Taken a-back by the dishwasher
Monday night was pretty heavy, so when I came home I was prepared to share some of what happened with my dad, who's usually receptive to that sort of thing. This week, though, when I started in on some of it, he went, I nearly killed myself on the dishwasher today, and it turned out he wasn't kidding.
The backstory: The dishwasher door is left open a lot of the time. If it's closed and there's moisture in it, it quickly gets gross and smells bad. I greatly dislike that smell, so I do tend to open the door at breakfast, but if my parents don't close it before I leave for work, I typically do. That's not to say it doesn't get opened during the day when I'm gone, as mom will do it. It's also not uncommon for one of us to trip on the door. I've recently noticed the door makes these unhappy sighing noises when the lower rack starts to get too heavy, so past a certain point I do tend to close the door, but if I could find a way to prop it open and get some air circulation going without have the door all the way down, I would. We're not to that point yet.
This past Monday, while making dinner, dad had opened a box of pasta shells and was about to add it to the boiling water on the stove. I think he later told me he'd dropped a shell and either he stepped on it or was going to pick it up, but he lost his balance and fell on the dishwasher door--luckily the side opposite the silverware. Mom was upstairs and came down to find dad on his knees, not speaking--probably unable to speak, and knowing her she was probably yelling at him to tell her what was wrong. Half the box of shells flew around the house, all over the kitchen and even into the family room. Mom ended up having to finish cooking and put what shells were left in the water with a full box of rotini. By the time I came home about five hours later, he was lying on a heating pad on the couch. Something was wrong with his right side; he couldn't put weight on his right leg, and he couldn't grab things with his right hand. He'd had to crawl to go to the bathroom. He hadn't told mom some of this stuff and she was horrified when I eventually went upstairs to talk to her.
Uh...okay...this is not good...what do you want me to do? Do you want to go to the ER? Do you want me to take you? No, he said. Knowing my dad, this means he's not dying or anything, but still. He was also blaming me for the dishwasher door being open, never mind that he was likely cooking around 4 PM and on Monday due to our meeting I left at 8:15. You cannot blame me for something that happened 8 hours after I left, when you are fully capable of closing the door while you're cooking. But, he was in pain and sore and hadn't eaten and purposely wasn't drinking anything, so his general crankypants mood was very heightened. And you wonder why I didn't sleep well Monday night.
Thankfully he seemed better by Tuesday. He was lying in a different position than I'd left him in, so when I came down for breakfast I knew he'd moved. That, plus he'd told me to leave the kitchen light on and it was off by the time I went to bed. When I came down to leave for work a little bit later, he was sitting up. By Wednesday, he'd mowed the lawn. At least we have a riding lawnmower. He's still sore, but he's doing a lot better. And he did feel sorry for being cranky on Monday. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it.
The backstory: The dishwasher door is left open a lot of the time. If it's closed and there's moisture in it, it quickly gets gross and smells bad. I greatly dislike that smell, so I do tend to open the door at breakfast, but if my parents don't close it before I leave for work, I typically do. That's not to say it doesn't get opened during the day when I'm gone, as mom will do it. It's also not uncommon for one of us to trip on the door. I've recently noticed the door makes these unhappy sighing noises when the lower rack starts to get too heavy, so past a certain point I do tend to close the door, but if I could find a way to prop it open and get some air circulation going without have the door all the way down, I would. We're not to that point yet.
This past Monday, while making dinner, dad had opened a box of pasta shells and was about to add it to the boiling water on the stove. I think he later told me he'd dropped a shell and either he stepped on it or was going to pick it up, but he lost his balance and fell on the dishwasher door--luckily the side opposite the silverware. Mom was upstairs and came down to find dad on his knees, not speaking--probably unable to speak, and knowing her she was probably yelling at him to tell her what was wrong. Half the box of shells flew around the house, all over the kitchen and even into the family room. Mom ended up having to finish cooking and put what shells were left in the water with a full box of rotini. By the time I came home about five hours later, he was lying on a heating pad on the couch. Something was wrong with his right side; he couldn't put weight on his right leg, and he couldn't grab things with his right hand. He'd had to crawl to go to the bathroom. He hadn't told mom some of this stuff and she was horrified when I eventually went upstairs to talk to her.
Uh...okay...this is not good...what do you want me to do? Do you want to go to the ER? Do you want me to take you? No, he said. Knowing my dad, this means he's not dying or anything, but still. He was also blaming me for the dishwasher door being open, never mind that he was likely cooking around 4 PM and on Monday due to our meeting I left at 8:15. You cannot blame me for something that happened 8 hours after I left, when you are fully capable of closing the door while you're cooking. But, he was in pain and sore and hadn't eaten and purposely wasn't drinking anything, so his general crankypants mood was very heightened. And you wonder why I didn't sleep well Monday night.
Thankfully he seemed better by Tuesday. He was lying in a different position than I'd left him in, so when I came down for breakfast I knew he'd moved. That, plus he'd told me to leave the kitchen light on and it was off by the time I went to bed. When I came down to leave for work a little bit later, he was sitting up. By Wednesday, he'd mowed the lawn. At least we have a riding lawnmower. He's still sore, but he's doing a lot better. And he did feel sorry for being cranky on Monday. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it.