Just Another Nick With The Gall

HEY! People! Leave the sick alone!

Farmer H has settled into his healing routine. Sitting around the Mansion in his tighty-whities. Peeing in The Jug. Snail-speed shuffling with his walker. A nap in the recliner around 10:00 a.m. A nap in the bed around 2:30 p.m. Three meals a day. TV watching.

I also have a routine, though it is far from healing. Doling out meds, preparing meals, washing dishes, sitting on the short couch all night. Fetching items as needed.

We are just fine, thank you. We do not need visitors. Unless it is The (concerned) Pony, texting to offer a Chinese take-out meal for the next day's supper, and to take a look at Farmer H's toenails per his request. That's it. We're simple people. We're not hosting a gala. Not entertaining throngs with our witty repartee. 

Saturday, I was computing at the kitchen table around 1:30 p.m. when I heard Juno's bark. Like a new mother knows her own infant's cries, I know my dog's bark. This was a STRANGER bark.

"I hear Juno. There better not be a car coming down the driveway."

"I don't know. The shades are closed. Probably not. She just barks."

"Well, I'm not answering the door."

Which was meant to alert Farmer H that perhaps he should turn down the volume on the TV, and pretend we were not home. Of course Farmer H was not picking up what I was laying down.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

What in the Not-Heaven? I was still in my comfortable Mansion-clothes. Sweatpants with a hole in the hip, fleece zip-front sweatshirt, stinky Crocs, unshowered. Not exactly presentable to answer the door. Did Farmer H play "gone?" Nope.

"OH! IT'S JUST A PACKAGE! YOU HAVE A PACKAGE!"

I didn't order a package. But now whoever was on the porch could hear the bellowing of Farmer H, clearly AT HOME and not answering the door. I could see the silhouette through the wavy glass of the side windows that flank the front door.

Crap! They were not going away. I stood up, clinging to the kitchen counter as I do, until my knees loosened up. Then I began the long hobble through the kitchen and living room. I opened the front door to see a goofy guy who looked slightly familiar.

"These are for YOU!" he said as he thrust a bouquet into my face. "And this is for Farmer H!" Forcing a card into my hand. 

"Oh. Well. Thanks... do you--"

With that, he pushed the door open and leaned around it to look at Farmer H sitting pantsless in the recliner. I had to take a step back, which put me perilously close to the edge of those 13 rail-less basement stairs. I was trapped there on the landing, blocked by Goofy's body.

"Oh, hey Nick. I can't get up. I'm in my underwear."

"That's okay, buddy. I've got Bev out in the car. Just stopped by to wish you a quick recovery!"

At least he had the good sense to make his exit at that point. It was a nice gesture, but one we could have done without. Well-wishes by text are appreciated, and less taxing on the infirm and the caregiver.