Swimming Pool Follies

The picture of me relaxing in my new chair, donning Oakleys, sporting Irish swimwear and generally enjoying life served as a diversionary prologue to a comically terrifying afternoon involving a pool, a ski jacket, 3 women and a wheelchair. I wish life really was a cabaret. In truth it is probably closer to the Keystone Cops when two daughters and a wife install a flailing pilot whale- me- into an in ground swimming pool, accelerating to Three Stooges status when it comes to getting me out. Two attempts a day is my limit, for certain.

Since we have yet to install a handrail designed to bisect the steps into the pool and offer me- questionable- assistance, everyone thought I could descend with help from both sides. Problem is, I  move, assisted, on flat ground, at glacier speed. Imagine how fast a glacier moves down steps. Add to this scenario the fact that the air temperature is a sunny 90 degrees and the water is a garden hose temp of about 60 degrees and you can imagine my reaction when lowering myself a half inch at a time then an assisted step at a time into the drink. By far the worst of the descent occurred between thigh and waist depth. By far. By. Far. I should have mentioned that I was sporting a new ski vest- Class III- to keep me afloat as it seemed and was confirmed that my swimming days are long gone. I found I could float on my back when assisted but when left alone I lacked enough arm stabilization to prevent me from rolling like a log. I could stand, but any movement caused me to sway and list without the ability to move my feet in order to remain upright. In some obtuse way, I am living proof of the existence of the second law of thermodynamics.

Getting out is the real comedy.

Having had my fill of bobbing and weaving, it was time to exit the pool. Since I couldn't, even under water, lift my foot the height of a step, it seemed better for me to sit on a step, back to the edge, while Rachel and Amy hoisted me up to the next. This system worked until the full weight of my largeness cleared the water. Only the mighty Rachel saved us all from disaster as she suplexed me out of the pool. I was then hoisted into my Jazzy so I could roll for the hills. 

Round two, a couple hours later, proved as harrowing as the first, more terrifying. Amy thought that the best way to enter and exit the pool would be in a wheel chair- not the Jazzy! She rolled out my hand push Roscoe, plopped me in and tried to secure the seat belt, conjuring visions of me kissing the pool bottom, trying to unbuckle with less than one operable hand. No seat belt. In order to lower me into the pool, Rachel had to wheelie the front end, carting me down each step, torturing my body as I lowered into the cold, all the while blind to the method as I peered skyward. Once submerged, I discovered that my water skills had failed to improve since my last aquatic adventure two hours prior.

Again, getting out.........................................

The theory was simple: Lower me in and raise me out. Ha. The bottom step was easy. After that, each step out of the water increased the dead weight- mine and the chair this time. I was a little disappointed that Rachel couldn't hoist the assembly pool side. Anyway, with Rachel tugging and Amy   turning one wheel as Sarah turned the other, I eventually found the high ground. I'm ordering a catapult and a winch.