I goofed. Now that it’s spring, I thought I’d try to create a new blog with a timely theme…something about AI…but that has to wait for completion. In reviewing my work, I realized I created a December post that remained unposted – until today.
Will you forgive me for sharing a December story in April? Even if you don’t, here it is:
I haven’t lived in proximity to my family for almost thirty years, which isn’t quite fifty-and-still counting years, but is a long time. In times of need, my mother was the one who visited to help. I’m reminded of one of those times after reading this message one of my sisters recently sent to the sibling text chain:
Dad’s house is chilly. I can get the heater to fire up, but the temp is still hovering around 63-64 when I have it set for much higher. Any thoughts? Changed batteries in thermostat, reset to hold, made sure that furnace is heating up when on and swarm air comes from vents. Just seems to shut off early!
This is followed by 22 additional texts offering help, advice, where to clean and who to call. The messages jolted a seventeen-year-old memory involving an indoor temperature of fifty-degrees-and-still-dropping, a newborn baby, a five-year-old, a 76-year-old grandmother, and me.
My son, Zachary, was born in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, during the cold winter of 2008. Cold is relative, I know, so to clarify, the temperatures were in the 20s Fahrenheit, colder with the wind chill factor. Driving was difficult because of blowing snow and black ice. Blizzard conditions.
To complicate matters, Zachary was designated as a NICU baby because of his early arrival. I felt like my pregnancy was detected late, meaning he wasn’t actually early, but I didn’t win that battle with the medical experts. My father-in-law was in the process of dying in Washington D.C. during the days of Zachary’s expected arrival. My husband left a day after Zachary’s birth to be with his sister when his father died.
This was turning out to be a colder, darker winter than I ever could’ve anticipated. The first bright star was my mother’s arrival the same day my husband left for D.C. — November 22, 2008. She flew in from rainy but mildly cold Washington state to eyelash and nose-hair freezing SoDak to help care for five-year-old Alice, baby Zachary and me. She ended up staying with us until mid-January, living through the coldest months the upper midwest prairie has to offer.
The second bright light was Zachary’s early release from the NICU four weeks later. I sort of shoved my mom into the car for the one-hour drive to the hospital. In her celebratory manner, she wondered if we could stop at a party store to pick up some balloons, or maybe at the bakery of the local grocery store to order a cake. After humoring her (after all, these were my very sleepless very hangry days; I couldn’t say no to cake), we arrived at the hospital.
Impatient for the checkout process to take place, I bundled up Zachary’s diapers, bottles, blankets, hoodies and whatever else the nurses told me to as quickly as possible. I hardly said goodbye to the staff who so carefully studied my baby’s skin color, ability to suckle, eye movement, finger grasps, and yes, his poop. I carefully buckled him into the car, which needed to be approved by a NICU person, for his first vehicular transport outside of the womb, and once again tried to shove my mother into her seat before realizing she wanted to sit in the back with baby Z. \
Finally, I drove the windy, icy hour from Sioux Falls back to Brookings, to pick up Alice from her kindergarten class, before returning to my home.
Home where the heart and hearth are. Except our hearth, a large gas furnace, stopped working the next day, a Saturday. Our indoor temperature reached a high of 48 degrees. I called the emergency number for the furnace company we used. They said someone could come the next day and, because the next day was Sunday, the diagnostic fee would be higher.
Even though I was pushing 40, a far cry from fifty-and-still-counting, I mustered up as much wisdom as I could.
No, I told the furnace folks. You’re coming today. I have a four-week-old baby in this house and his 76-year-old grandmother. Plus a cute but grumpy five-year-old. And a leaky, sleepless, constantly hangry me.
After three or four visits over the course of at least as many days, and a certain sum of money, the technicians manage to coax the heater to life. That December week in a drafty, 92-year-old house was pretty damn miserable.
I don’t want my 92-year-old father to be miserable. I know he won’t be; my siblings who live nearby keep a close watch on him all the time – not just in times of need. The 22nd text message from the sister who sent out the original alert about the broken furnace is proof:
Thanks everyone. Dad is comfortable tonight.
Dad is a tough old man, in some ways. Like I said, cold is relative, and cold is still cold. This holiday season (well, now this spring, since I forgot to publish this in December), this fifty-and-still-counting girl is thankful for heat. And for moms and dads who help their children and grandchildren. And for siblings who help aging parents. And for finally posting this story.
