The Dishwasher & The Madwoman

The Case for Preventative Medicine

Lately, my dishwasher has been cleaning dishes like an old blind man. He opens his mouth and proudly pours out a lot of steam. Mostly, he’s functioning normally. But when I start to pull out dishes, I realize that more than a few are greasy and streaked with food. He could use some support.

It’s my fault, really. I’d been lulled into complacency by the vigor of his youth. He used to be able to return sparkling dishes and shining glasses even if I never rinsed a single plate and left peanut butter on the utensils. 

Eventually, a crisis came. He broke down mid-cycle. When I went in to inspect the damage, I found a pool of bilge water and everything dirtier than when it went in. If my dishwasher really were an old man, I would have put him on dialysis. 

I did call in the doctor. My brother-in-law put on rubber gloves and prescribed surgery. When he was done, he sighed with the exertion of it all and said, “It would help if you would start rinsing your dishes.” To this, I meekly agreed.

But did I? Of course not. Everything seemed fine again and I liked the idea of having an awesome young dishwasher around the house. We winked at each other and carried on.

Now the error of my ways is dawning on me. My old man’s kidneys simply aren’t what they used to be. He’s tottering, and if I keep feeding him inappropriate food and drink, a relapse looms. 

It’s heartbreaking to imagine what my dishwasher’s life would have been like if I had only taken care of him all along. He could have been entering middle age like a race horse. His prospects for a long, healthy life could have been assured. As it is, I will be lucky if I’m not washing dishes by hand in a year, alone. 

Love,

Stella