Oasis

Albuquerque almost always suffers draught, and in the summer of 2008, strict water use rules were once again in place to help maintain the dwindling aquifer supporting the desert city.  The city's public education approach for diminishing personal water use was multi-pronged.  The most entertaining, and perhaps the most effective, occurred on the Albuquerque evening news.  Each day the public water utility would calculate which Albuquerque residence used the most water in the preceding 24 hours.  This information was then delivered to the local news station who dispatched a newscaster to the residence and reported live on how many gallons that greedy household consumed.  We called it the water report of shame.  Inevitably the reporter would be standing in front of a lavish mansion surrounded by a lush manicured lawn and sometimes even, gasp, a fountain or koi pond.  For a brief moment, Albuquerque's proletariat paused to chuckle at the follies of the rich, a very small population in an otherwise very poor, hard working state. 

The Albuquerque Water Report of Shame is what I contemplated on the afternoon of July 26, 2012 amidst the longest shower of my life.  Jenny had come to two days before to gently bathe me in the tub avoiding the drain tubes protruding from my right armpit, the large incision on my chest and a smaller incision in my armpit from the lymph node dissection.  The bath was a success and Jenny and I planned to tackle my hair the next day. But I got lazy and then the day after, bold.  I was going to shower myself, upright and one armed.  My Mom helped me roll up a wash cloth, wrap it around my neck, and safety pin a drain bulb to each end like a yoke. 

I examined the shower terrain.  The shampoo and soap were on a shoulder height platform on the left, this would work well because that side was my good arm. I double checked the drain bulb yoke and safety pinned the washcloth tails together to ensure the contraption wouldn't slide off my neck altogether dislodging the drains with the fall.  I stepped in the shower stall. 

The warmth ran over my tangles of dirty hair.  The wash cloth yoke absored water and became heavy around my neck, feeling more secure. It takes a long time to shower using only your non-dominant arm.  To not drop the soap because you don't have a way to pick it up.  To gently wash around the incisions and drain sites when you can't see them.  But for once in a long time, I was in no hurry. 

Why did I attempt my first post-op shower solo?  I was not embarrassed to ask for help or be helped naked.  Jenny would have gladly come to my assistance as she had the day before.  I showered by myself really just to see if I could do it.  And I did.  If I had been in Albuquerque, 413 Benton Street, surely would have been showcased on the evening's water report of shame.  But at least it would have been for an unconventional reason.  A sense of self-efficacy.