The offending--and currently empty--fire extinguisher It must have been to test my resolve. Just how good was my ability to laugh, especially in situations that, at first glance, seemed anything but funny? Was I really taking my “medicine” faithfully? The results of this test would provide a fail-proof answer.
I’d been sitting at the hospital, waiting for my appointment with Dr. M., when I completed my last blog on a scrap of paper. Extolling the healing properties of laughter, I’d signed off cheerily with, “I think I’m due for another dose [of laughter] right now.” In retrospect, I’d clearly walked into a trap. Little did I know what I’d encounter when I got home.
Doing the laundry in Japan is no complicated ordeal even though we have only cold water for our doll-sized, but fully automatic washer and have to hang our laundry on the verandah, even in the snow—unless I hang it all over the dining and living rooms, taking advantage of the space heaters to speed the drying process. We don’t use lye soap, scrub boards or ringer washers, so doing the laundry is really no big deal. Usually.
Things were different on February 16. I’d hardly gotten home from the hospital when disaster struck, thoroughly disrupting the usually tame laundry task, not to mention the whole house. As I reached for the laundry tub on the shelf above the washing machine, I inadvertently bumped it into the fire extinguisher, whose “home” was also the same shelf. Before I could jump to catch it, the extinguisher hit the floor and exploded, shooting a cloud of gray smoke and fine particles into the kitchen. (Our laundry room—also my office—is at the end of the kitchen.)
Within moments, a cloud hung over the kitchen and dining area that reminded me of the mushroom clouds of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Certainly it wasn’t that bad, but from inside the “storm,” it did indeed seem devastating. The only thing I could think to do was to call Bernie at school, just down the street in the next block. I certainly did not think of laughing. Thankfully, Bernie was able to come immediately and help with the first clean up. (Note the word “first.”) He also insisted that I put on a mask in order to quit ingesting the fine particles that were falling as if a snowstorm had blown through suddenly.
As with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the “devastation” in our dining room and kitchen continued long after the cloud had dispersed. No matter how many times I cleaned, particles continued to appear on shelves, floors, counters, and furniture. Frankly, I think we’ll still be cleaning up weeks from now. And to think that I used to think fire extinguishers were filled with foam!
Now Bernie and I are arguing over whether we really need a fire extinguisher. After all, we’ve never ever had a fire, but the problems wrought by that innocent-looking extinguisher were overwhelming. In fact, a friend of a friend had a similar experience and concluded that next time, she’ll let the fire have the house rather than deal with the extinguisher. But since we live in an apartment in a church that houses a pre-school, we must, by law, have a fire extinguisher, so I guess I’ve lost the argument.
And I failed the laughter test, too. I still believe laughter is the best medicine, but honestly, I hope my next opportunity to prove my words doesn’t come along too soon.
