I’m on day five or six of what Crankenstein believes is an upper respiratory infection. Last night was the most annoying yet — despite OTC meds, I was coughing, wheezing, choking and sputtering, partly because my neck’s still impeding my ability to swallow. I couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep, and we knew this morning was set to be our busiest of the last few weeks, which figures.
Structural work was due to start in the basement, where paneling was dismantled and carpeting ripped up last week, and I had an appointment with my GI.* Fortunately, it was Crankenstein’s last day of vacation and she could stay home and babysit Muriel and help the workers if they had any questions. As simple as that sounds, it’s way outside of her comfort zone, so it meant a lot to me that she was able to help.
Crankenstein’s family was the type to let things fester. She grew up thinking it was normal for rain to pour down the fireplace and for basements to regularly flood, rendering appliances and AC units unusable. It wasn’t just that they couldn’t afford repairs, though money was a factor. “It was like fixing problems wasn’t an option,” she said as we discussed this post. “It was, ‘Oh, the door doesn’t work anymore. Oh, it just rains in the living room now.'”
She continued this pattern after getting her first solo apartment partway through medical school. Believing her oven defective, she stopped using it rather than call the manager for help. When she owned cars — usually ancient $1,000 junkers purchased from church elders — she did no preventative maintenance, budgeting nothing for repairs (not that she had money to spare in undergrad or med school, anyway), and when they died, they died, and it was back to walking and public transportation until the next ‘beater’ came along.
That changed when we moved in together. “It’s safe to use the oven again,” I said a day or two after warning her it was out of commission due to a wiring issue, and she looked pleasantly surprised. Her car was regularly serviced. Despite being a professional problem-solver herself, she hadn’t realized how easy it was to call experts and let them handle things. It was a lesson I learned by watching my dad, who believed himself capable of fixing anything. He initiated projects enthusiastically and abandoned them almost immediately, leaving portions of my parents’ home nonfunctional or torn apart, sometimes for years at a time.
Living like either set of our parents would be too stressful for me, so I try to be realistic about what needs to be done and whether I’m capable of doing it. Since 2015, we’ve had a roof, an AC, a water heater, and a garage door replaced; we’ve had fencing, window, plumbing and electrical work done; we’ve completed several rounds of landscaping, tree removal and annual pruning. We’ve racked up all kinds of minor repairs and routine maintenance, and Crankenstein’s somehow escaped any involvement with it, never interacting with a single contractor, repairman or estimator.
That’s just the tip of the domestic iceberg. In eight years of cohabitation, she hasn’t mopped, vacuumed or even run the dishwasher; we were in our current house for three months before she stepped foot in the laundry room. I pay the bills and perform all administrative tasks, take care of Muriel, handle the household cleaning and upkeep, and try to anticipate Crankenstein’s needs and generally make sure they’re met. Once, at a friendly meeting with colleagues, she listened as they complained about their husbands, current and former, and how little they helped around the house.
When she sheepishly admitted she’s the husband in our relationship, a physician world-renowned in her field of research remarked “I’d be 10 years ahead in my career if I had a wife!” Maybe Crankenstein thought of that — or last night’s hacking, or our recent come-to-Jesus talks about my reluctance to devote much more of my dwindling energy to someone who rarely reciprocates — when I reminded her of this morning’s appointment. Normally she’d sigh and make excuses if asked to do anything she didn’t want to do on a day off, which would’ve tested my sanity. Instead, with no fanfare, she treated our life together like a joint responsibility.
It was a good way to start the new year, unlike the GI appointment. Here’s the current view from the basement, which looks like a John Wayne Gacy nightmare as holes are dug for piers. I’ll eventually post photos of what we started with and how the post-project reconstruction turns out. Work will continue through Tuesday or Wednesday of next week.
* “Shouldn’t you have stayed home if you don’t feel good?” is a reasonable question to ask. My GI tells patients to reschedule if they have COVID or suspect they have it. Otherwise, he prioritizes IBD treatment over everything else. Since I’m negative and past the most contagious period of a cold or something similar, I wore a mask — the doctor and his staff were also masked — and we all used hand sanitizer.