Murphy's Law

Ups and downs. Last weekend, it seemed like spring could arrive any day. That was followed by a week of 18°F nearly every morning. The only sign of spring was the damned ground squirrels coming out of hibernation.

They're back

Dad developed a fever on Thursday and wasn’t able to stand on his own. Hilda called the ambulance that afternoon. I stopped by the hospital on the way home. She was sitting out front in the general waiting area while he was in Emergency. She didn’t know why they wouldn’t let her back there with him. I stayed until it was time to go home to make dinner.

Hilda called later to say Dad had the flu.

“That explains why they didn’t want you back there with him,” I said. They didn’t want her to be contaged.

Hilda went on to say that Dad was going to be transferred to Janesville because there was some problem with his heart, and there was no cardiologist on staff at Harvard. She would wait until the transport arrived and then come home.

A long time later, I heard her come in. Dad had actually gone to Rockford. Hilda and I both find Rockford difficult to navigate. “But I have the GPS,” she said, trying to be brave.

The next morning, I was chatting with Jane on the way to work. She offered to drive Hilda to Rockford. I called Hilda to see if that would make her more comfortable. She hesitated, not wanting to inconvenience Jane. I pressed, and she acquiesced. After a few more phone calls back and forth—it would have been much easier to give Jane Hilda’s number, but I was driving and I can’t remember it—it was all arranged that Jane would pick Hilda up at 9:00, and I would head over to the hospital as soon as I was done with lab at 11:30 to visit Dad and ultimately take Hilda back home. I was glad I’d packed a sandwich for lunch. I could eat that on the way.

It turned out that the hospital wasn’t that hard to find, but I had to go through a round-about. I hate round-abouts. I managed to get off and the right spot and not end up going straight back from whence I’d come. I had a cup of decaf while Jane had a sandwich in the coffee shop. Jane went home. I sat in the world’s most uncomfortable couch by the only outlet in the waiting area by the elevators and graded lab papers. When I was done with most of them, I joined Mom and Dad in the world’s smallest hospital room. We had to wear masks because Dad was in isolation. He looked better and was getting out of bed with just a little help. Perhaps he would be discharged Sunday. An aide brought me a folding chair to squeeze into a corner. At least it was a private room, for which I am completely willing to forgive the tiny size.

Having been to the hospital once, Hilda was confident that she could get there on her own. I went about my usual Saturday, having lunch with Jane and doing my grocery shopping. Hilda called with the good news that Dad would be discharged that afternoon. I headed home so I could be there to help get Dad in the house. They had to wait a long time for the doctor to come and the papers to be signed. “I’ll have to go to Walgreen’s for the prescriptions, but I think I’ll take him home first”

“I can get the prescriptions,” I offered. Easy peasy. It would take half an hour, tops.

I got home first, at 4:00. I went downstairs to put away my groceries and do the mise en place for my fajitas. That done, I went upstairs to wait. They got home about 5:00. We got Dad settled in his comfy chair, and I took the two prescriptions—an antibiotic and Tamiflu—and set off for Walgreen’s in Harvard.

I strode purposefully to the pharmacy. Imagine my surprise when I saw that all the windows were secured behind rolling metal shutters. A sign stenciled on the shutters told me that the pharmacy was closed for the night, and the nearest 24-hour pharmacy was in Crystal Lake. Crystal Lake? That would take me 45 minutes just to get there!

I found an employee. Was the Walgreens pharmacy in Woodstock open later, perhaps until, say 7:00? Yes, he thought it was. He would call to find the hours. Happy day—they were open until 9:00.

I contemplated my choices. Go home and make dinner or go to Woodstock straight away? If I went to Woodstock, dinner would probably not be until 7:00. I went home. I was getting hungry.

I was ready to set out again by 6:10. I pushed the button to open the garage door. It went up about a foot and stuck. I pressed the button again. It went down. I tried again. Same result. I checked the sensors to see if they were lined up straight and unobstructed. That looked okay. Damn. Back downstairs to get Terry.

“What’s wrong?” Hilda asked as I passed through.

“The damned garage door won’t open!” I answered.

“When I came in from putting the chickens to bed, there was a terrible noise,” she said. “It sounded like a big animal crashed into it.”

While Terry looked for problems on the inside, I went outside to see if there was any sign of damage. No.

We tried a few things to get the door opener to work. The clock was ticking. I lobbied to release the catch on the ceiling and lift the door. That’s when I found out how wicked heavy that door was. As Terry and I struggled to lift it, I thought, “Why, oh why didn’t I just leave my car outside? Car outside. Wait a minute….There IS a car outside.”

I said to Terry, “We have an alternative that I just thought of this minute. I could take your truck.”

We let the door drop, and he went to get his key.

On my way again, I began to wonder if the pharmacy would even have Tamiflu. There had been shortages, but we were, I hoped, past the peak of flu season. I got to Woodstock at 7:00. “Let me see if we have the 30 mg tablets,” the girl said.

Oh, please, please, please have the 30 mg tablets.

They did! But wait. “There’s a problem with the prescription for the Tamiflu. It says twice a day for 7 days, but it also says to dispense 7 capsules.”

Clearly that did not add up. Who thinks about reading the prescription when the doctor is standing right there? No one.

“We have to call the doctor.”

Good luck with that. The next update was “The doctor has left the office.” At 7:15 on Saturday night? Shocking.

And yet, they left a message with the answering service, and the doctor answered his page quite soon. I was on my way at 7:34.

When I got home, Terry had determined that the problem with the garage door was one of the two giant springs across the top had been rent asunder. The noise Hilda heard must have been from the moment it gave it up. We hypothesized that it was because the door had gotten bent years ago when Hilda backed into it. It could only take so much stress from being slightly out of alignment. Hilda was sure we would need a new door.

Sunday all seemed right with the world, except for the garage door. No one had to go anywhere, and it was so good to have Dad home again. Terry called the garage door repair number on the door and was pleased to get someone who promised the repairman would call on Monday.

A week before, I’d remember that it was about time to think about corning beef for St. Patrick’s Day. Before I knew it, Hilda had secured an 8-pound brisket. Good lord—8 pounds? We started the brining right away. 

Brining the brisket, cut in half and stacked

Six days were up on Sunday.

After 6 days in brine

I had to put it in two Dutch ovens.

"Put in Dutch oven with sachet of spices and 2 quarts of water."

It turned out very well. Hilda and I marveled that we could make such fine corned beef. Her goal was to have plenty of leftovers for Reubens. Check.

The smaller piece of brisket with potatoes, carrots, and cabbage

The garage door guy showed up at 8:15 this morning and had both springs replaced in 30 minutes. It turns out that the springs typically only last 7 or 8 years, and this one was 11 years old. Note to self: get springs replaced in 2026.

What will this week bring?