1.
My
life is harder than I thought it was. I thought my life was medium hard - being
unable to open things or being stuck on the couch or standing. But there are ways to make life work. For instance, chopping a carrot by just banging it against the counter - because knives are ridiculously shaped and can not be held...(By-the-way, I find dropping whole onions in spaghetti sauce is a delicious alternative to "finely diced". Also onion skins are a great source of fiber.) I resented being carried
everywhere because I thought it made me seem weak. However, it turns out being
stuck somewhere and having no one to carry you is worse. When Al first broke
his leg, I rode a sense of accomplishment for about a week. Like see, I didn’t
need anyone after all; I am a strong empowered feminist. (See this post for
evidence of my amazingness.) And then it’s week two and I’m like, gee I’m so tired and its eight thirty. But
it hurts too much to move – lemme just sit here for a bit. Then I’m like, gee its midnight and now I have become soldered
to the couch. Maybe I could live here and someone could just throw a bottle of water at me every couple of days? I complain for a bit in my most whiny voice but no one can
hear me or, if they do, I just get “I’m sorry” which is nice but does not help
me get off the couch when my joints seem particularly keen on staying put.
2.
I
am more prone to yelling at nice people than I once thought possible. A
community nurse came to evaluate us as to what help we might need around the
house; as she watched me hobble around the kitchen to get her a cup of tea (it
was a particularly bad day for me) she wondered out loud why I don’t have this
help all of the time. I yelled at her and said, “I don’t like to admit that
there is anything wrong with me and that I can’t do simple things like change
the sheets on the bed! AND I don’t even like having a handicap sticker!” I
realize I live in a delusion but it is a delusion that keeps me sane – ignoring
just how stupid my body is allows a slightly brighter outlook, on most days.
Normally Al helps with this delusion by changing the sheets because I tell him
it’s time to change the sheets. And then I tell him it’s time to clean the
shower etc. I can get everything halfway done or everything at a height between
waist and shoulders…anything that is not too heavy and doesn’t require functioning
fingers… Then the things get done as a team but I get to share in the sense of
accomplishment. However when he can’t do anything, it really becomes evident
that I can’t do a damn thing. So I agreed to have the free help but did not
apologize for yelling at the nice lady, because I like to
pretend I am healthy.
3.
Just
because someone says they are “sending help” does not mean help will arrive. Al
and I push through the first week: I am hobbling, grabbing things with my club hands
and turning Amelia into Cinderella. But the-day-of-the-cleaning lady arrives. I
am gone so I get the report from Al for how it went because the house seems no
cleaner than when I left it except that the beds are changed - which I
appreciate because if I had done it, we would just be burrowing in a pile of
sheets like nesting bunnies. He says,
“Well she didn’t get much done…”
“What, why?”
“Well she came twenty minutes late
and left twenty minutes early so she didn’t really have enough time to do
anything. Then there was the twenty minute discussion about English soccer….”
Now to be fair we are pretty big on soccer in this house: games are watched. Star
players are studied mostly by the small red headed girl working to sweep up the
Cinders but with big dreams of making it to the soccer finals. (©Copyrights for
future Disney movie reserved)
“Then she had to have a chat with me
about her other clients. Then she left.”
“She didn’t dust?”
“No, I asked her to but she was very
unimpressed by our dusting methods and refused.” (We use the vacuum with the
small brush on the end.)
“She refused?”
Al shrugs his shoulders. “Yes.”
I go to the laundry room where she
has brought in the clean sheets but they are covered with Al’s dirty clothes
from the hospital.
“Did she wash the sheets?” I yell at
Al.
“I think so. Why?”
“Because all your hospital clothes
are on top of them.”
He hobbles out and we stare at the
pile. Al trips on the way out putting weight on his broken leg, giving us both
a heart attack. There are swear words yelled and muttered but we remind ourselves
the government is paying for this service so we calm down and find our grateful
place.
I wash the laundry again.
The next week I am home so I get to
see first-hand the soccer conversation which continues. She follows me into my
room where I have head-phones in so I can get some work done and she talks
loudly until I take them out. She spends a great deal of time turning a pillow around and around in her hand as if she is accomplishing something. And explains how much
more impressive it was to be a writer in “Olden times” because all they had was
a typewriter. I try not to be offended and agree it must have been difficult. I
pop the head-phones back in but then she says loudly something else of which I
only catch the last words “I take lollies (candy) off of children.” Then she laughs. I
join her but I am not sure if stealing children’s lollies is her pastime or
her mission in life and I am a little afraid of what she will do to me if I don't laugh.
We then ask her to please clean the
shower because it is the one thing that really needs to be done and I really cannot do it myself. I mean I can spray bleach everywhere and then run
away but it needs to be scrubbed. She is very offended because she says she did
wash the shower last week. I say,
“I’m sure you did but it just needs
to be done today as it is several shades of pink.”
Then she says, “I can’t because you left your
bathmat on the floor and you have to pick that up because I will NOT do that.”
And then she takes me into the bathroom and demands that every time I have a
shower I must spray it down so it is easier for her to clean. I apologize
profusely, tell her I will definitely pre clean the shower daily for her, and
then leave for my meeting. And as I am driving I wonder, why I am
apologizing for not doing her job for her.
After I go, Al asks her to please stop
using her dirty cloths that she takes from house to house and bathroom to
kitchen because, “Mel has no immune system. So we bought you these antibacterial
wipes.’
She laughs and says, “No I’ll use my
trusty cloths. It’s easier.”
Later, I wipe down all of the surfaces
again with antibacterial wipes and my shower is still bright pink but in
stripes so she must have rubbed her trusty cloths over it a couple of times. So now I just shower balanced on my heals so that most of my feet don't soak in toxic pink mold. I tell myself this is just a new form of Hot Yoga I can practice for free.
We try to remain grateful. But we are considering asking the government to pay our servant girl instead. She needs the funds for her soccer dreams.
