The New Washer
Family & Bitter Neumann work kindness and miracles.
A note of care to my readers: this post contains references to the potential loss of a spouse. If that’s an area where you’re tender, be gentle with yourself. For the simplified version, go down to the footnote number at the end of this sentence to skip to a summary of the story, without the context of our hospital stay.1
The story of our new washer is a Very Good Story, the kind of story you might see in a human interest segment on the local news, but it happened during our time in the hospital. I’ve put off writing about it for that reason, but the people who made a miracle happen deserve high praise, even if I don’t know exactly who they are.
Our twenty-four days in the hospital were terrifying and emotionally crushing. I spent a lot of the time pretty sure I was going to lose my husband, and trying to plan the mundane financial and logistical tasks that needed to be attended to if so, and at the same time, stuffing the terror of that eventuality down so that I could keep functioning each day.
There’s more hope now, although nothing is certain and the road ahead still feels very long. We’re in a “Chemo, then wait, chemo, then wait,” phase, with a month to go before more progress scans, and more weeks of chemo after that. As I write this, my husband’s disability status is under consideration for extension, which has required phone tag, fax numbers, and uncertainty. Later this spring, after chemotherapy is complete, and provided everything else has gone well, there will be a complicated surgery at a world-famous hospital for this type of cancer. Thank God that this incredible cancer center hospital is only an hour away from home, and near two dear friends of mine, besides. Mir steht Jesus bei2, but sometimes it’s really hard to remember it.
So, with that context, here is the story itself. It begins in England, with one of the tiny (by American standards) combo washer-dryer units. Although the symbols on the first one we used sent us to Google for deciphering, by our last stay, in Cambridge, I’d fallen in love with the little things. A few months after we got home, after it was clear that my formerly trusty mechanical top-loader was now more rusty than trusty, we decided to go ahead and order a 120-volt American version of a European-style washer-dryer combination unit. We ordered it through a local furniture and appliance store, Bitter Neumann, a company that’s been around since 1922. We paid 50% down at the end of July.
By September, it still hadn’t arrived. By October, it hadn’t arrived. By the time John was hospitalized and we received the details of his disability payments from his employer, the first week of November, it still hadn’t arrived. Doing some quick mental budgeting in between pain medication doses, we realized we needed to cancel our washer-dryer order.
The next day, I stood on the pedestrian bridge between the hospital and the parking garage and cried and cried over having to cancel the order. Then I pulled myself together and called Bitter Neumann and asked if it was at all possible to cancel our order. I explained why I was asking and that I understood completely if it wasn’t possible to cancel. I offered to pay any needed restocking fees. I made it through the call. The salesperson was extremely kind,3 said it would be taken care of, and took my debit card number to do the refund. Then I walked out to our car, got in, put my head across the steering wheel, and sobbed until I was hoarse and the steering wheel was full of snot.
My tears were about way more than missing out on a niche-interest washer-dryer. Having to cancel the order was emblematic of everything that had gone so suddenly, uproariously wrong, of the way that in the space of about twelve hours we’d gone from an urgent care visit to the ER to an ambulance ride to a hospitalization an hour away to a very serious cancer diagnosis. Of the way we just disappeared from our ordinary lives. Of the way that I had to be away from our daughter, too, despite her worry about her Daddy. Of my triggers around medical things, something that comes out of how I was treated by medical staff at my boarding school. Of my terror that we didn’t have things lined up legally and financially the way you’re supposed to. Of everything. Of all of it, crashing down into a crying fit over not getting the dang washer-dryer that I wanted.
A few days later, a day or so after our down payment had landed back in our checking account, the salesman who had handled our return called me. He wanted to schedule delivery of the washer-dryer, and would November 18th work? “You’ve got some great friends,” he said. A group of them, he explained. “I can’t say who,” he said, had banded together and paid for the washer.
I burst into tears on the phone, just like on a reality TV show.
