When I became a full-time caregiver, I knew I was taking on full responsibility for skin care, elimination, nutrition, hygiene, assistance with activities of daily living, and even physical therapy. What I hadn’t counted on was taking on my husband’s role of maintenance mechanic for our home. Having a medical background, I’m comfortable with the caregiver duties but not so much with the mechanical ones. They intimidate me to panic when Lynn says something like he did last night, “Go get a ratchet.”
His electronic peddler (that he had been using almost non-stop for spasticity release for the past three years) recently bit the dust. We had taped it up with duct tape, oiled all visible parts and my solution, and jiggled it unmercifully, with no success. Resuscitation attempts on the old one were “called,” and we had to pull out our backup peddler. Unfortunately, when we turned on the backup, this terrible grinding noise could be heard with every rotation. Since the grinding seemed to be coming from the motor, Lynn recommended ordering a new one and returning the noisy one when it came in. So, I did.
The new one isn’t noisy, but it has a hitch in its giddy-up. Every rotation now is accompanied by a shimmy jump that can be felt in the base of Lynn’s foot and up the leg. After watching the action for a period, he made the pronouncement, “I don’t think the arm is tight enough. You need to tighten up the bolt. Go get the ratchet.”
Hearing the “Go get…” was like a Pavlovian response. My skin became clammy; I developed tunnel vision, and my head and neck muscles tightened. It happened to be raining yesterday so my arthritic hands were already screaming with every use. “Wait a minute. I can’t tighten anything today,” I responded. “My hands hurt too much.”
“It will be okay. The ratchet will do all the work.”
I’m mumbling, sure, that’s what you always say, but outwardly, I’m saying, “Okay, I’ll give it a try.” So, off I go in search of a ratchet.
Lynn has not been in the garage in at least five years. Many of his friends, our kids, and I went into the garage to use his tools. He remembers the tools being right where he last saw them. That’s not exactly true anymore, so the first thing I did was search for and locate this item that I don’t know what it is. He describes it as a long silver tool with a thing like a bolt sticking out the side at the end of it. I start looking under things, opening all the drawers in the toolbox, moving things around, and piling them into new heaps (that will again cause confusion in the future because they have been moved), until finally, I find three silver things that match the description. “Is this it?” I asked my mentor.
“Yes,” he responds, “but you also need the sockets.”
“Okay, what are those, and why didn’t you mention them before?”
“Those are small silver round things that you put on the bolt and which inserts into the racket. There is a metal strip out there that has what you need on it.”
He doesn’t answer my question about why he didn’t tell me this the first time and I proceed to look for sockets. I found a metal strip with silver things that matched his description. At least half of the slots are empty, so I look through drawers again, find similar items, and again return to Lynn.
“Where’re all the sockets that belong on the strip?”
“Who knows? I told you things have been moved around. This is all I can find. Okay. What now?”
Lynn proceeds to tell me how to remove the protective cap covering the bolt on the arm of the peddler. Then, we go through how to select the correct size. I try to figure out how to attach the socket to the racket finally being successful after multiple attempts to push it into place. I put it on the bolt wrong, feeling inferior as a mechanic. It doesn’t work, so I try it the other way, and it works! After multiple painful, tightening attempts, the arm of the peddler seems tighter, and the squeak accompanying the giddy-up hop goes away. Triumph!
I felt a real sense of accomplishment after not letting the tools intimidate me into submission; however, apparently, my strength was not sufficient for a long-term fix because the shimmy and squeak are back today. I think it’s time now to call in the professionals—men who know a ratchet by sight, know how to put the sockets on correctly the first time, and who, when they tighten something, it stays tightened.
I’m gradually learning more about house maintenance, even though I’m doing it with significant resistance and mumbling. I admit a sense of accomplishment when I do something right, but I also resent doing EVERYTHING. I would much rather call a friend or one of our sons. They handle it much better than I do, but Lynn thinks I can do anything. He thinks he can tell me what to do, and I’ll miraculously absorb his talents and be successful. Not so, unfortunately. He sees my frustration and feels guilty for asking me to do more. He feels frustrated because he could do it SO EASILY if only his hands worked, so we both have our painful realities that come with the changes in his body. It’s just one more of the challenges we overcome daily and one more I need to learn to accept with laughter rather than tears. I need to accept that I’m not a good mechanic, but I might be okay and learn to try before giving up. It will come; it just takes time.
Oh, and by the way… I just fixed that squeak in the peddler. WD40 works wonders!
This article originally appeared on Multiplesclerosis.Net by Health-Union, LLC, and has been reposted with permission.
