“Last year I couldn’t do this. I’d fall right over. I didn’t have the strength in my foot. Look at me.”
I look at Denny and he is standing on one foot, bobbing up and down from heal to toe. He’s pretty pleased.
“What I’ve been doing has worked. I have strength in my foot now. Going to the gym has reduced my pain, from about a five or six, to a three or four.”
We rate pain on a scale of one to ten. So he is still having pain.
“Yeah, when I do the leg press I can do three hundred and eighty-five pounds and when I’m done I press the top with my toes. It’s making a difference.”
I haven’t quite figured out how he is pressing that kind of weight with his toes. That’s a lot of weight. It’s more than his body weight and he’s not a small man. I close my laptop. It’s bedtime. I make a stop in the bathroom. Denny shows up at the doorway.
“What do you want to do on the weekend?” he asks me. It’s Thursday.
“Did you have anything in mind? We babysat the grandkids last weekend.”
“We could go for a walk in Steveston. Or go to Stanley Park. Whatever would make you happy.”
I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve got a headache setting in. I’ve had a crazy week at work, all kinds of issues.
And I’m worrying about Sunday. Last week Denny didn’t like the guest speaker in church. He will be back again this Sunday. I decide not to bring up the subject at the moment and instead I tell Denny we will decide tomorrow what to do on the weekend.
Denny threw a bit of a fit because the speaker made an incorrect statement about Steve Jobs. Denny is an Apple guy.
“All he had to do was Google him,” he told me in the church parking lot as we got into the car. Denny must have googled Steve Jobs during the service.
It was a question of whether Steve Jobs gave charitable contributions. According to Denny, Steve Jobs gave considerably to charity, privately. That sounds kind of Christian to me—your right hand not knowing what your left hand is doing.
Denny was riled because apparently Steve Jobs gave millions to a hospital and to AIDS research. But the speaker held Steve Jobs up as an example of someone who could, but didn’t, give.
“You should be talking to him, not to me,” I said, under my breath, as I nodded in the direction of the speaker while Denny fumed. I was checking nervously around us to see who might over-hear our conversation. During the service Denny had left the sanctuary and gone to sit in the foyer. Another woman came and took his seat beside me.
It’s time for bed. I head to the bedroom and suddenly I feel my heartburn seriously kicking in. I change for bed and then fetch my medication from the kitchen. I try and open the child-proof lid and can’t. Denny is in the living room and offers to help me. I take the bottle to him. He opens it. I take the med but don’t close the bottle all the way. Denny catches me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting it on there so that I can open it next time.”
“This is how you open it. Press down, turn. Just like that. Press down. Turn,” he closes it, opens it. Closes, opens, closes.
It works for him. Denny is “Mr. Security.” Everything has to be closed and locked. The other day he caught me without fully closing the lid to the olive oil.
A rough day is behind me and the weekend is coming. I think I’ll tell Denny tomorrow that we’ll go to Steveston. There is a nice coffee shop there. Right now I’m crawling into bed. I just want to sleep.