Sometimes, the washing machine breaks on an ordinary Tuesday night. And occasionally, when you hear that unbalanced sound of metal crashing into metal and you realize with horror that there is nothing with a zipper in this load, your heart starts beating faster than normal and you push the “end cycle” button so hard that it pushes the button right off the machine. It’s possible that you might open the washing machine lid to see everything just horribly wrong in there – basket askew, water not draining – and you remember that you bought it (and the one year warranty) in February of last year and it is now June. Sometimes, the washing machine breaking feels like the whole world collapsing and so you collapse on the washing machine and just FEEL. Maybe that feeling looks like a lot of hot, angry tears and a tiny “woe is me!” especially when you remember that your husband, a huge and vocal proponent of extended warranties, definitely invited you to extend THIS warranty, and you politely declined. Because, well, you know better.
Fast forward to Wednesday and the start of another family week at Justin’s treatment facility. This time, I went in preparation for his homecoming in two weeks. His treatment team thinks (and I agree) that sober living (a sort of half-way house for addicts) is not the best option for a dude with a wife and kids. It’s time to come home, step out of the safety bubble of rehab, go to intensive outpatient treatment and start rebuilding relationships and life in general. A huge part of this planning and transitioning was a weekend home pass that we’ve been jokingly calling Justin’s Furlough. Overnight passes Wednesday and Thursday and then home with me and the kids Friday to Sunday.
After it was clear that the washing machine was definitely compromised and after I had cried enough to feel like I’d done some good, I did what any normal person without an active warranty does…I started to poke around in there to figure out what the problem was. This is where my Sue O’Daly gene takes full effect. I realized, after feeling up the insides of my washing machine, that there was a sort of metal pole missing. I took to the internet and began with the most logical thing: A diagram. Must. Find. Name for metal thingy.