I woke to the sound of water gushing up from the ground into my bathtub. It was the middle of the night. I live alone. No one had used the tub. With trepidation I went to investigate. My pulse was rapid and my hands were sweating. Not a fan of horror films, I half-expected to see a hand poke up next. Water was filling the tub but not draining. And as much as I enjoyed the award-winning film, “The Shape of Water,” I wasn’t prepared to see it enacted on my cinnamon patterned linoleum.
This happened just after my body suffered several indignities of aging: a three-week bout of bronchitis, followed by the extraction of an infected tooth, followed by a mysterious malady that made walking unbearably painful. Fortunately, with the assistance of physician, dental surgeon, and physical therapists, I had eventually returned to a semblance of normalcy.
But I was ill-equipped to let an inanimate object disturb my struggle for well-being. The plunger gave my wrist exercise, but the water saga continued.
When our community Public Safety office responded, a kind man shook his head dolefully at my offer of a plunger, “You need a plumber.” But it was the weekend. When the plumber finally came he exclaimed in a voice worthy of a stage play, “Roots.” Over several days different plumbers came and went continuing to pull up redwood roots. And more roots. And more.
Then, just like a good TV drama, the heads of state arrived to consult. In this case it was the owner of the plumbing company and the owner of the construction company with which our condominium dealt.
By then I had put a piece of masking tape for the six- inch water mark in the tub that no longer functioned. More workers arrived. Although my Spanish is minimal I understood the word “problema.” As one called Geronimo, walked through my condominium castle, I thought his name singularly appropriate.
Time passed, analysis continued, cameras clicked, the culprits appeared. Broken pipes and masses of redwood tree roots. For the next month I waited for an estimate; then waited for it to be approved. It was necessary to remove art work on the walls, clothing and bathroom necessities, and after afflicted areas were covered in plastic, the jack hammers commenced their attack.
Crews constantly changed, and dust permeated the house. Though I tried to determine each day’s exact work schedule, one morning when we’d established nine o’clock, the doorbell rang at 8:30, and I was still in the shower. Other times when I thought someone was coming, no one did. Flooring had to be torn up and two and half feet of concrete slab removed simply to reach the pipes. Three times the plumbers shook their heads as to the size of the space in which they were expected to accomplish the repair. The area off my bedroom had growing holes in the bathroom, the closet, and the hallway.
At the same time it was a challenge to focus on my own work or to continue healing my less than resilient body. I began to feel like a character in “Alice in Wonderland.” Two weeks became three, then four. Outside my house were at least three dozen buckets filled with earth and cement. Once the plumbing was finally repaired, the contents had to be put back, concrete had to dry, and new flooring had to be installed.
Even at night when no one was working, my mind heard the jack hammers.
Having hastily stuffed items wherever I could, I’d find myself muttering “Where are my socks?” or as the stereotypical absent-mined professor, “What happened to my brown shoes?”
My son and family, all with diverse schedules, had planned to come mid- month for a long-awaited five-day visit—and I was frantic. Would the work be done in time?
“Tomorrow we finish,” one worker promised.
But when the plastic was removed and the sturdy blue tape torn off, so was part of the latex-painted ceiling.
An unexpected glitch. Now the area had to be primed and repainted. Primer has an intense, penetrating odor, and for someone who has had asthma attacks, I was dubious of sleeping in my own house. Leaving windows wide-open, I accepted the overnight hospitality of a friend.
A cleaner came to eradicate the worst of the dust so that I could put assorted items away just before my family of five arrived. It was a photo-finish. But no sooner had they come then I discovered that the bathroom door which had been removed and then remounted did not close.
“Your house is tilted,” the painter said.
“But it closed before,’ I argued.”
After several conversations, a new face appeared, changed the position of the latch and I heard a satisfying click.
Conscientious, determined, and hard-working crews worked steadily for a month.
“Will this happen again?” I asked anticipating a reassuring ”No,” in reply.
“Well,” the answer came, “We repaired pipes at another place and they lasted eleven years.”
Startled, I absorbed the news. I knew that in another decade, I could not endure a replay.
For when our bodies and our homes succumb to aging, one can’t help wondering, “what’s next?”
Finally, though both manor and I fell apart, we triumphantly came back together.
A week later while enjoying a leisurely breakfast in jammies and robe, the doorbell rang. A staff member reported that my patio support pillar and tile surrounding it were cracking. The same day I learned I needed retina surgery.
So the manor and I will continue to age in place, provided, as the early settlers said, “God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Joanna H. Kraus is an award-winning playwright, author of several picture books and children’s book reviewer for the Bay Area News Group. Her latest book is “Bravo, Benny.” She can be e-mailed a : tjkraushouse@hotmail.com
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