There many ways I deal with stress. The chronic, day-in, day-out variety like the splendid and noble insanity that comes with working in a prosecutor’s office, usually calls for chocolate. On a regular basis. Cops and co-workers have even been warned on occasion to not approach unless they’re bringing some good chocolate to feed the beast.

 Other spikes in adrenaline or responsibility have been dealt with by buying yet another pair of spike heels. Lime green with perforations, magenta suede with patent leather bows, leopard print brocade slingbacks, I can tell you a story behind nearly every pair of stilettos in my closet. 

 And yet another favorite release is to escape to the shoreline of my favorite state park on Lake Michigan with a soy mocha with whipped cream from Starbucks and bury my hands in soft white sand as seagulls and sandpipers look on, unmoved. That has been a luxury untouched for a long time. The annual state park pass on my dashboard is two years old.

 But right now, neither chocolate nor shoes nor nature will do. I want a clean, functioning bathroom. My father is dying in a hospice and my youngest child is leaving for college in a week, and an imported chocolate bar with hazelnuts is just not going to cut it.

 Reclaiming and repairing the bathroom is symbolic, there is no doubt. I’ve been juggling family emergencies from insane distances for months now, and in the past few weeks the carpets in the house have grown another layer of cat hair. The carpets are oatmeal. The cat is black with long hair that never stops shedding. My kitchen and dining room are awash in paperwork related to the complicated business of getting old and navigating medical issues and applying for public benefits, a fitting payback for a long life spent dutifully paying taxes. 

 And I don’t just want a routinely clean bathroom, I want it gleaming.   And so the other day I brought the step-stool up from the basement, went to my maximum fear-of-heights two steps and unscrewed the four frosted glass shades and chandelier bulbs from the brass fixtures above the sink and washed them with soap and water for the first time since they were installed. I think that was about ten years ago. The dust around the edges has been bugging me for a long time. A feather duster only gets so much.

 Today, in between visits to the nursing home where my father lingers in hospice care, I decided to tackle the sink. It’s a two-basin sink, with fittings of brass and white porcelain that resemble upside-down tulips.  Remodeling the bathroom about ten years ago, with fresh flooring and a cherrywood cabinet, was a major bone of marital contention for several years leading up to it. The green-light for the remodeling project came, unfortunately, too late to save the marriage. But I ended up with the house in the divorce, and so I’ve still got the lovely sink and the cherrywood cabinetry. 

 The cold water handle in the sink I use, however, has been getting looser and looser for the past couple of months, and today, with an empty house and a few hours to myself, I tackle the project. 

 Only one of the two sinks actually works anymore. Several years ago something went seriously wrong—the kind of “wrong” you actually call a plumber for—with one of the sets of faucets. I couldn’t find an exact replacement anywhere. And so, loathe to replace both sets of pretty porcelain tulip faucets, I suggested swapping one set for the other. Because of the bathroom layout, nobody ever used the second sink anyway. The plumber cannibalized what he needed from the working side of the counter and shut off the water supply to the sink less traveled.