We have to do something about The Boxes

My aide spent hours this afternoon getting rid of boxes. There were big boxes, small boxes, medium sized boxes - all over the place.

Why? Because by the time my aide does everything I need done plus those extra things that happen in life, there is no time left to deal with organizing things . So boxes happen. Clutter starts and grows. And suddenly I'm surrounded by boxes. The boxes become a metaphor for the fact that there's just too much to do.

I get used to them. I roll around the boxes that begin to jut out from the sides of my bed. Then boxes appear in hallways and those extra spaces in corners so that there's just enough room for my wheelchair to get through. Almost like developing body memory, I bump into "new boxes" when they are first placed somewhere but in a few days I learn to go around them. I don't think of them as boxes. I think of them as walls or room divisions. After all I'm a quadriplegic and can't move them at all so once they're placed, they stay put.

Lately it's become clear that something was going to have to be done about the Boxes. I tried to hire a few people to deal with the boxes. Some came once or twice but no one was able to handle the situation. A few ran out when they saw how many boxes had accumulated. Cowards, my aide said to me. Wimps, I agreed. It became apparent that this was yet another thing my aide was going to have to do. We talked about it. "Make a list" my aide said so I wrote down "Do something about The Boxes."

Then yesterday UPS arrived - with three more boxes. There was simply nowhere to put them. It was like a cruel joke. And I emailed her "The next time you come over we HAVE to do something about The Boxes." She wrote back "OK. Will do."

So today my aide arrived wearing combat gear. She has special clothes she wears when she's going to do a Big Job. Boxes were everywhere. She looked around woefully. I felt sorry for her. I watched as she ran her hand through her hair. She took a step back, then held her hands up and said "OK, OK, let me do this. Let me concentrate."

I tried to make a few suggestions but she gave me a look similar to that of Simon Cowell after Sanjaya sings. I sighed and backed off. My aide took things out of small, intermediate and big boxes. Objects flew, papers were stacked and boxes were crushed. Dust rose and fell as she whipped out the hand vac. The cat sat on papers, stepped over things and tried to sit in now empty boxes. I rolled over extension cords, papers and piles of stuff. My aide periodically stopped, looked around frantically at me and the cat and then kept going. For hours. I began to fear for her sanity. I closed my eyes, unable to watch any longer.

And then I heard her say "I'm done."

I opened my eyes. There were no more boxes. Tentatively I rolled around, testing out corners that had reappeared, making turns I hadn't been able to navigate in months and oohing and aahing at the extra space. My aide got herself a diet Coke and stood watching me.

"Thank you," I said.

We hugged. The cat , I think, danced. Maybe not. But the joy was palpable. We were "caught up" despite the system, despite the odds against it - all the things on the "regular list" that need to be done and all the mini emergencies that happen that we dodge and duck.

There is hope in the space that has opened up. For a time, my aide and I can relish the freedom of knowing that we got to The Boxes.