The first time I took the blower out was a few weeks ago. Bob had just had his back surgery and was in no shape to do much of anything. With written, detailed instructions from him, I set out to fire up the machine and clear out the driveway. I couldn't wait to prove to him that he had nothing to worry about—he's in good hands with me in charge, yessiree! An hour and a half later, I stomped into the house, covered head to toe in snow, but with a driveway cleared edge-to-edge; I was so proud of my handiwork, I was beaming. Bob was in the kitchen, standing on one leg, making a sandwich. "What the hell were you doing out there?" he asked. I stopped dead in my tracks.
"What do you mean, 'what the hell were you doing out there'? I was snow-blowing!"
"Do you realize the snowblower has six speeds? You were inching along like a grandma up and down the driveway, you must have had it in first the whole time." I stood and stared at him. "I was gonna come out and say something," he said, "but knew you wouldn't hear me, and thought you'd figure it out eventually."
"Really? Six speeds?" I now vaguely recall seeing some numbers and a lever on the machine, right under my nose. So, that's what they were. "Well, why the hell didn't you try to get my attention—you could have come out and thrown something at me! You really thought I wanted to creep along at a snail's pace like that? Geeze . . . thanks a lot. . . there's an hour and a half out of my life that I'll never get back!" I stomped back outside, and started up the machine again and with heart pounding, popped it into 6th gear. It damn near bolted across the driveway with me trailing like a flag behind. Well, that's good to know. I vindicated myself with the next snowfall. Thanks to the newfound knowledge of multiple speeds, I had that driveway cleared in about a half an hour.
Today's snow is not as much fun. It's about 36 degrees outside, must have warmed up considerably overnight. The snow that we were getting yesterday is now drizzle and is turning the snow on the ground into wet, heavy slop. I am in the living room, writing, when Bob comes upstairs and tells me we really should start working on the snow, because it's starting to slide off the metal roof. It's better to deal with it earlier than later, he says. He means "we," as in "me," as I'm the only able-bodied person in this house at the moment. It's times like this that I wish we had a few kids. I'm sitting on the couch, tucked under a blanket, laptop where it should be, on top of my lap, writing some, listening to the Christmas music on the radio, occasionally looking up to watch the snow drip, drip, drip off the roof. If I time this right, it should all be melted by about 3 pm, with little or no shoveling or snow-blowing required. Unfortunately, that's not how Bob's mind or body is wired. I'm a "wait and see" kind of gal; he's a "there's no better time like the present" kind of guy. Never the twain shall meet. And I mean never.
Dammit. There goes my quiet Christmas day. My natural lazy side rears its ugly head in situations like this; as such, I start arguing with Bob about the importance of having to shovel right this instance. I'm warm, I'm comfortable. I have my coffee and laptop, doggies snoozing at my feet and the last thing I want to do right now is bundle up and trod outside to clear the walks and driveway. And, to be honest, after the past few times of shoveling and snow-blowing, I've started feeling the beginnings of lateral epicondylitis (aka, tennis elbow—I've had it before, even though I've never played a round of tennis in my life . . .) developing in my left arm, and am fearful it'll morph into the very painful condition that forced me to seek physical therapy a few years ago. That bout was, incidentally, triggered by wet, heavy snow. "My hands are how I make money, Bob. We can't afford to have both of us out of work right now. Can I just wait a while and see how much melts?" I am slowly but surely finding out just how much Bob did around here, when he was able-bodied. And, I'm quickly realizing that I'm not liking my new role as keeper of the house. I'm literally and figuratively sorely under-qualified.
"Oh, I didn't realize your condition was so life threatening," he says. "Don't worry about it. As soon as the oxycontin kicks in, I'll head out and start working on it." Good god, he trumps me with the martyr card. All I was saying is to wait until it had melted more, but Bob's argument is that the more the snow melts, the more water that'll be on the driveway and sidewalks, and if it gets cold again, which it's supposed to, it'll all freeze into a humongous rock-hard icy mess. I stomp into the bedroom, trade yoga pants for fleece and head outside. I hate it when he's right. No, my arm is not life-threatening, and yes, the melting snow will freeze into a hideous mess if the temps drop. I have a mild case of tennis elbow, Bob has sarcoma. Pull up your big girl pants, get your ass out there and start shoveling.
