I remember that line—not that my parents ever used it—but it was a threat always in the air when a child seemed to be crying without cause.
Last week I was mildly depressed for no reason at all. My life was fine. I had nothing to complain about.
And then on Friday I walked downstairs to see what cleaning the basement needed in order to prepare for the houseguests coming in a few days.
There was 2-3 inches of water covering the whole basement. Now I had something to cry about.
I started to laugh. All the plans and lists I had made in order to make my family’s visit perfect were now irrelevant. There was an immediate crisis in front of me that I had to deal with.
That fact relieved the pressure and gave me renewed energy.
Sure, I was horrified. I had been lulled into a false sense of security once the sump-pump had been installed several years ago—my basement had been dry and fresh smelling ever since. A de-humidifier and air cleaner complemented the sump pump, and I’d had guests sleep on the queen futon down there several times with no complaints.
Now the futon mattress was soaking up water. Cardboard boxes I had stored for shipping paintings were floating and soaking. A new throw rug I’d put down there was also floating. When my grandson came over to help, I took a snapshot of him standing in the water in his boots, watching the rug float by.
Later that day my contractor found the problem—electrical—and fixed it. The sump pump started up and the water level quickly lowered. A few hours later, we reinstalled the dehumidifier, which was still working. My grandson and daughter hauled up the futon frame and mattress to the garage, where I’ll have it taken to the junkyard. The next morning my granddaughter Rachel helped me lug up all the cardboard boxes and sweep the water puddles into the sump pump hole. We moved everything that was in the water out of the water. We wiped the bottoms of things with a mixture of water and bleach to keep them from getting moldy.
We were familiar with this routine because we’d done it numerous times before, back when Adrian was sick and then dying. In the middle of a crisis with him, I’d look downstairs and see water in the basement. One summer we threw everything out except the ping-pong table (it always survives these episodes without damage).
Only gradually, over several years of having a dry basement, did I start to put more stuff down there. I’d become complacent.
Is an emergency a cure for depression?
In this case—in my case—it was.
Grandson Michael pointing to the floating throw rug.
