The Perils of Plumbing

In the summer of 2007, my friend Bob and I drove to my Adirondack Camp for a weekend of camaraderie and work. Mostly work.

Immediately upon arrival, Bob hopped out of the Jeep and flipped the breaker that turned on the pump for the well that sits halfway out the long driveway. He walked the rest of the way as I turned the vehicle around, positioning it so that it would be easy to transfer plumbing supplies to the house. He spied the big maple across the top of the shed as he walked in.

"Probably ought to take care of that too," he said, pointing out the damage.

On the shed, but menacing the new construction.

"Hurrmph," I grunted, signifying acknowledgement without agreement. There was plenty to do without adding fallen tree removal. We had come to the Adirondack abode to rectify heinous crimes against nature that were perpetrated by previous owners of the place. The washwater did not go where it should. So to become a bit less hypocritical about caring about the environment, we were there to reroute much of the plumbing under the house.

Actually, being there to do the job was Bob's fault. "You know you're never going to fix your plumbing mess unless you set aside a weekend and just do it." And to punctuate his assertion, he volunteered to help make things right. So this was the big weekend. I was not looking forward to the work, but I was looking forward to having the job done.

Tools of the amateur plumber.
And a rutabaga.

We spent the majority first 12-hour day scoping out the job, discussing the relative merits of different approaches, and buying materials. It was decided that the big supplementary pump I had brought along wasn't necessary after all, particularly after seeing how difficult it would be to install it under the place.

When you are plumbing, gravity is your friend. So even though it was a long run down to the septic system, we decided to put our faith in friendship. You'd never know by looking at it, but the house is really a remodeled trailer with the superstructure and axle underneath to prove it. Crawling around under the structure, I took a few pictures to help our scholarly discussions.

Plumbing as you never want to see it.

The next day, we whacked and hacked, drilled and filled, glued and screwed. Eight of my 12 hours were spent in the tiny, dirty, disgusting crawl space underneath. To cover the dirt so that I wasn't kicking up any more dust than I had to, I spread out an old tarp that had been sitting in the garage. About 20 feet in, I realized that I was not the only one thinking that the tarp was a good idea. And the ants weren't particularly happy that I had disrupted their nest.

Only slightly better than having them in your pants.

Just before sunset, I emerged from my dungeon, finally finished with all the cutting and fitting and, in particular, the gluing. In the confined space, there were more than enough fumes for one day, mask or not.

Testing the work found no leaks. Hallelujah! Finally out from under, a celebration was definitely in order.

A small portion of the magnificent plumbing job.
Get off my back about the insulation!

The next day, we gathered our stuff together early and got ready to leave. It was Father's Day and we had families to return to. While packing the car, I remembered the tree.

Soon the ladder was up and I was up on the shed roof, wet from the previous night's rain. My trusty bow-saw was going to dispatch the offending limbs and we'd be on our way. But the tree was bigger and heavier and wetter that I realized, and it soon became apparent that my little handsaw was really not up to the task. Just then, Pete showed up from next door.

"You need the chainsaw!" he informed me. "Want me to go get it?"

I've read about hypothermia victims. It's not usually one bad decision that kills them, but a series of them. Saying yes at this point was well down the list of bad decisions. I was in a hurry to get up on a wet metal roof with an unsecured tree so that I could cut limbs with an unfamiliar chainsaw (are you counting with me?). And of course, the main thing that should have tipped me off that something was wrong: I listened to Pete.

The first two limbs came off pretty easily. Bob pulled on the rope we had tied to the biggest limb to keep it from falling on the new roof on the newly rebuilt garage right next to the shed. The third and last limb kept binding the saw, so I moved to a position on the peak where I could change the angle of the cut.

The chainsaw labored a bit, and suddenly, it cut through.

At that moment, the trunk sprung up and away, no longer balanced by the weight of the limbs that had held it flat against the roof. It struck me full in the chest, and I was shoved backward toward the edge of the slippery roof with a running chainsaw in my hand.

Immediately, I knew there was no way I could remain on the roof. As I staggered backward from the blow, I flung the chainsaw as far as I could. If it wasn't so dangerous, I'm sure this would be an Olympic event. The combination of motor sports and discus has real mass-market appeal. The chainsaw airborne, and still moving rapidly down the wet metal, I had two more steps before the edge. Stopping was out of the question, but launching the chainsaw turned me around, facing downhill, so I could at least plan my dismount. Add gymnastics to the new Olympic sport.

The ladder was where I left it, slightly left of my current line of travel.  A brief thought of trying to grab it was discounted as something that would only work in a Keystone Cops episode.  One step left.

Thinking that some lateral movement would be good to get as far away from the pursuing trunk as possible, and also help me roll upon landing, I jumped.

Perhaps I didn't really believe that I was about to die. Or maybe that business about having your life pass before your eyes is a bunch of bunk. All I know is that I only had one thought in my head as I sailed off the roof. "This is REALLY gonna hurt."

Just lovely.

