Monday, June 26, 2006 ... Kitchen, Day One

9:00 am sharp: Our contractor, William, showed up in a U-Haul right on time, as promised. Impressive start! We’re encouraged. Plus, he likes the dogs and has already promised Frances a treat tomorrow (from his own dog’s stash, apparently).

10:15: The kitchen is gone. Poof! Just like that. Cabinets are down and out in the U-Haul, appliances disconnected and whisked away by William and his partner “Dolly,” with no need to strap drywall to Frances’s back after all. As such, Frances has joined Stephen upstairs for a nap (of course, Steve was up all night with several car accidents and an active CPR so he’s exhausted). Scarlet, sucking it up downstairs with me, is, surprisingly, taking it all rather well, noise and all.

Noon: William has drilled, cut, and hammered away what was the pantry and the wall next to the pantry. This between cleaning up after himself (after several trips to the truck to remove the cabinets and various bits of wood and plaster) and fielding calls from Cabinet Discounters regarding what sounds like his other project, nearing completion. Didn’t bother me, I hope he’d do the same for us.

1:15 pm: After starting to tear out the wall next to the dishwasher, William utters (and I hear, unfortunately), “uh oh.” Seems there’s a 1-1/2” vent pipe hiding in there. Who knew? After calling Cabinet Discounters (the project coordinator girls, Lisa and Melissa), and trying to call Gilbert (to yell at him, I suspect), he warns me that he now has to call in our plumber Donny, at least one day early. He then warns me that while Donny is a fine plumber, he won’t be happy about this turn of events. William begins to wrap things up quickly so as to escape before Donny actually arrives.

2:00: William, fielding calls from Lisa, has not escaped. After Donny’s initial tirade, William generously agrees to stay and help flesh things out. As he heads out to his truck for a hand saw, he mouths to me, “I told you!!” Indeed.

2:30: After many rounds of “Well, we can … No we can’t … Maybe we can … How wide is that cabinet? Well shit, that won’t work! …” William and Donny are ready to leave. Uncertain, I ask where we stand. Donny thinks he can rework the vent pipe, though he’s made it quite clear that it will NOT be easy and that CD will be paying dearly for his trouble (CD, but not us, as we’ve signed a contract that did include the wall coming down – phew!). William has discovered that the cutout dimensions simply will NOT work, but promises that he will do his best to approximate what I want. Well that’s good news.

2:45: As William and Donny open the door to leave, the skies open up with a torrential downpour. We also hear over the din of the rain, “Move the damn trucks!!” It’s Ray, smiling as he pulls up with his partner in a CD truck with our cabinets! They waited in the truck about 5 minutes, but with no sign of anything lightening up. Ray, already sporting what looks like a plastic baggie on his head, asks if I have a garbage bag he can use.

3:30: After securing my (painfully large) check and eyeing the dining room and kitchen for any and all space for these boxes, Ray and his partner (who was quite friendly but whose name I didn’t catch) begin to cart in my new cabinets. Frances settles in to watch the show, satisfied to watch Ray and his dolly go back and forth (with surprising ease, despite the unwieldy size and, I’m certain, weight, of the boxes).

3:40: Quadir, from Chantilly Floors, arrives to measure the kitchen. His hand is swollen and stiff from a recent soccer injury, but he manages the tape measure around the boxes without my help. I show him a corner of one of the cabinets and he says “Wow, that’s different!” I show him my marmoleum runners-up, and he thinks the lighter shade, Warm Grey, would probably look better with the zebrawood. I think I agree, but am afraid Stephen will not. (Surprisingly, however, he does!)

Marmoleum Greydations

5:00: Everyone is gone, including Steve, who has gone back to put the ambulance in service due to the horrible weather and, no doubt, busy night ahead. I feed the dogs, who don’t seem to care at all that their bowls are displaced.

Little Cayman: 30 hours and counting

Now that I've survived my last shift of the week at work, it's time to pack! Our flight leaves Saturday at 6:30 am, and sometime around 2 (-ish), I think, our feet should be hitting the sand at Little Cayman Beach Resort! This is our first trip to the Caymans, and we hear the diving is fantastic. We've been going through withdrawal since our last trip (Bonaire, above, our most favorite place to dive, last October). (We did manage a few days (and 10 dives!) in Key Largo a few weeks ago, but the water was 72 degrees, so that hardly counts!)

