By now, it’s probably obvious my entire life’s goal is to control Willie and Indy. The problem is never Indy who, like Mary Poppins, is practically perfect in every way.
The problem is Willie. Willie has never been controlled by anyone a day in her life. When Willie and Indy moved into their old folks’ apartment, a lady in their hallway introduced herself as the de facto hallway leader.
So of course she is Willie’s mortal enemy. Moriarty to Willie’s Sherlock. Capulet to Willie’s Montague. Khan to Willie’s Kirk. This resident had once been the hallway fire marshal, but was dethroned long before Willie’s arrival. There’s no way Willie is going to be ruled by the failed fire marshal of hallway C, Second Floor.
Willie also refuses to be ruled by me. I am not only thirty years shy of her life experience but, as a master’s-prepared nurse with twenty-six years’ experience in the field, I know nothing about medicine that Willie, also a master’s-prepared nurse with twenty-six years’ experience, retired for close to a decade, doesn’t herself know.
This is Willie. Willie and I once met William Shatner. We were told we could only take pictures. Under no circumstance were we to talk to William Shatner.
Nobody tells Willie she can’t talk to William Shatner.
Willie told the very aggrieved William Shatner that he should be so happy with her for raising me right – as in to be a Trekkie. She kept right on talking, all while security kindly escorted her away.
This is Willie.
So when I was texted the picture Monday of Indy’s orange-colored urine, my Spidey sense told me I was in for a very long day.
Willie was convinced Indy was peeing blood. Indy had been battling a urinary tract infection for several days. He was on medication for the infection, a medication that notoriously stains urine an alarming red-orange. As all of Indy’s symptoms had improved, I was certain this was not blood. Especially since, you know, it was orange.
Willie was not convinced of my medical prowess.
As I geared up to coach my Parkinson’s boxing class, I received a call from Willie. She and Indy were en route to the hospital. Indy’s doctor’s office had called. Indy’s testing had indicated no infection. When Willie told them about the “blood”, they ordered Indy to the emergency room.
In the two hours it took me to exercise my boxers, things spiraled. Indy was just supposed to have his whole pee situation worked out. By the time I got his nurse on the phone, he was being admitted, the better to evaluate him for a stroke.
Willie doesn’t mess around. Why just get your kidneys checked when you can have every organ and vessel from your heart on up fully evaluated?
Now, notice I didn’t say I got this information from Willie. She steadfastly refused to call me, no matter how much my texts begged.
When I spoke with Indy’s nurse, I was able to give her all kinds of fun Indy trivia neither Indy nor Willie had shared. So much trivia, in fact, she gave my number to Indy’s emergency room nurse practitioner, who promptly called me.
She wanted to play Indy trivia, too.
Indy went to the emergency room at noon. It was seven in the evening by the time I heard from Willie. I picked up my phone. Willie skipped the pleasantries, getting right down to business:
“I fired Indy’s nurse practitioner.”
Willie didn’t care for the stroke protocol rules imposed upon Indy. When the nurse practitioner refused to amend them, Willie fired her.
It’s worth noting that I, too, was a nurse practitioner once upon a time.
As it was too early to start drinking, I took a few deep breaths, then explained the stroke rules to Willie.
Did I mention I was, specifically, a stroke nurse practitioner?
Naturally, Willie refused to heed my tutelage.
Five minutes later, my phone rang again. Does it matter that I was single-handedly wrangling kids, dog, and household?
It does not.
It was Willie again. Indy was asking that I tag her out. He wanted Willie home. He wanted me in the emergency room. COVID rules prevented us both from being there.
Like I said. Indy is happy to let me control him all day long. He’s really the only person in my life willing to give me the reins. He’s so right to want that. It’s why he’s my favorite person.
I had to take the kids to Don’s parents before I could get to Indy, so let me pause here to say something about my in-laws. They are godsends. They are my bonus parents. I married an only child whose parents live down the street. What should be a nightmare is a dreamscape.
I can best describe my in-laws like this: If you haven’t seen the movie Tales From The Darkside, you’re missing Debbie Harry as a June Cleaver-esque cannibal bent on roasting a very young Joey Lawrence for a dinner party. To escape, Joey tells the gastronomically-bankrupt Debbie a series of tales. You know, to distract her.
In one of the tales, a down-on-his-luck artist sees a grotesque creature devour a drinking crony in a bar alley. The creature tells the artist if he agrees to never speak of the creature’s existence, the creature will let the artist live.
Done deal, right?
The artist, desperate for the safety of home, plows into a beautiful woman on the street. She proves to be the love of his life, turning around his boozing and career. They have children. They build a happy home.
But the artist is plagued with guilt. This woman has saved him. She is the reason he can be. He has kept his promise to the creature, but he feels it is at the expense of his wife’s trust.
Like a fool, he confesses to his wife about the creature. I mean, duh man! She’s the creature, their kids are little creature babies, and now she has to eat him.
My point is that Don’s parents are like that girl/creature. They have changed my life, made it better.
I’m, like, 98% sure they’re not creatures ready to consume me if I speak of their existence, but if I’m not here next week, you’ll know what happened.
When I got to Indy, he told me Willie was being completely unreasonable and knew that I, with my wisdom and calm, could quickly unfuck this situation.
OK. That part is maybe a little bit hyperbolic. I may be paraphrasing.
I got Indy settled and headed home. I was just beginning to ponder an Egg McMuffin when my phone exploded.
Our house alarm was going off, probably because I had failed to turn off the motion sensor in my haste to leave. Pete had triggered it trying to break into my daughter’s room.
The alarm company calls from an 800 number. It looks like a telemarketer. When I ignored the call, the alarm company called Don, who was at The Cabin, then my in-laws.
So, while driving home, starving, a headache splitting my skull, I had to call the alarm company, Don, and his parents. Then I had to speak with a lovely officer from the Upper Southampton Police Department.
Once Pete and I inspected the house for intruders, bear spray in hand because I live with an outdoorsman and therefore always have bear spray handy, I settled onto my sofa. My assessment this day would be protracted had been accurate. I hoped a lava cake and a little Unsolved Mysteries could erase it.
They could not.
It was clear to me that, in the battle for dominance, Willie had become my Moriarty, Capulet, Khan. I’m clearly better at directing things. Even Indy (sort of) said so.
I thought back on each adversary. Moriarty. The Capulets. Khan. To defeat these adversaries – or, in the case of the Capulets, at least have a truce – someone had to die. Sometimes several someones.
I have no doubt that, in a battle to the death, Willie would be the victor. She’d win the cage match, shrugging a smug “I told you so” at my dead body.
Willie will continue to dominate.
At least I’ll have something to write about.