Valley Voice
November 2017
21
Here Knitty-Knitty
The Thought That Counts By LA Bourgeois
On Sunday, September 17th, my wife had a stroke. The event struck me down. I functioned as necessary, alternating between knitting like a good little wife and advocating for my patient. At night, I curled into my house, sharing the news with friends and sleeping as soon as I allowed my head to hit the pillow. When the case manager (our liason with the rest of our “care team”) declared that my wife would be entering a rehab facility, I knew she wasn’t going to die. As I read the brochure for the rehab hospital, I noted that any floral arrangements needed to be transported by your caregiver. As the words entered my brain, a gorgeous floral arrangement showed up at the door. I smiled and thanked the delivery man while sighing inside. Our dear friends, Joe and Arthur (not their real names), on their way to enjoy a gay time in Paris, took a moment to send her this amazing arrangement. Their favorite florist created a perfect combination of happy sunflowers with small purple and orange blossoms unfurling through the greenery. I couldn’t help but smile.
I eyed the bottom of the vase and decided that I had a pretty good chance of transporting the whole thing in the cupholder between the front seats of the car.
Time for a decision. I didn’t know where to go, so I was going to have to use the GPS on my phone. However, I’ve muted that sucker for a long, long time. I prefer to look at the directions since my ability to follow spoken directions is less than optimal.
The transport team showed up a half-hour later. With practiced eyes, they scanned the room and began to fill my arms with tissues, a respiratory tester, a pair of socks, a comb.
With one hand on the wheel, an elbow attempting to balance the flowers and the phone in my other hand, I pulled out of the parking lot and attempted to read the directions.
“You’ve already paid for them. Might as well take them with you.” They pointedly passed over the sunflowers. “You know we can’t transport the flowers.” “No vases in the van,” the woman sang out. “They’ll have to go with you.” I dumped the bits of detritus into the white plastic bag the hospital had packed with her clothing when she came into the Emergency Room. As the bag filled further and further, I felt my body beginning to collapse under the weight of that bag, the duffel with her clothing, my knitting bag, my travel cup, my purse, the floral arrangement. One of the transport team noticed and insisted on adding her one piece of medical equipment to the gurney.
Plus, that mechanized voice is creepy!
Safety first! Hopelessly lost and in danger of breaking the vase within three minutes, I managed to stop and check the map at a stop sign. I was further from the rehab facility now than I was when I left the hospital. Dang it! I turned on the creepy voice, cursing the floral delivery elf! Still hampered in my driving by balancing the arrangement, I managed to pull into the parking lot of the rehab hospital without being a danger to others in only five more minutes. The transport team had beaten me there. Grabbing the vase of sunflowers, I wandered the hall and found my sweetie in her new bed. She smiled as she viewed my nemesis on her bedside table. No one could look at those sunny flowers without smiling. Well, no one but me. And even I gave in after a few moments of knitting.
-LA Bourgeois knits around town (and swears she only uses the creepy voice directions now) as she explores her new environs in North Carolina. Follow her adventures at housewyfe.com.
FYI – that piece of medical equipment is this high tech gadget meant to monitor her heartbeat. Once a day it sends the data to her “heart rhythm doctor.” Doesn’t that just sound like Barry White is on the other end of the line, waiting to listen? Or is it just a good name for a band? I can’t decide. Like a good little burro, I hauled everything downstairs and got most stuff settled in the car. Then, I tried to put the vase in the cupholder. It was barely too big. Like barely. It tipped almost into the holder and then refused to descend. The space left just enough play to make the whole thing hard to manage as it swayed. Damn those gay boys and their fabulous florist! Why couldn’t he have been a touch chintzier with the vase size?
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