I had only told a couple of people about the canceled order. The last thing I wanted, or still want now, is “poor me”-ness. And it’s just a washer, right? So, I didn’t talk much about the canceled order. I am still not sure if the gift is something family organized or if it’s something the appliance company decided to do. I don’t need to know. If you were part of the project and are reading this: thank you.
When I canceled the order, I felt ashamed being so upset and told myself my old washer still washed clothes and that I should get over it all already. But the truth is—and whoever paid for the washer knew this, and God certainly did too—having a tiny all-in-one combination unit has been immensely helpful with cancer in the house. I can do small loads frequently, or whenever there is free time. I can delay a wash until I know I will have time to fold and put away. I can sanitize a load if needed. I never have to remember to swap things to the dryer. And it works all the time, every time. No coming downstairs to swap the laundry only to discover that the washer has again failed to drain and rinse properly. And no rusting tub, either.
Last evening and this morning, things have felt dark again for various reasons I won’t detail. Nothing dreadfully serious, just the ordinary stones and expected hiccups in the path of cancer treatment and healing. Our oncologists say things are going well. Chemo No. 5 begins next week. John is tolerating treatment well enough, although “tolerating” still means a lot of bodily insult. But because of my discouragement last evening and this morning, it seemed a good time to remind myself—and God— of the need for more light along our path. I can’t keep walking this long, stony road without a little light. Maybe others’ faith in the face of trial is strong enough to “stay positive” when doubt rises, but mine is not.
Help me, O LORD my God; O save me according to thy mercy; And they shall know how that this is thy hand, and that thou, LORD, hast done it.
Psalm 109, Coverdale translation.
The washer sings a little song when you power it down. It’s ridiculous, but I don’t mind. At least it’s in tune, unlike the Kangaroo Omni brand feeding pump we are using, which plays a short theme by JS Bach, out! of! tune! when you power it up.
Whitsun learned about carbonated drinks last night. Such curious sounds! She got close enough for the bubbles to pop in her face and then, discovering that tonic water is not to her liking, stayed away thereafter.
Last July, we ordered a very nifty —and expensive— European-style all-in-one washer and dryer. It was very slow to ship, and by the first week of November, it still had not arrived. Upon learning that John’s disability income from his employer would be 2/3rds of his salary, we decided we really had to call and try to cancel the order. I called and asked if it was possible to cancel and get our deposit back. I told the store, a local small business, why I needed to cancel, and they were beyond kind. Within three days, our 50% down payment was back in our checking account. About five days later, the salesman who had handled our purchase and cancellation called me to schedule delivery of the washing machine. Someone, he said, “a group of friends. I can’t say who,” had joined together to purchase the washer for us.
"Jesus stands by me,” a line from the Bach motet, “Jesu Meine Freude.”
Please support local businesses wherever and whenever you possibly can, for reasons like this. You never know when you’re going to need a real human being with the ability to think and decide on the other end of a phone line and not an AI chatbot.
Thank you, Jenny. It's a wonderful writerly gift to be able to take an everyday object and use it as an analogy for the pain you're experiencing. It might have been unintentional, but to think of it . . . a tiny washer/dryer, the water, the cleansing, and the drying of the tears.
I'm sorry about your pain, but delighted that you have such lovely friends who are available to share and help. It says a lot about *you* that they care so much.
And yes, you're allowed to have a crappy day. Take all the crappy days you need. We are all your friends.
You are only human with a big heart, trying to be the big oak tree within the family and circle of friends. You are allowed to have a fit of tears whenever the moment arrives - and we never know which trigger will set it off. In my experience it’s never about the Big Things we’re juggling 24/7, it can be a very small burr that’s been a niggling annoyance… and “thar she blows!”
You were graceful enough to sob in the privacy of your car. Me… in a restaurant (even though I was alone having breakfast, there were other diners) where I think I scared the waitress and others were wondering if they should call 911.
Funny now, but not back then. I have shared my emotional story with a lot of people since then. Strangers cannot always discern tears of grief, instead think of a bonkers case sitting in a booth. I discovered many who are emotionally ill-equipped to offer an expression of concern. That’s sad. Just keep writing!