I love washing dishes. Maybe that makes me some kind of freak, but few things satisfy me like turning a crusty pile-up in the kitchen sink into a pristine arrangement of plates and drinkware, dripping gently in the drying rack.

I love the actual cleaning part too. I drag my sponge over food residue with a vengeance, rinsing and inspecting and repeating until every inch feels squeaky-clean. I’m very committed to squeaky-clean results—no sneaky fingerprints or faint crusts of sauce on my watch. I baptize my dishes with Aldi Power Force soap and elbow grease; they rise spotless and ready for a new life back in the cupboard.

It can be said that I have a slight superiority complex about dishwashing. I roll my eyes at housemates who “forget” to clean the undersides of plates or leave smears on glass casserole dishes. I don’t trust people who use only cold water (?!?!) or who “wash” dishes by gently passing the sponge over them. If you aren’t scrubbing with enough PSI to at least crack an egg, I don’t know what you’re doing. One of the worst favors a guest at my apartment can do is to generously wash the evening’s dishes…the wrong way. In that case I must not only stand by and watch, but also wash the dishes again, for real, as soon as everyone leaves.

It’s possible that these vigorous habits contributed to my hand and wrist pain that began in February. When it lingered and got worse instead of better, I saw a doctor and was diagnosed with DeQuervain’s tendosynovitis in my right hand (an inflamed sheath around the tendon in my thumb and wrist).

The good news? It should get better. The bad news? I needed to rest this tendon—which meant no dishwashing, if I could help it.

Now seems like a good time to mention that my apartment has no dishwasher (apart from myself, haha). So I was facing down using my tendon for the bare minimum of dishes, or eating only takeout and “girl dinners” for three weeks.

Fortunately, help arose that I hadn’t anticipated. My best friend Ellie (whose dishwashing skills I actually do trust) decided to visit for a long weekend and took care of all the dirty dishes in my sink. It also turned out that my boyfriend (shoutout David) is a diligent dishwasher and very sympathetic to my cause. With their help, I was able to keep my own dishwashing to a few limited stints.

But their generosity left me with some feelings to unpack. I’m not used to needing help from others. Letting someone pitch in, even though you could do it all yourself, is one thing. Letting someone do something for you, because you need it done but can’t do it on your own? Oof. That’s a hard pill for a control freak like me to swallow.

Especially when I’m putting away my dishes—which David and Ellie washed for me—and encounter a hidden patch of egg white on a pan, a faint crust of sauce on the outside of a bowl. I want to pout and think, “I would’ve cleaned this off.” But the truth is, last month I wasn’t cleaning off much of anything.

It’s been humbling to realize how quickly I look a gift horse in the mouth. How easily I assume that I can and will run my life exactly the way I like it. And how quickly even the smallest, randomest injury can prove me wrong—forcing me to trade my tightly clenched sponge for a mostly clean plate.

Eleanor Lee

Eleanor Lee (‘23) graduated from Calvin with degrees in computer science and writing. She grew up in South Carolina but currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She loves coffee, laughing, and bringing emojis to the workplace.