Five days. Could I find one in time?
The clock on the blank wall of the Family Lounge couldn’t be right. 11:15! What was taking so long? My brother Doug and I had been playing cribbage for endless hours. Waiting. I have no idea how many games we played, or who was winning. Probably Doug. At last, the doctor appeared.
” … a triple bypass. Your husband is doing fine.”
I burst into tears and fell into Doug’s hug. Minutes later I was ushered in to see Yogi – still hazy from the anaesthetic, hooked up to drips and beeping monitors, looking frail under a thin sheet. He managed a smile-like face when I squeezed his hand. No need for talk, not that I could have managed it anyway.
Doug and I grabbed lunch somewhere before he left to go back to his kids. I sat for a few minutes, alone in the driver’s seat of our red pickup, gazing numbly at the anomaly of one tree growing out of the trunk of another, different kind of tree. My mind jumbled with questions: Was Yogi really ok? Five days – wasn’t that too soon for him to be released? How would we manage, if he couldn’t even get out of bed by himself? And his chair – how would he be able to use it? Could I recline it for him? I knew that Yogi wouldn’t be able to operate the lever: after open-heart surgery he could not put any stress on his chest.
My mind whirled and then landed on a store right here in Kingston; twenty minutes later I was in the nearly deserted showroom. There were so many choices: I didn’t think he would need a fancy one with the EJECT button to help him stand up; would he want cloth or leather that might stick to the back of his legs in the summer.
A young salesclerk slouched at a desk, eyes down, thumbs working her phone, mumbled: “Can I help you?” I was disturbing her solitude and thought that my disheveled, haggard appearance gave the impression I wasn’t a serious customer but I left with a list of model numbers and prices (“the best I can do”), delivery the following week for an additional $100. I could call if I wanted to place an order, but I really didn’t have the warm-and-fuzzies because of her attitude and anyway, next week was too late.
My drive back to Perth took me through Westport, so on a whim I stopped at Lyon and Goodfellow Furniture where Mr. Lyon himself welcomed me. He asked me questions to narrow my search, and talked me though the features and considerations. Being approximately Yogi’s build, he sat in a few to show how they might “fit”, and he demonstrated all the controls. His price was lower and delivery was included. I explained my urgent request: that it be in place for Yogi’s arrival home on Friday.
“Well, we deliver to Perth once a week, and our driver’s already been there today, but I’ll see what I can do.”
I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers and handed over my credit card.
The chair arrived on Thursday despite the driver having had to take a long detour because of a collapsed culvert on the highway. Two friendly guys kindly and competently took the old chair out to our next-door neighbour and set up the new one in its place.
Yogi did come home on Friday, feeling apprehensive about leaving the cocoon of constant care. Exhausted, he gingerly lowered himself into his comfy recliner. Because it looked a lot like the old one, he didn’t notice the difference right away.
“Oh no – I can’t sit back in this thing!”
“Feel in the seat beside you.”
He found the controls, realized what it was and we both cried.
Many hours of each day for the next several weeks Yogi could be found reclining in his new chair with his heart-pillow cuddled to his chest, reading, doing a Sudoku, or napping. My unilateral, precipitous purchase was a success. My sweetheart still delights in telling anyone who will listen: “My wife loves me so much, she got me an electric chair!”
