Butter Bear

I miss showers.

For me, a bath is something I do as a luxury more than as a means to get clean. Often, I will merely fill a tub with nothing but hot water—as hot as my body can bear—and just soak in it. DW and I have a deep tub in our ensuite, and so I can fill it deep enough that I can lie back, have nothing but my face above the surface.

Occasionally, I add Epsom salt to the water because my massage therapist recommended it after a massage. Who was I to argue?

To cleanse myself, a shower has always been my first choice. It's fast, it uses less water, and there's just something about singing in the shower. I almost never sing in the tub, unless I'm singing along to music that I sometimes play from a device while soaking.

Because of my foot surgery, I can't stand on my left leg. Balancing on one leg, even though my shower stall is small and I constantly elbow it's four sides anyway, is not a good idea. And so, ever since my surgeon fitted me with an Aircast and told me I could remove it whenever I wanted to have a bath, I've been making myself clean from the large basin.

Getting in and out of the tub is a challenge. To sit away from the faucet and drain, with my back to where the tub slopes so that you can lie back, I have to lead with my right foot, which is my weight-bearing leg. To remedy this issue, I've put a folding chair next to the tub, which I use to kneel upon with my left leg and steady myself so that I can step into the tub. Once my right foot is firmly centered to bear the rest of me, I place my hands on either side of the tub and carry myself over.

My vulnerable left foot naturally swings behind me as I step in, so I have to gently swing it forward, and then slowly ease myself into the water. Once I have settled my body in place, I gently, slowly lower my scarred foot into the bath.

The first couple of times that I attempted a bath, DW helped support me. She was even more nervous of me slipping. The last thing she needed, she said, was to hear a loud bang and come running in to find me floating in the water with my head split open. But as soon as I grew stronger and more confident, she left me to my own devices.

On Christmas, I received a couple of special gifts in my stocking from my girls. They were products from one of DD15's favourite stores, Lush.

One of the items was a scrub ball (I don't know what else to call it) for removing the skin that was building up on my unused foot. It also feels nice and stimulates the skin around the part of my foot, near my toes, that has some nerve damage. The other item was a bath bomb that was white and shaped like a bear.

I have never used a bath bomb before but it smelled good, with aromas of cocoa butter and vanilla. I had had a bath the evening before but because we were heading over to a friend's house that evening, I thought I would treat myself to a second bath before getting ready. (Because a bath is so labour-intensive, I have one only every other day; whereas, I showered daily.)

Once the tub was half-full, I tossed in the bear. Not having used a bath bomb before, I didn't know what to expect but I did expect, at the very least, some sort of violent interaction with the bomb and the water, much like when I'd add a magnesium tablet to a glass of water. I was thinking that it might bubble up, much like a bubble bath.

It barely fizzed (or should I say bear-ly?).

Mind you, it did break apart and within minutes had dissolved. But the water in my tub was the colour it usually is and, looking straight into the tub, you'd have never known I added anything. It wasn't until I lowered myself into the tub that I could see little pearls of oil floating on the surface.

The hot water, also, smelled delicious. I soaked in the tub for a long time, my face the only part of me above the water surface. My music played from a Bluetooth speaker and I allowed myself to nap. Eventually, I shampooed my hair and prepared to get out of the tub.

That's when I learned why this bomb was called "Butterbear."

After opening the drain and allowing some of the water to empty out, I placed my hands on either side of the tub and hoisted my self up, moving my right leg below me to support most of my weight. But I felt as though my hands and foot were slathered in butter, as my hands slid along the edges of the tub and my foot swung out as though I had just trod on black ice.

(Incidentally, last Thursday, I ventured out to my car in my driveway to take DD15 to a friend's house. As I approached the side of the car, near the rear passenger door on the driver's side, I stepped on some snow that was covered in black ice. It took my good foot out from under me and spun me around. Luckily, I fell backwards against the car and managed to recover before falling to the pavement. I was unhurt but was reminded of my experience in the tub.)

I went down on my butt, water sloshing around me. Unhurt but shaken, I tried a new approach: I reached for my towel and dried my hands and forearms. They were incredibly soft and smooth, thanks to the bath bomb. I dried the edges of the tub where oily water had covered them and, using my forearms, lifted myself once more.

I swung both knees so that I could more or less kneel, and with most of the water down the drain, I turned on the faucet, grabbed a face cloth, and began wiping down the inside of the tub, using a water jug to rinse the bomb residue away.

I risked standing on one foot, confident that my now-dry hands could help keep me from falling again. I dried myself off and lifted myself out of the tub, onto the chair nearby.

The Butterbear bath bomb left me smelling amazing and my skin felt younger. But I think the bomb should have come with a warning about getting out of the bath once you are done.

I miss showers.