Confession time. For half my adult life, I have believed that I possess a reasonable slash of autism myself, to compliment our neurodivergent superstar, Alex. This trait has manifested through a tendency to run off at the mouth, have verbal dyslexia, and more than a bit of OCD. Who else still likes to arrange matching pegs on washing? Or care how fitted sheets are folded? Or make sure towels are hanging right side on the rails. And don't get me started about toilet rolls...Plus, despite the fact ironing is not my favourite chore of all time, I do love a pile of freshly pressed tee shirts, pillowcases, shirts, dresses, and jeans.
And I have heard all the remedies to this situation. Put my washing on first thing in the morning and hang out immediately when the cycle is finished. What's this idea of "first thing in the morning"? I reluctantly left the boudoir after nine o'clock. I eventually persuaded Michael up close to ten o'clock. We just don't do mornings.
Hang clothes immediately on hangers on the washing line... And watch them blow off...Peg tee shirts under the arms to reduce creasing...When I remember...Don't buy clothes that crease...We both love cotton...
Which I why I neatly stack the ironing in its basket, watching the pile grow exponentially as the days turn into weeks. Eventually, when the ironing pile resembles Vesuvius blowing its cool, I attempt to at least reduce the size. Last week I ironed all the pillow slips and tee shirts - all fifteen of them. I am seriously considering another onslaught tomorrow morning before I have my haircut and then open the Gallery. Somehow, I doubt this will occur because of our daily struggle to launch forth out of bed early enough.
This week has been a series of disasters, not all of my own making. Monday was the Anzac Day public holiday and we thought we'd open the Gallery. However, we eventually worked out that due to a quick trip to Perth, whilst some chap was released from quarantine and positive to COVID 19, we were supposed to shut the doors. Even so, the day was fairly unproductive, due to the sudden alteration of plans. Tuesday, we worked together to clean the house, tackle the washing, and mop the revoltingly filthy floors. Wednesday, I had earmarked to, at last, empty the ironing basket, whilst Michael dropped the car into service, received his initial Coronavirus vaccination, and visited his brother.
Instead, Wednesday turned out very differently. My darling husband was very aware of the Black Dog nipping at his heels. The day happened to be his late wife's birthday, and although they had not had the most ideal of marriages, he was grieving for her and dreading having to leave home and be seen publically. So, when I asked him if he wanted me to accompany him, Michael replied in the affirmative.
Like a Whirling Dervish, I spun into action. We were on the road an hour later. On our way to Northam, I contemplated the series of events. Michael and I are seldom separated. We don't particularly enjoy being apart. But, I had been looking forward to demolishing the bloody ironing. So, I pondered those feelings.
Seven years ago, Michael spent the majority of April nearly dying from pneumonia. His recovery was slow. Six months passed before he returned to wellness. Then he was hospitalised again with severe and very scary asthma for another week. Until we worked out escaping to the Pilbara reduced his chest infections to zero, if we were lucky, every winter was a blur of fear that he would end up sick again.
Every morning, I wake up next to Michael and delight that he is part of my life. Almost twelve years ago was our first "dog date" at the Whiteman Park dog exercise area. For the following twelve months, we met whenever we could, often in difficult circumstances as Michael's children banned me from the family home. I missed him horribly every time we were parted.
An awful chest infection, his weight plummeting to sixty-one kilograms, and the breakdown in his mental health galvanised me into action. Returning from a grueling job at Worsley Refinery near Collie, he was grey, stooped, and exhausted. He did not even attempt to argue when I ordered him into our bed in my duplex and took him for medical help the next day. He never returned to live at the family home, given the chasm between him and his son and daughter. A tragedy that Shakespeare could have written.
My considerations of Wednesday's changing agenda lasted a matter of seconds. Was there any comparison between supporting Michael versus catching up on a chore that did not actually matter?
Duh...
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