Must finish packing, stuff all my dive gear and at least a few clothes into a suitcase that weighs no more than 55 pounds, buy dog food, and drop the girls (Scarlet and Frances) off at doggie day care (but only till my mom comes down Sunday night to spend the week with them). It's still early, but I'm already dreading leaving them. At least they love it at day care, and I know they're in good hands. *sigh* My friends with kids say "just imagine leaving a child!" But really, it can't be any harder. They're my babies, my poopins, my sweet, sweet potatoes. If only we could teach them to wear fins and breathe through a regulator ...

remembering dad

Yesterday — Monday, March 6, 2006 — was four years since my father's death. Four years! Sometimes it feels like it's been a lot longer than that; sometimes my arms and my heart ache for the hugs he used to give. More often than not, it feels like he's still here, too busy doing his own thing and living his own life to call as often as he'd like — same as his daughter. A lot has happened in the past four years. Four years ago, I spent day after day in the hospital, watching what brain cancer can do to a strong, relatively young (he was only 55) man. Now I spend day after day in the hospital, watching brain cancer — or stroke, or some other neurological nightmare —claim someone else’s father. Or mother, or son or daughter. But that's another blog ...

Really, it's an amazing (and scary) thing: a few rogue cells doing their own thing in the midst of an otherwise healthy and amazing organ — and poof! The former Marine and Vietnam vet; MD State Police lieutenant and SWAT commander; husband, father, and grandfather who loves tapioca pudding and Disney movies just as much as a good margarita, a good Maryland-Duke game, and his Harley — suddenly becomes the patient who must be watched so he doesn't fall out of his bed; the 180-pound man whose still well-formed muscles betray him when he tries to stand up by himself; a smart guy who now uses what's left of that sharp wit to trick his daughters into thinking he really did eat his dinner (the plate still on the floor, his favorite mashed potatoes and spinach being enjoyed by his poodle, Lacey); the tough guy who must now ask his girls or his Hospice nurse for help when he has to go to the bathroom.

In the end, it was peaceful. He was home, in his basement family room, fire in the fireplace, a basketball game on TV, his two best friends hanging out with us. It could have been any other night, really; even Lacey was lying right next to him, just like she always used to nap with him on their favorite end of the couch. Only the couch had been replaced with a hospital bed, and Dad wasn’t yelling at Lacey to stop licking his hand. He hadn’t spoken in a few days, and the morphine pump had thankfully put an end to the restless jerking and labored breathing.

I was sitting at the head of the bed, unconsciously stroking Dad’s head softly while we all laughed at the stories we shared to make ourselves feel better. I’d noticed that his breathing had changed. We all had, but it wasn’t necessary to talk about it. Eventually, though, I realized that there was no next breath. I looked up at the clock; it was 11:07 pm. I kissed him and told him I loved him, my eyes on the clock the entire time, trying as hard as I could to burn every detail of our last few moments together into my memory. I knew that soon enough I’d be desperate to remember what it felt like to be with him … sort of like how I feel every New Year’s Eve, when even as the ball drops my mind is scrambling to hold on, frantically thinking that in just a few seconds the whole year will be gone, over just like that, never ever to exist again, other than as a memory that threatens to fade if you don’t try really hard to save it. At 11:10, Dad’s friend Steve put his hand on my shoulder, and my mind quieted. The year was over, so to speak, and there was not a thing we could do about it.

birth of a new era

I love to write, I love to read, I love to make notes and lists and other miscellaneous jottings. I still prefer the feel of paper, and I still have dozens of little notebooks and moleskines at my disposal. But the lure of the blog has claimed me at last .... If nothing else, it will be home to my travel log, somewhere for me to ramble on about our latest scuba trip or post a link to a cool new underwater photo. I'm not sure how this blogging will fare in comparison to the comfort factor of sitting down with a favorite pen and notebook, but I'm willing to give it a go.