The Repairman

OCTOBER 19, 2021

Today was a bad day; my wife’s cat curled up in the bathtub and died. I’m not a “pet-parent” kind of person, but Nutmeg’s death hit me hard.

I lost my wife just over two months ago. Before she died, I promised Glenda that I would take care of her three cats. The veterinarian and everyone in my family tells me that Nutmeg’s demise was not my fault, apparently she had been ill for some time, but I still feel like a failure.

Nutmeg and her sister Jane were legacy cats. When Glenda’s mother died, she promised her mother that she would try to “rescue” the two feral cats who regularly showed up at our backdoor looking for a handout. Glenda successfully captured both cats and convinced them that being a pampered housecat had its perks. She gave those two cats the same wonderful care and love that I enjoyed for almost 50 years. Glenda kept her promise, I did not keep mine.

Nutmeg’s death almost pushed me over the edge. I have been a bit fragile since Glenda’s death. I miss my wife, my best friend, my lover. My kids and my friends try to keep me company but, I always feel completely and irretrievably alone. The house we shared for decades seems as empty as an abandoned factory.

Because I am a writer, I have been struggling to come up with a metaphor that describes exactly how I feel. This may be an impossible task, but I think I may have come close. In my mind I see a beautiful jigsaw puzzle. Together the interlocking pieces create a “picture perfect world,” an ideal world…except that the puzzle is missing one single piece. This missing piece leaves a gaping hole in the image. No matter how hard I try to ignore that one missing piece, my eyes are irresistibly drawn to it. It is only one piece missing out of a thousand piece puzzle but, like the mouth of a black hole, it devours all the light and beauty in the universe. Glenda was the heart shaped piece that held my world together.

In the past two months and seven days I’ve learned that there are three things that I am no good at: keeping house, cooking and grieving. I simply have no experience at being sad. I could handle anything if I had Glenda by my side, so this is all new to me. My instinct is to go to bed, pull the covers over my head and spend the rest of my life dreaming that I am not alone. Not a particularly productive coping strategy.

Today I fought the urge to close my eyes and try to sleep off my reality hangover. Instead of going to bed, I went to my shed. For most of my life, my workbench has been my happy place.

I am a natural tinkerer; repairing things brings me great satisfaction. I grew up in a hands-on blue collar world. My folks were self-reliant; my mother made her own clothes, baked her own bread, canned vegetables and made the world’s best elderberry jelly. My dad did his own carpentry and plumbing; he made his own garden and changed the oil in our car. This was not unusual. Everyone in our working class neighborhood also did these things. On a warm Saturday afternoon, half the cars on our street had their hoods up and a pair of legs sticking out from under the engine compartment.

Today I put on my brown canvas shop apron and forced myself to get to work. First I took a look at an old DVD player that tended to skip, discovered the lens was dirty and cleaned it. I hooked it up to a TV in my shop/studio so I could watch how-to painting videos. Next I used silicone sealant to fix the flapping sole of a pair of old walking shoes.

I then turned to a woodworking project. I had picked up a discarded portable easel and paint box. I wanted to give it to my great niece. She is 14 and becoming quite a painter. She had painted a lovely picture for my wife when she was ill, which made Glenda very happy.

First I glued several loose pieces of wood back in place. The bolt which allowed the easel to accommodate different size canvases would not tighten. Studying the problem I discovered that the wood had worn away where the bolt passed through the top of the box. I plugged the old hole and drilled a new one, making the box as good as new.

Returning to my house, I spent an hour or so cleaning out the vents on my gas dryer where I found an amazing amount of lint. This not only made the machine run better but eliminated a fire hazard.

After completing this final task, I realized that I was quite hungry. Glancing at my watch I saw that it was 6:30 in the evening, I had spent the entire afternoon fixing things. For seven hours I did not have time to engage in self-pity. I never stop missing Glenda but, for a few hours I didn’t dwell on my loss.

Several elements of the repair process make it an ideal therapeutic tool. Repair work is essentially problem solving; I have to identify the problem and then come up with a way to correct it. This occupies the mind and demands that one be fully engaged in the work. Using tools and messing with electrical systems can be dangerous. In the workshop, mindfulness is not about meditation, it is a requirement if one wishes to keep all of their fingers. Spinning blades and sharp objects force one to concentrate on the work at hand.

At age 69, I’ve been repairing things for almost six decades but I’ve never found so much satisfaction in the work. These days I find myself living in a very broken world, nothing seems to work properly. I like to make things right. I am well aware that I cannot repair the gaping hole my wife’s death left in my life. I have no illusion about that, she is gone and there is no epoxy that can put my shattered soul back together. Somehow making these simple repairs helps me get through the day. They give me something to think about and give me a sense of purpose. I know I can’t fix the big things in my life but somehow making a few small things right helps.

Many years ago, I broke a toy and took it to my handyman grandfather. He quickly fixed it and when he gave it back to me, I remember him saying: “I can fix anything but a broken heart!” After all this time, I finally understand what he meant.

- Jim Busch