Two days ago I took my first real shower in a month. By real I mean—I got to stand underneath a perfectly nice warm shower and put on peppermint shower gel. Whatever they call a shower in the hospital, is not. It’s sort of like a partial “hose down” while you sit in a chair.
I have a long list of why I love being home — none of which could have happened without MK. Here are some of the perks of “Home Sweet Home”—my power chair, which sits at the center of ‘control central’ and in its place, the remote control. To continue, my bathroom, a refrigerator full of sparkling water, fruit, sunlight, quiet, birds, my special dining room chair, kind neighbors, pumpkin seeds, short drives, great coffee, and mail.
Back to showers. I have all kinds of shower stories. Everything from the sheer terror in 7th grade that happened the first day I had gym class. I was headed to my first junior high gym class at Heaton Junior High, and the idea of getting naked with my peers petrified me. I was so undone I took a wrong turn and walked all the way into the 9th grade girl’s locker room, where they were in the midst of their showers. The screaming that ensued terrified an already frazzled 12 year old. I do remember when I extracted myself from the chaos, I was quizzed by a bunch of 9th grade boys as to exactly who and what I saw. I took The Fifth.
I remember showering in freezing cold water at Boy Scout camp. And there was the time we were in Amsterdam staying with our Belgian friends, Paul and Denise, in a boutique hotel. It was a former sanitarium that had converted large rooms into lodging space. We had two very nice beds and a private stool. However, the shower hung from the lofty ceiling with a drain on the floor, and not a curtain in sight. We managed.
Tomorrow morning I plan on getting up around six am. I will then take my own shower before getting ready to drive the 45 minutes to Evergreen to church. When I step carefully in the shower complete with safety bars, I will know a level of freedom as I stand under that perfectly warm stream of water. I might even use my special shampoo on my buzz cut.
I have learned the joy of very short hair. I will be getting shorn on Tuesday, my 75th birthday. A number one all over—the same setting I had as a four year old in 1953. The year that I had my firecracker birthday cake.
Sometime after that I graduated from baths to showers and I don’t miss sitting in my own dirt.
Onward and Upward,
Mark
Lyfting Me Up 