The ‘plinks’ in a life — the small ones and the big ones
The hassle of replacing a fan was a nothingburger, unlike our time with Jeffrey
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On a recent Saturday morning, the dryer wouldn’t turn on. The washer held a big load of washed towels. As our recently adopted dog, Ellie, was still in unexpected heat, laundry duty was steady. I couldn’t summon the repairman until Monday.
Later that morning, the ceiling fan in the living room near my workspace also went on strike. My beekeeper husband, Randy, was selling honey all day. I knew he’d insist on installing a replacement, a chore nowhere on his list of to-do favorites. We’d plan to do it the next day.
But wait. There’s more! Our living room sports two ceiling fans. Besides wanting matching fans, I figured the second one could likewise croak at any minute. I found two I liked at our local Lowe’s.
The next day, I prayed that Randy wouldn’t fall off the ladder trying to get the old fan dismantled or the new one up. With my deft assistance, the old fan came down uneventfully. Time for the new one!
Let the games begin
Randy twisted tiny colored electrical wires together and inserted minuscule screws as the motor swung from the hanging rod.
And then, plink.
A tiny screw had fallen into the motor casing. There was no way to retrieve it without removing the motor and hanging rod from the ceiling. Biting his tongue, Randy untwisted the wires, removed the motor, and turned it upside down. The screw fell right out.
The rod and motor were put back into position, and within seconds, a tiny wire nut escaped Randy’s fingers and fell — into the motor casing. Down again came the motor. As my late mother-in-law used to say, “Cry a lot,” “Grrrrr,” and “Bad word.”
I summoned our son, Matthew, and his height and patience enabled him to finish the fan almost effortlessly.
Meanwhile, still easily spooked, Ellie bolted from her spot on the nearby couch to safety behind it. And there she stayed until I scooted it out enough to reach her with the leash and lead her out. By the time the second fan was in place the following day, Ellie had performed her impressive disappearing trick four times.
In the grand scheme of things, our fan situation was a nothingburger. A somethingburger that warranted fervent prayer happened in 1997, when our baby, Jeffrey, was diagnosed with spinal muscular atrophy (SMA) type 1. When Randy and I heard the prognosis of probable death within two years, tears gushed before I could think to pray. Once I regrouped, however, I realized that nothing was too insignificant for a prayer.
Prayers for strength and mere survival
The diagnostic nightmare commenced without delay. A chest X-ray, with Jeffrey’s arms secured above his head, unleashed his first-ever wails. I prayed that we’d get through it and that Randy and I would remain sufficiently upright.
The overnight stay involved chest physiotherapy to keep secretions loosened and the typical incessant beeping from various monitors. I rocked and nursed Jeffrey throughout the night, feeling simultaneously like Vigilant Mother of the Year and a zombie mama. The itching from poison ivy I’d picked up the week before was excruciating. I prayed for strength and that I could refrain from clawing my legs apart.
The following morning kicked off with a new blood test. Blood was drawn from Jeffrey’s forehead, and the nurses prayed they had enough. Jeffrey was beyond consolation. I cried. The nurses fought their own tears.
Next came the most horrific test — an electromyogram, or EMG. Electrical currents to various muscles in Jeffrey’s legs determined a response. I’m not sure how there were any tears left by then, but they flowed copiously from our tiny warrior and from me. My prayers focused on survival, Jeffrey’s forgiveness for what had transpired over the previous 15 hours, and the tough assignment Randy had, making phone calls to update our families.
As we returned home, I prayed that the words I’d need when we faced our children, Matthew and Katie, and my parents would sound optimistic. They did.
Prayers, gratitude, and a couple of ‘plinks’
As SMA followed its insidious playbook of devastation, I prayed for Jeffrey’s comfort. Although I hated having to rely on suctioning and morphine, I appreciated that they were available and that they worked their magic (until they didn’t).
Jeffrey was just over 5 months old when his eyes announced he’d had enough. As they had done steadily since the diagnosis, my prayers shifted again — from asking God to take Jeffrey, to “simply” giving Jeffrey permission to go on. It took Jeffrey just two breaths to take flight.
Plink, plink.
Note: SMA News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of SMA News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to spinal muscular atrophy.
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