Four straight days of nice weather in the forecast forced Don and I to head outside to tackle yard work. I guess I should say Don will hold a hose and water plants that are already planted. No digging, bending over, or straining muscles other than those in his right hand. I will do the hard yard work.
It takes Don 30 minutes to choose socks he can get on by himself and shoes with no laces. He meets me at the front entrance of the house to report for water duty. I explain I need him to water out by the road first. I walk to the garage to get out the tools I need for the day. I come back to the front of the house and find Don looking into the windows of my car and rattling every door. What in the hell makes him think water duty begins inside my car?
We chat. I set him straight on the path to the hose and water faucet near the FirePit. The hose is in a tangled mess. As I bend over to untangle the mess, the hose moves. Don had grabbed the spray nozzle and was headed to the outer limits of the property where there is a need for water. He stands erect with the nozzle pointed in the general direction of the foliage. I turn the water on. Nothing. Don is still standing erect with the nozzle pointed in the general direction of the foliage. No water. What now?
The extraordinarily long hose, one of those fabric type (not my first choice) that shrivel up like an inflated balloon losing air, has been around a while. I follow the hose to mere feet away from Don and find a hole in the fabric. No problem. I will just cut the hose off at the hole. The section from the hole to Don was maybe 3 feet. We need the rest of the hose to reach everything else. The minute I cut the fabric, the hose took on a life of its own like a bungee chord retreating to its original shape after holding in a huge load on a truck. The fabric then went limp. I turn on the water. No water coming out at the other end. Don still standing erect with the nozzle pointed in the general direction of the foliage. He’s clueless.
I disconnect the limp hose, throw it into the back of the truck along with yard debris and run up to the third floor deck to retrieve the only other hose long enough for the job needed on the ground. Two 50’ sections are connected and I go about attempting to disconnect at the water faucet. It won’t budge. Probably corroded from salty sea air. So, I take the only 50’ section I can loosen free and connect on the ground level. I replace the dead hose and spray nozzle with an improved hose and we have water. I hand the watering equipment over to Don and attempt to return to my yard duties.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling weeds under one deck and my bucket fills up fast. I turn around to go unload the debris in the truck and I see no Don. Since his attention span is about 15 minutes, I figured he was done and went inside. He did, after all, water a couple of plants.
He’s nowhere to be found in the house. I head for the garage to see if he’s tinkering around in the tools. Nope. I find him sprawled out in the driveway, face up, with his wheelchair straddling his head. He’s dressed in two layers of clothes, coat, and hat laying on the cement. With a tropical sun beating down on him, beads of sweat form on his forehead, which is the only portion of his skin exposed.
Kristy: I gave you one chore to do which was to water plants. What are you doing here on the ground with your wheelchair?
Don: I thought I could sit down to water.
Kristy: You have only been watering 15 minutes. Are you saying you cannot stand longer than 15 minutes on your feet?
Don: I can’t get up.
Kristy: That’s a bummer, dude, because I can’t help you up all by myself. I will get a neighbor to help.
Don: No! No neighbor, I can do it.
Kristy: Then roll over and get on your hands and knees, like you always do.
Nothing.
I go get a neighbor to help and we each take an arm. We get him seated in the wheelchair after unfolding it, and that was that. No big deal.
Don remains in the wheelchair watching me pull weeds, dig trenches, remove 3 big lavender bushes from their current setting by the fountain, and plant them in the pre-dug trenches. I wrangled shrubbery and potting soil from one location to another, hoping to create something more attractive. The lavender grew so big we can’t even see the fountain anymore. They had to be moved. After the planting, I need water. That’s when I note the wheelchair is empty. Here we go again.
I finally find Don, appearing to be exhausted, sitting in his recliner chair and he’s requesting pain meds. He has already turned on the heat and massage.
Kristy: Did you hurt yourself when you fell?
Don: No, I just overdid it.
If HE overdid it, then why:
… is my face beet red?
… do I have God knows what in my hair and my shoes?
… does every inch of me hurt?
… am I so dehydrated that I need 3 enormous glasses of water?
… am I dripping in sweat, sand and soil?
This is the precise reason it’s easier, safer, and more productive to leave Don out of the equation.
I dug, pulled, dragged and pruned until the bra straps popped. They snapped apart from their anchor, threaded themselves out the armholes of my green tank top, and hung under my arms like fettuccine.
Note to Self: I am so done with group landscape engineering for the day, maybe the rest of my life.