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she scoffed. “He had to have a measles shot.”
That’s it? I thought the man was about to lose a limb! The nurse told me men are the biggest babies when it comes to getting shots.
My husband is a wonderful man and has had some health problems over the past few years. The Brit bravely gets his blood drawn regularly and faces medical procedures with that quiet reserve of a proper Englishman.
But when it’s time for me to trim his fingernails you’d think he was about to undergo a medieval torture. I am very gentle and careful, but you’d never know it if you heard his incessant whining.
“Don’t clip so close to my fingertips!” he’ll squeal. “You’re going to cut into the skin! Don’t file so hard! You’re squeezing my fingers too hard!”
Once I had to remove a bandage for him and did so very quickly, taking a bit of chest hair with it. Once the screaming stopped, The Brit glared at me and stated, “You did that on purpose, you wicked cow!” Yes. Yes, I did. Moo.
The same can be said for our grandson. The Briteen hates to have his body touched in any way. “I am not a field,” he’ll declare, “so quit picking on me!”
He hated having his nails trimmed when he was small. Of course, I had to catch him first. I blame his grandfather. Now I have to remind him, “Trim those talons or I will!”
When The Brit or Briteen have colds you’d think the Black Death had visited our house. Plaintive cries of “Can I have some Sprite? Can I have some soup? Can I have a cup of tea?” can be heard every 10 minutes.
God forbid anyone in this house should get a sliver or stub a toe. Call out the Special Ops. We need an evac team and copter stat! Get the morphine!
Personally, I concur with the late George Burns that the best painkiller is ice. It’s non-addictive and especially effective when you pour a little whiskey over it!
I now realize that teenagers have no fear because they believe they are immune to harm. Countless times I’ve heard The Briteen’s dictum, “I’m fine, Grandma!” But when they break their ankle falling off a skateboard, they are terrified of the pain because they simply can’t believe it’s happening to them. I call it the “I-told-you-so-but-you-never-listen-to-me” phenomenon.
Finally, how is it that creatures who scream at the tiniest twinge can’t feel cold? The two yetis I live with walk around in T-shirts and shorts, while I wrap myself in fleece. Even now I am huddled over my computer wrapped in a warm robe, snuffling, coughing, and moaning as my arm and shoulder ache.
Oh, my! The Briteen has just brought me tea and toast. “I hope you feel better, Grandma,” he says with a gentle pat on my back. Someone is getting an Icee after school!
“Bloody hell,” The Brit just shouted. “It’s roasting in here!” That man has turned off the heat. Someone else needs to have his nails trimmed. Moo.
No wicked cows were harmed during the writing of this column. Send bottles of Jameson Irish whiskey to Ariel Waterman via her editorw Shelly Cone at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Feb 4-11, 2016.