I'm Out of It!

A Toast to Michael

The long business of cleaning out my Mom’s house and getting it ready to put on the market started last June.  The first several months of that time my husband, Michael said he’d help with the heavy jobs.  He’d carry the big sacks of junk out of the house, down the stairs from the second story or up the stairs from the basement.  He’d help put the heavy pieces into the dumpster and he’d help carry the furniture out of the house.  “But”, he said, “after all that’s done with, I’m out of it.”  That meant, to him, and to me, that he wouldn’t help anymore, that he’d leave the rest to me. 

When he first used that phrase I felt angry with him, because even after the house was cleared of messes and furniture, there was still going to be a lot that needed to be done.  If I couldn’t count on him for help, I was really going to be on my own with this big, falling-down house and the specter of that made my head spin.

As time moved on though, I found that “I’m out of it” meant “until the next time I want to add my advice or my muscle to what you’re doing.”  Michael is a guy who thinks there is really only one way to do things—his way.  So when he’d see me putting something off, like getting the old freezer and refrigerator out of the basement, he found a coupon in his electric bill for removal of unused appliances. I was able to get PSE to come, remove the appliances and even send me a VISA gift card for $20 each.  When our realtor mentioned that banks want “health letters” to verify there is a working septic system before they will grant real estate loans, Michael called a septic company to come out to find the system.  I was in Wisconsin at the time.  Did I mention he doesn’t like to wait around—no procrastinating for him.  When I got home he had shovels ready for us to go out and dig the septic up.  He arranged for a landscaper, too, who came out and took all the blackberries out of the backyard and unearthed old hoses, rotted pieces of wood, a laundry room sink and other things that had gotten back there somehow.  What was left was a pile of take-to-the dump stuff, which we did together.  The most recent “I’m out of it” moment came when one of the realtors locked the basement door for which we had no key.   Michael made several suggestions as to how to handle the problem, one of them being that he would try to break into the basement with some of his tools.  He tried, it didn’t work and we called a locksmith, who solved the problem.

If I had a dollar for every time my husband has said, “I’m out of it!”  I’d have quite a little bundle by now.  And each time he’s jumped right back in, sometimes being grumpy about it, but always helping.  When he says, “I’m out of it” now, I slide a look at him and smile because it’s a sure case of the boy who cried wolf.  I just don’t believe it anymore.

I have taken him to lunch many times over the past months in gratitude for his helping me with a big job at Mom’s house.  We’ve dragged ourselves, dirty and sweaty into the Taqueria El Huarache in Silverdale and loosened our sore muscles with Negro Modelo and beans, rice and salsa.  There doesn’t seem any way to thank him enough for all he’s done, but one day I have a feeling he’ll say, “Remember all those times I told you I was out of it, but I helped you anyway?  I have a way you can repay me.”  Until that day, this public appreciation will have to do.  Thank you, dear husband, for all you’ve done to help me through this hard time.  Because of you, I can still walk upright and my knees still work and I have not had a nervous breakdown.  You’ll get your hugs and kisses in private.