He was shooting me that sideways look he gives when he really wants to say something but makes the wise choice to simply shake his head. Things were in my favor.

It was T minus 20 hours until my shoulder surgery. As long as I could manage it, I was moving on frantic energy with my one-armed body. Dragging my beloved along for the ride, we were knocking things off the to-do list.

Suddenly, he remembered the grass really needed to be mowed. I think it was just a ploy to get out of my list, but then again, the grass could certainly be added. I think he felt safe on the mower’s high seat.

An almost complete tear in my rotator cuff was about to position me on the sidelines for quite some time, and I was none too happy about it. But until I was buckled in for the ride to the hospital, I was attempting to do two months’ worth of chores in just three days — because that’s what we females do.

One-armed multitasking
I was shutting the closet with my foot while drying off the dog from his bath while clicking off the errand list in my head. Finally, I said out loud, “Gotta get to the grocery store.”

To which beloved husband responded: “Why are you getting groceries? You said you just got the fridge cleaned out for the food our friends will be bringing.”

“You silly man, the fridge still needs to be somewhat stocked. I don’t want you to waste away. And about that pile of ‘stuff’ by the garage, you need to do something with it.”

That’s when the sideways look came firing at me. “The pile consisting of one weed-eater that I’m getting ready to use.”

That’s when weed-eating was put on the list.

That’s OK. I was working on the Christmas list for the grandkids while cutting flowers from the garden while pulling weeds as I was talking to my daughter on the phone.

The mower finally came to a stop.

I held back the urge to say the windows needed washing. Instead, I was mentioning that the green beans needed to be picked, and I was running out of time. I still had to stock the fridge. Before I could go through which goats still needed to be vaccinated next month, dust from the mower was blowing my way.

Dusk arrived. While latching the chicken coop door for the last time for a while, I heard the mower being parked in the barn. We did it. I had successfully completed eight weeks of work in three days, and my beloved husband, thanks to the lawn mower, had survived it.

Then came the inevitable: the surgery itself, with recovery to follow. Stay tuned!

McClain writes from Greenwood, Ind.