I hadn't realized how pretty the delicate flower of Trifolium repens can be. You walk over the little white flowers of the clover plant and never really give them any notice until you are lying with your head among them looking for anything to divert your attention from the pain in every muscle and joint in your legs and back as you gasp to regain the breath you lost on impact..

Shortly, Bob asked, "Should I call the ambulance?"  Much later, he admitted that he really had not wanted to come around to my side of the shed to see what had happened.

"Not yet," I replied, in a perfectly calm manner that masked the pain. Well, maybe not perfectly calm. I was correct about how much the leap was going to hurt; but miraculously, I was soon able to climb into a chair and take stock. Lots of pain, sure, but everything seemed functional.

Sitting there, not ready to move, I conducted a review of the event. I began to realize just how lucky I was. I was bruised but unbroken after violating every relevant safety rule. I could have fallen awkwardly and landed in a multitude of disastrous ways. Even with a decent landing, I could have broken several different bones or minor structural details like my spinal column. The tree could have followed me down and crushed me instead of getting wedged between the stump and another tree. And I don't even want to think about the chainsaw.

The trunk, sans limbs, thankfully wedged at the base between trees,
unable to follow me down.

Providence had protected a fool. However, the Darwin Awards being an indication that His patience with fools is not infinite, I realized I needed to mend my ways. So extending my not-quite-post-mortem, I began to think about other close calls, and realized that there was a common thread in all of them. I was in a hurry.

I used to think that any elderly person I might pass on the highway was not in a hurry because he was old. Maybe that is not the case. Maybe he is old because he is not in a hurry.

Since my "3-Meter Roof Dismount and Chainsaw Fling," I have been keenly aware of just how much I tend to be in a hurry. Fidgeting in line, impatient in traffic, rushing to get things done...It's a wonder I've lived this long. But there is another key factor in this particular mishap. And that's plumbing. PVC cement, to be exact, is the real culprit in my poor decision-making. And it's all right there on the label.

"May cause irritation to eyes, skin, and nose, throat, and respiratory tract. May cause coughing, sore throat, difficulty breathing, headache, dizziness, nausea. Long term repeated overexposures to solvents may cause damage to the brain, nervous system, reproductive system, respiratory system, mucous membranes, liver, and kidneys."

Hmmm...overexposure to solvents may cause damage to the brain... It all falls together now, doesn't it? Right down to the point that I told Bob to hold a rope instead of a video camera.  A missed opportunity due to poor decisions by a damaged brain. Viral video for sure!

I've been sick

I came down with an interesting disease.  Interesting in that it was not the usual misery one experiences from a cold, but not quite what one expects from the flu.

What interesting terminology.  You "come down" with a dis-ease.  Like you come down from upstairs, searching because you have lost your ease.   I "catch" a cold.  Seems like I should be able to correct the situation by "catching" a warm.  Never worked for me.  Under the weather?  When are we not?  "Hello, Honey.  I'm not under the weather anymore.  I'm on the International Space Station."  And the flu?  Isn't that where gases escape from the chimney?  OK, maybe that one makes sense.

Nothing works, but over-the-counter medications
provide at least the illusion
that you are doing something about your illness.

We had a lovely weekend with temperatures in the 60s where everyone else took down their Christmas lights.  Ours remain.  I did not get out of the house for the entire weekend, sleeping all night, and then being unable to keep my eyes open for any appreciable amount of time during the day.   So when I wasn't out cold on the bed in the room my daughter no longer occupies, I dozed dizzily on the couch.   The NFL provided sporadic entertainment, but lacked in continuity due to my drowsiness.  And all four of the teams I would have preferred to see win did nothing to buoy my spirits.

By Monday, I was feeling significantly better.  I could stand up without feeling like I was soon to fall over.  Thought I had turned the corner and went back to my usual lifestyle, but the onset of one doozey of a cold convinced me I had rashly rushed the recovery.  Another lost weekend.  Hack.  Wheeze.  Head full of goo.  Cough again.  Warm fluids down the throat help, but not enough to remove the soreness.  Back to my daughter's room so that my maladies would not ruin my wife's sleep.  

The full wastebasket,
also known as a nose-redness meter.

One gets to the point where you can't help but ask yourself, "Is this ever going to end?"  What a dismal thought, living a life where you never feel good.  

The only reason for having bad days is so that you appreciate all the good ones.  And for realizing how lucky you are.   With glasses that do not fully correct his sight, I can see an aged balding man leaning toward me and saying, "Don't be a shlemiel.  If you have your health...you have everything."

I have a young friend who is tired all the time.  Every night, he must go to the hospital to have his blood cleaned.  If the testing is favorable, and a family member is compatible, there is a chance that he may receive a kidney soon.  Otherwise, he must continue the arduous routine of having his blood removed and cleaned every night while he hopes that he lives the years until the day when his turn arises in the queue of those waiting for donors.  

Puts the cold and flu in perspective, doesn't it?  I'll try not to be a shlemiel.