Radioactive

It's All About A  House

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril, Omeprazole
On The Stereo: Home, Michael Buble

I am tired and embarassed about showing you a head that is uncooperative and simply refuses to heal.  I will wait at least one more week to give you another picture.  There continues to be marginal improvement, but I am showing some exasperation with my appearance.  No doubt, there is a world of difference since I had those several major surgeries on my scalp.  Incredibly improved.  Our sail from surgery to recovery, began in fast flowing water, with wounds healing in double time, but the current began to diminish, and now, we are in the doldrums.  Almost docked.  Stagnant. 

The last few weeks have been most difficult due to Kath's health.  Her auto immune disorder has set us back, and she is under close supervision by her hematologist.  Her platelets have dipped as low a 9, and the norm should be better than 50.  Anything under 20 is considered critical.  She has been told not to take any drugs which might diminish blood clotting.  Like aspirin.  She was advised not to shave or take alcohol and to be aware of any internal bleeding.  She has been tested every Monday morning for the past month, and has finally reached a count of 50.  Not good they say, but acceptable, given her condition.  She has had a terrible cough for over two months, but her doctor claims her absence of an immune system will continue to be a problem.  We are working through it.

 So permit me to continue to provide some fragments of my early years with my child bride.  After all, we are now, all of us, a compendium of our experiences.  Knowing some history provides access to who, what and why, we are what we are today.  Some vignettes for your pleasure - hopefully.

Today, we return to 1976.  We had been living in sin for one year and as newlyweds for two more.  We were big city, no children allowed, apartment dwellers.  Happy and learning how to live as a couple.  That is, until Kath said she would like to have children, starting now.  She was pregnant the next day.  At least that is how I remember it.  Our lives were going to change.  We both wanted children.  Me probably more.  I wanted to have my own family.  A large one.  One that would make up for the many years I had lived without one.

Now we needed to find a home.  We could not stay in our apartment.  So the search began.

Buying a first house is a terrifying experience. You are expected to be an adult, but have not yet participated to any degree, in life's trials and tribulations.  We were grand on concept,  but lacking in  reality.  Excitement and trepidation collide.  Location, size, amenities and cost, need to be addressed. But the greatest of these is money.  Money, money, money.

We found our house in the suburbs.  I wanted to stay in Toronto.  In the city.  Where there are restaurants, and bars, and theater, and pubs.  You get the idea.  I abhorred the 'burbs.  You could go nowhere without a car.  I liked public transit and walking.  I wanted to walk to restaurants and bars.  If we could not have the city, then I liked the idea of being way out in the country.  That would be an alright second place.

We had no hope of downtown living.  And although we tried to find something acceptable, further out, we just could not make it happen.  On Timberbank Boulevard, in Agincourt, in the sticks, yes, in the suburbs, we found our house.  Why?  Money.  We could almost afford it.    We were short by $2,500, to buy our new house with a pre-approved single, mortgage.  We had already made the down payment.  But we did not have any more cash.

This was a townhouse.  It had underground parking, three bedrooms, one bathroom, an unfinished basement and clocked in at around 1200 sq. ft.  As the car garage was underground, the ground level was safe for kids and had a play area and  community pool.  In short, it was a more than satisfactory house for 2 1/2 people.  It was situated within a few blocks of Kathy's parents and we were pregnant.  This was as good as it was going to get.  We decided to ask Kath's dad for a short term loan, to which he agreed.  We were going to buy this house.  Hope springs eternal.

On the weekend of the closing, on Sunday,  Kath's dad had a change of heart.  He thought we needed to learn a lesson about life.  We were left to fend for ourselves.

We sat, at the closing, with our agent, and the probability of forfeiting our deposit.  I was not in a good mood.  All we had saved, was about to be lost.  We could not come up with the required shortfall.  Thankfully, our agent stepped in, and found us the money, with a low-interest loan.  We had our new nest.  And it was only a block from the school at which Kathy taught.  Our lives suddenly improved.  As did my humor.  Although I was now a little less thrilled with the proximity to Kath's father.

After work and on weekends, I went to the basement, to build a laundry room which would also allow me a dark room for my photographic hobby.   A family room, replete with a bar, would also be added.   If Robin could not walk to a bar, then the bar would come to Robin.  

Without any construction experience, I built a sub-floor, added walls, a ceiling, lighting, and electrified the entire area.  A good friend provided guidance on the electrical installation, but when it came time to turn the switch on, he kindly declined the honor.  "Not in your life", he said.  "You do it".

Some three to four months later, Kath shouted down to me.  "Aren't you going to watch the Super Bowl?"  I had spent so much time, lost in my construction, that I had not seen one football game that year.  I had no idea.  I had not seen the light of day for the entire fall.  I pulled up a recliner to the front of my new basement TV, cracked a beer from the little fridge in my new bar, and watched the game in my new recreation room.  But for a few finishing touches, the work was done.  I had proven that I could do this entire project on my own.  I was definitely feeling smug.  I was proud.  My father, if he were still alive, would be impressed with the quality of my efforts.  

I said to myself, "I will never do that again".

As Christmas approached, I bought Kath a puppy.  She was a purebred collie, purchased from a business friend who owned a kennel and raised champions.   I had to agree that I would not show her in competition, which of course, I did.  When our first child arrived in a month or so, Maggie would be there to greet her.

Soon after I brought her home, a very pregnant Kathy was carrying her down the stairs.  She was far too little to manage the steps.  She was wiggly, and Kath could not hang on to her, and she fell over the railing, thudding to the floor.  The little puppy was fine, but I stupidly harangued my wife for letting the dog fall.  "That could have been our baby".  Oooh, that was not at all clever.  She plans to forgive me for that bonehead blunder sometime next year.  Definitely not sooner.  Baggage to be carried.  It gets heavier every year.

On February first, 1976,  my child bride delivered our first little girl, Stephanie Anne Mullen.  It was a gift like no other.  Our house, overnight, became our home.

And we will continue next week.

Comments are welcome at https://www.jrobinmullen@gmail.com