234. Manual Labor

A listener named Madilynn tells us about how during a season of unemployment (and a lot of anxiety) she helped her dad with some yard work to distract herself. That day of manual labor had a bigger impact on her mental health than she anticipated.

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

Nora: I’m Nora McInerny, and this is It’s Going to Be Okay.

Today’s okay thing comes from Madilynn Lyons, who sent us this voice memo: 

Maddie: My dad has always been able to do anything. If it’s broken, he can fix it. If it needs moved, he can move it. He can build, lift, solve it all. From the time I was young up to now, in my mind, he has been an unstoppable force.

I’ve always wanted to be like him in that way. At 26 years old, I still haven’t mastered building any piece of furniture, even with instructions, or fixing anything related to my car. There’s so much about my life that I can’t seem to solve or fix, like the problem of my recent unemployment, for 1. And as much as I want to be able to do it all like my dad, years of frequent panic attacks have made me feel less than capable of doing even the simplest of tasks some days.  So when my dad asked if I could help him move some wood pellet bags into his shed 1 afternoon, I said yes.

Anything I could do to avoid the Crushing weight of the realization that I had quit my high paying corporate job without any plan sounded great to me. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to carry a few bags of pellets, and As always, I was desperate to prove my capabilities to him and myself.  I showed up to my parents’ house in galaxy print old navy leggings, a Nick Miller T shirt, and an old pair of New Balance tennis shoes.  Want a ride with me to pick them up or wait here until I get back? My dad asked as I got out of my car. 

It sounded like a simple enough question, but per usual, my anxious brain struggled to decide on an answer. I needed more details to decide if I could handle a trip in the car where I couldn’t flee if I panicked.  Where’s the place? I returned.  He said the pellets were about 15 minutes or so away, 16 according to my Google Maps check.

I blurted, I’ll go.  We rode in my dad’s big Toyota Tundra to the pellet pickup location. When we finally arrived at the facility, dad was unsure of where we were supposed to go. He parked next to what appeared to be the main office and went inside to get  I decided to stay in the car and wait. 

As I waited, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the passenger side mirror. I looked tired,  which was odd given the recent increase of sleep I had been fitting into my wide open schedule.  What was I doing in the middle of a Monday sitting in my dad’s truck at this place. Everything about my life seemed wrong. I had no job, no plan of what to do next, and it was taking all of my willpower not to collapse into a complete breakdown. 

My heart started to beat loud as my chest tightened at the thought of not knowing if I’d completely ruined my life.  My panic doom spiral was interrupted by the sound of the door closing as my dad got back in the truck.  The pellets are in there. He turned his gaze to a large white metal shed to our left.  

He parked the truck for the second time in front of the shed as a worker on a forklift brought out our pallet of pellets. I watched as my dad climbed up and stood in the bed of his truck, grabbing bags off the forklift and stacking them quickly and methodically.  Unsure of where or how to help, I stayed in the truck until the bed and back seat was filled with bags.  

We drove back to the house as dad explained to me how he determined how many pellets to take per trip without damaging the truck while I nodded occasionally as if I completely understood his calculations and the mechanics of a truck.  Once we arrived back at the house, He opened his gate and went into his shed and came out with a rusty red wheelbarrow.  Take this, he said as he put the wheelbarrow in front of me. And don’t take more than 2 bags at a time, or you’ll hurt yourself. Okay?  

I grabbed 2 deceivingly heavy bags 1 at a time off of the truck and drop them in the wheelbarrow.  Determined to prove my efficiency, I wield the bags to his nearby shed as fast and steadily as possible.  I did run into a plant and tip over, but I recovered quickly and looked over my shoulder to see if dad had noticed. He didn’t. Thank goodness.  He was too busy pulling the bags out 2 at a time and carrying them in his arms to the shed. I was careful not to let my face show any signs of strain, or struggle as I grab the bags out of the wheelbarrow and stack them in the shed. 

Dad was right. Any more than 2 of these at a time and those pellet bags would have been on the ground next to my very injured body.  Back and forth, I willed pellets from the truck to the shed until my arms and upper back were sore and the truck bed was empty. My face was dirty with sweat and wood dust. Dad was out of breath, but wasted no time closing the gate and hopping back in the truck for the next round.  3 more times, we repeated this.

With each trip in the car, my anxiety lessened a few degrees. We drove, talked, loaded, drove, talked, unloaded, until we were both completely exhausted, and dad’s shed was packed to the max with over a hundred and 50 bags of pellets.  

I saw my dad wince as he hopped down from the truck bed on the last trip.  Concerned, I asked if he was okay. Embarrassed, he confessed that he threw out his back on the third trip.  Why didn’t you say anything? I could have done the rest myself, I said. I mean, it would have taken a lot longer, but I could have done it while you rested.  He assured me that he was fine, but that he was very glad that I was there to help him finish the job.  

I wanna pay you for your work today, he said.  Oh, I said, consider my free labor a small repayment for all the things you help me do all the time. I refused. As he reached into his leather wallet and pull that a 10 dollar bill. I laughed out loud. 10 dollars for over 2 hours of manual labor seemed a little cheap, But, really, who was I to laugh at a 4 dollar an hour rate with my current 0 dollar an hour salary?

But still, it felt wrong to take it.  Take it, please, he said as he handed me the money. Buy yourself a snack or something.  For a moment, I considered refusing his offer again. It really wasn’t necessary. And if anyone needed the snack, it was him. While I had gotten drinks of water and bites to eat in between trips, He stayed laser focused on the day’s tasks as he always did. He looked depleted and tense from his back pain.  

How about this? I started. I’ll take the 10 dollars if you drive us both over to the gas station to get Gatorades, and I’ll stay for dinner. After a moment of consideration, he accepted my proposition and drove across the street to the store.  We went in together and debated which Gatorade flavor is the best before grabbing 2. I argued in favor of strawberry, my favorite. Well, he went for the classic blue bottle, whatever flavor that is.

At checkout, I pulled out the 10 dollar bill from my crossbody bag and handed it to the cashier.  In the truck, dad chugged the seriously flavored blue liquid like he couldn’t get it in him fast enough. I sipped my strawberry beverage and felt satisfied by the hard day’s work in the afternoon spent alone with my dad.  I realized I hadn’t felt uneasy or worried about the future for the past few hours, And I was proud of myself for time spent riding passenger side, not in control.  I hadn’t done that in a while.

A small fire of hope burned in my chest as we pulled into his driveway.  After dinner, I gathered my bag and unfinished Gatorade to leave, and dad thanked me again for all my help. I smiled and replied, it’s no problem. Thanks for the snack.  Dad said he was going to lay down because of his back and told me to enjoy the rest of my evening. 

And as he walked away, I thought about the constant quiet strength and impressive determination in my father and, for a moment, wondered if I might have it too.  Maybe I’m okay. Maybe it’s going to be okay.