D Day Minus 190 (August 30, 2009): Hasta La Vista Futon

“Damnit Nance, you almost ran me into to the wall.”  Dad yelled as we carried your old futon frame down the stairs. You were in the guest bed reeling from a bout of nausea and the afterglow of chemo.  And you knew Dad and me well enough to ignore our bickering.

I did not almost run Dad into the wall.  He was being a drama mama.  He was cranky because I cajoled him to get rid of your futon as soon we got back from the mattress store.  It didn’t help that it was really hot outside and we already had been up and down the stairs twice—carrying up the new box springs.  All I wanted to do was get rid of that futon. I hated it.

It was a mistake when I bought it.  I was tired and mad at Dad about something I don’t even remember, so it must not have been important.  I’d been on a HGTV redecorating on budget kick so I thought futons were a good idea. You and Morgan were running around the furniture store like little monkeys.  You were eight and Morgan was six.  I thought about leaving both of you in the store and selling you for a buck ninety five to the first takers about third time Dad told you guys to behave.  I got fed up and told Dad to buy the futon, while I waited in the car with you and Morgan.

You rescued that stupid futon and its slouchy mattress from Goodwill when you were fourteen.  You wanted a bigger bed and thought it was cool that it could be made into a couch.  We didn’t have money for a new bed so I let you adopt it, with the intent to get you a real bed within a year.  As time went on other things came up.  But, I vowed to get rid of it “one day.”  I don’t know how you could stand it.  It was uncomfortable and the mattress never stayed put.  It was possessed.   Did I tell you I hated it?

You actually liked that futon and said it was fine up until last January, just after your appendectomy. You couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t get comfortable.  You’d lost forty pounds and you needed more padding.  (We didn’t know at the time that your bowel had perforated, which made you even more uncomfortable.  Hindsight is 20/20.)  You were still in Roanoke and I talked to you four or five times a day on the phone and your biggest complaint was how uncomfortable your bed was.   Dad and I got you a thermapedic clone from Costco in hopes that you could finally get comfortable.  We didn’t have enough room in the SUV for box springs last January, so we put that on the back burner. After we found out the cancer spread on your 24^th birthday and that you needed life threatening surgery, the box springs didn’t matter.  Getting you back up to Sterling so we could help you recover was all that did matter.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to,” is all I said to Dad once we got the futon frame to the garage. But, it was enough.  We worked together to get your bed set up.   Well actually Dad put it together and I just followed orders.  In between Dad’s orders I checked on you in the guest room, which probably drove you crazy.   The song from the Lion King’s Circle of Life kept popping in my head as I thought about the futon and its role in our lives.  It didn’t stop until, I thought of the Terminator.  Then I said “Hasta La Vista Futon.”