Humble Pie

Ever had a slice? Steaming, hot slices are served around these quarters on the regular, and I’m not talking about a Miss Minny style sliver.  It seems the dessert best served when I get to feeling myself a little too much.  And though I don’t love it at all, it’s much like getting a shot of medicine; it’s good for me. Prepare yourself for a lot of eye rolling as you scroll on…

A few months ago at Shands hospital in Gainesville, Florida, lay my father-in-law in his hospital bed, a tube the diameter of a fluorescent ceiling bulb and the length twice that coming out of the side of his neck at the site where it was inserted. The tube was filled with his blood, bright red, as it was oxygenated via the “virtual” lung outside of his body–the ECMO machine, and it was delivering it back to him at his jugular vein.  The tube that carried the blood away from his suffering and suffocating body came from under the bed sheet.  It was an eggplant hue as it was deplete of the life giving oxygen it needed to support all of the body’s organs and systems, but as it reached the ECMO it was revived with the needed O2. The river of blood–his own blood-all of it– cycled through the machine and flowed down the tube back into his neck, supported by a white, sporty-looking head band apparatus so that it remained in an upright position, much like a snorkel to a mask.  And like a snorkel, this tube offered his body oxygen that he couldn’t get on his own as his lungs were drowning in a sea of scar tissue. This process was keeping him alive, in essence: alive to hopefully get a transplant of two new to him lungs.

As a family, we were spent–my mother-in-law being the most.  She had been with him from the beginning of this process, and hadn’t physically left his side since the transport of Bob from our hometown hospital.  Bobbie had been literally camping out in the MICU and was in need of a shower–a sink, a private toilet–a place to breathe for a minute.  And she needed some clean clothes.

Though we brought her a few clean changes, the ones with her needed to be laundered.  In an effort to make the most of her time away from the hospital and her beloved, I offered to take them to a laundromat while she showered and had some down time in our hotel room we had procured for ourselves. The kids stayed in the hotel with Bobbie as a distraction (though loud and little room for peace) from reality for her for a few, while my husband, Alan, stayed with his father.  I set off for the nearest laundromat without colluding with Yelp, just the direction of the front desk clerk at our hotel.

I pulled in to the laundromat with no soap, no quarters, and no clue.  (I’ve surely washed laundry before, loads of it with three children and hubby.  When five people take their clothes off, you’ve got a tub full.) As I surveyed the building, the word laundromat itself seemed almost oxymoronic: this place was filthy and in need of some stain remover.  It smelled of Snuggle and hassle. I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be making the clothes dirtier by washing them here. (Insert eye roll. I am.)  I didn’t know where to begin, but a kind lady saw how shell-shocked I was and pointed me to where to get soap from the dispenser.  When she saw that I couldn’t even successfully do THAT, she pointed me to the moneychanger machine at the front of the room.  I needed change to do the dirty work here. All I had was a $20, and let me tell you that $20 in quarters make quite a noise exiting the machine.  I got sideways stares as they poured out and almost sang a chorus of “you don’t belong here” and “welcome to Vegas, baby”.

With soap purchase made, I removed the clothes from the Vera Bradley bag (yes, eye roll again) they were in and threw them in the largest unit—the one for “bulky loads” that cost 14 quarters to perform. Fumbling with the two Tide packets of powder (two would surely get them cleaner, no?), I finally got the majority of it in the dispensing hole. 14 quarters and two packs of detergent – excessive—just as I am, it turns out. Machine on and whirring, tossing the clothes in a tornado of water and suds, I stepped outside and began pacing to get my steps in and my thoughts out. Watching the patrons pull up in cars that looked as tired as they did, reality set in for me. I was disgusted with myself. A few of the women went in and got their loads going only to come right back out and start smoking cigarettes to pass the time. One sat and watched her load toss back and forth, back and forth, and seemed to use that smooth rhythm to zone out: $1.50 for a therapist that scrubbed her mind clean as it did her clothes.   The woman that so kindly showed me the ropes had a family member with her that sat in a wheelchair and rolled around in circles to pass the time. Next a man that had obviously gotten a ride from a kind citizen—and not an UBER—pulled up and was let out. He had an oversized weathered looking army green sack chock full of what must have been all of his worldly possessions, and he lugged it into the building to use the washer next to mine. When he got his laundry going and left it to sit on a bench outside and witness the lonesome world zoom past, I couldn’t help but notice through the window of his washer the water was tinged brown. And peering back at me was my disgusted face reflected. That face was dirtier than the water in that machine.

One of the women that had finished her smoke break came in to throw her clothes in the dryer. I watched as she put the quarters in to start it. I followed suit. I had to ask her how many coins to put in because there was no indication—she replied, “the more you put in, the longer the time you get,” in a quite annoyed voice. Thanking her, I slid back to the bench inside– right next to the lady that had been watching her laundry in a mesmerized way.   Striking up a conversation with her, I discovered her story. Single mother, college-aged kid who had little to do with her, missing her family that lived farther north—desperation, worry, anxiety. I shared our story with her—our desperation, worry, anxiety. The parallels we shared became an unspoken bond—the look shared with our eyes said everything without saying anything. She spoke some kind words and while looking me square in the eyes, said, “Your father-in-law is going to be ok.” And I’m not sure she knows that I heard the very voice of God come out of her mouth and I just knew deep in the pit of my soul that she was speaking truth. Perhaps she wasn’t even aware that I was aware of an angel I had the privilege to entertain right in my presence.

The lady that smelled of Marlboro Red surely overheard our story…and she got very close to my ear and grumbled as she was leaving with her clean clothes, “You need to use dryer number 2. It gets the hottest and goes the fastest.” And I knew she let me in on a little secret that she surely wouldn’t have shared with the me that initially strutted in the DJ Coin Laundry with my Vera Bradley laundry tote and holier-than-thoust-Laundromat attitude. She saw my vulnerability, she heard my humble cry, she showed me love.

This girl here learned a lot about myself in that DJ Coin Laundry. I don’t tend to think that I’m better than others as a general philosophy, but how about the unspoken air I put off? And how about all of the creature comforts I take flippantly and, shamefully so, expectantly? It’s most haughty and I find it mortifying. UGH.  Leaving the Laundromat with clean laundry, turns out that I needed the scrubbing more than any item of clothing or square of tile in the place. I found myself feeling just as refreshed as the laundry toted out–the dirt in my eyes removed and cleansed so I could see with a new pair of eyes.

As I’ve heard someone say recently, “Humble yourself.” I’m trying.

Since I’m human, I’m fairly sure I’ll need to start collecting more quarters.

Author: dailyparrscription

Fun gal with a lot to say View all posts by dailyparrscription