Friday, August 31, 2012
Washer Woes: Saying Goodbye to a Trusty Friend
My running friends congregated on a playground today to let our three-year-olds commingle. It was fun to watch Collin with his buddies.
Weeks ago we began to notice it. It happened right after I placed a load of whites into my front loading washer and shuffled into the kitchen. Within minutes, it sounded as if a freight train was racing through my house. I rushed into the laundry room to locate the source, barely able to hear myself think over the racket. It was as I suspected; the sound bellowed from my washer.
She was old. That I knew. So, I chalked up the clamor to old age and convinced myself just because she was elderly didn't mean she was useless. In her golden years she had character, I declared. I could live as if I resided on a busy tarmac as long as my trusty washing companion could still brighten my whites and eradicate the dirt and grime from little boys' apparel.
But as the weeks wore by and the noise intensified, I began to feel it. She was getting close to the end. I think I fell into the stages of grief. I was in denial. Surely she wasn't ready to go. We had been through so much together. She had served as my faithful friend in the wee hours of the night when a flu bug circulated through the house and soiled sheets, quilts, and pajamas. She performed miracles on favorite t-shirts splattered in paint and uniforms doused in dirt. She stood with me during the potty training years (times four).
I became angry. She couldn't leave me now that football and soccer season were in full swing!
I bargained with her. I begged her to hold on, just at least through another year of preschool. But she grew louder and louder still.
I grew depressed as I knew our days were numbered.
Then it happened.
After I loaded an armful of colors into her open belly and shut the metal door, that familiar rattle echoed through the house. Within minutes it stopped. The house fell silent. I rushed into the laundry room. She sat lifeless. I tried to talk to her. I shook her and even tried to kick the life back into her. No response.
I motioned my physician husband over to her. He tried a few measures to resuscitate but then mumbled something about the "bearings" and needing to call in an expert and then he jetted off into the kitchen.
A repairman arrived hours later. He told us what we already knew. She was gone and any measures we could take to revive her or prolong her life wouldn't last long. It was time to say our goodbyes.
My husband was more stoic about her passing. He immediately went looking for her replacement, a younger model with more bells and whistles than she ever had. But I couldn't let her go without acknowledging what she meant to me for the last seven years. I patted her lifeless top and thanked her for the ways she brightening (literally) my life.
RIP dear washer, you won't be forgotten.
SO EXCITED to share that one of my articles will be published again in the November issue of MomSense magazine.
When I told the boys, Cooper looked at his brothers and said, "Hey guys, I think that means we're going to day care."