I start at the front of the house, where a 20 foot-long, two foot-high mound of solid snow that used to be on top of the house now lay across the front sidewalk and steps like a giant snow serpent. The beauty of a metal roof: when it's warm enough, the sun melts the snow sticking to the roof, and eventually the roof loosens its grip, sending a massive sheet of snow sliding to the ground with the force of an avalanche. I am seething. I know it's completely irrational, but I am. How the hell am I supposed to clear this massive pile of snow by myself? Had he been well, Bob would have been outside first thing this morning, making mincemeat of the snow pile in no time. I chop at it tentatively, wondering when my arm will give out. I would much rather be back inside, reading, or even cleaning, than doing this. I'm not sure how we're going to get through the winter, if I'm in charge of snow removal. The more I obsess about the predicament, the harder I start to chop. Before long, I'm hacking at the pile of snow and tossing it into the yard like a teppanyaki chef. With each scrape of the shovel, I slowly feel anger and pity leach from my body and soon I fall into a rhythm of shoveling. chop, scoop, toss . . . chop, scoop, toss . . . chop, scoop, toss . . .
I discover a way to hold the shovel that puts less strain on my aching elbow, and bend at the knees, using my core muscles and legs as much as I can, putting some of my Pilates experience to work. I clear the sidewalks fairly quickly, even though shoveling that snow was like heaving piles of mud . . . chop, scoop, toss . . . chop, scoop, toss . . . With each scoop of slushy, grey matter, I curse and cry. I curse the fact that we've never followed through with installing those damn spikes on our metal roof that hold snow back and allow it to melt and break off in smaller, more manageable, less dangerous chunks. Every year we say we're going to do that . . . I curse Bob's illness, at the uncertainty and unfairness of it all. I cry because I'm not stronger, physically and mentally, and have a tendency to snap at seemingly minor incidents lately. I curse the wet, heavy snow, and cry because we probably won't see any of our family this Christmas. . . .
After the sidewalk and front steps are cleared, I head for the deck and clear a wide path from the patio door to the garage door, and started on the driveway when Bob appears at the door. "Jen, can you come in here, so we can talk?" Passive aggressively, I respond, "I need to finish this before it freezes," and continue to shovel. I'm not ready to talk, just yet. After clearing a swatch up the driveway, I notice a neighbor across the street using his snowblower. I stand and watch him for a moment. Okay, this is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. I feel a throbbing stiffness in my left elbow. I am sweating from head to toe. I need to take a break. And go apologize to Bob. I prop the shovel up against the house and head inside. He's lying on the bed in the bedroom. I lay down at an angle to him, not too close, so I don't bump his bum leg. "I'm sorry, Bobby, " I mumble, and bury my nose in his black hair. It's as close as I'm able to get to him these days.
"We both need to be a little stronger than we have been lately," he says softly. Immediately, I feel like a jerk. "I know this news is still kind of fresh and we don't know much more than we did before, but we have to support each other through this. We just have to, Jen." He paused for a moment or two. "I'm sorry about your arm. You haven't said anything about it, I didn't know you were in pain. I'm really sorry about what I said. You shouldn't go out and hurt yourself just to spite me."
I take a deep breath. "I don't feel like I have a right to complain about anything right now." Dammit, why did I say that? "I guess I just get kind of pissed, because it is hard on me, too—I feel like I'm trying hard to keep everything going, get everything done—I cook the meals, do the laundry, walk the dogs, work full time, snow-blow, but it still isn't enough . . . I'm sorry about getting so pissed. . . I need to work on that. To be a little more proactive than reactive. " I then launch into my great idea about heading to Home Depot tomorrow, to find out about getting some snow spikes for the roof, as if that's the solution all our problems.
I ask Bob if he thinks it's okay to get the snowblower out for the driveway, as slushy as the snow is. He says the it should be able to handle it, to at least try, anyway. I kiss the back of his head and go back outside to fire up Big Bertha. Buck up, li'l soldier. Get over yourself. I get Bertha going and she plows through the slush sluggishly, but successfully. It certainly beats shoveling, though this snow does not arc gracefully across the driveway like the powdery stuff did. This was like slogging through a giant Slurpy, the sopping wet snow regurgitating out the chute like grey vomit. It took over an hour to go up and down the driveway, clearing the mix of slush-snow; half way through, I figure out I should have started in the middle of the driveway and worked my way out. With each snowfall, I'm learning the intricate art of snow-blowing. By March, I should have this down to a science.
After an hour, I finally call it quits, and come back inside, to throw my soggy mittens and fleece pants in the dryer. It doesn't feel like Christmas. I want Monday to come, so we can get more answers. It's this "not knowing" that makes me the most crazy.
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