And I don't mean, “Honey, I care for
you;” “Honey, I love you so much;” “Honey, you mean so much
to me.”
I mean, “Honey, can you bring the
laptop over here?;” “Honey, would you mind getting me a cup of
coffee?;” “Honey, could you get me a clean sock for my other
foot?”
Yeah. That kind of caring.
I AM NOT complaining. Am I? I don't mean to. Seriously... how could I possibly complain about filling the every need of a woman who has been helping me deal with cancer for over two years? Wait. Don't answer that.
In dealing with Sheri's broken leg,
broken ankle, sprained knee, I have discerned two distinct stages.
The first stage was all about the
injury and the pain Sheri was experiencing... which was a lot. I was
really scared for her. She had obviously really hurt herself and we
had to get her to the hospital. Once there, I was anxious to be
supportive and make sure she got the help she needed. I had to make
sure I understood the instructions for her care and feeding, and then
get her home and situated as comfortably as I could, which turned out
to be not very much.
There she was biting down on a stick
and taking Tylenol, and there I was sort of... well, being around,
maybe hovering, just to be sure I could help if needed. Also, I
needed to make absolutely sure she didn't fall again, in any way,
shape or form.
First stage, part two, was virtually
the same. She had surgery on her foot. The doctor added a steel
plate, a number of pins and a 7-pound cast to Sheri's considerable
attributes. The weight of the cast was an approximation based on
Sheri putting her foot on a scale. I tried to tell her, with the rest
of her at least somewhat attached through her leg, it wouldn't be
accurate. Those of you who have talked to a woman giving birth can
guess how well that went. So, seven pounds it is.
Stage two has a mainly different set of
challenges. There's no adrenalin left to provide a little fuel when
you're getting tired. There's no sense of being... not heroic,
really, of stepping into the breach like the 300 gladiators... It's
more like being one of the 101 Dalmatians, trying not to step on
anyone else's ears.
Stage one is all flash, with little
substance; attending to the moment because it really matters. There's
a need to act, and pretty much to act right now! There's no time to
think; no time to consider yourself and how you might be feeling.
It's all pretty visceral.
Stage two is all substance and no
flash. Yes, there's a need to act, but most of the time the only
thing that makes it important to act quickly is Sheri's comfort.
Which, speaking honestly, leaves plenty of time to think of my
comfort. After all, thinking about me and what I want is one of my
favorite things. In the land of the caregiver, this can be a problem.
Fortunately, my wife is far from
demanding. But when you break one of your important pieces of
transportation equipment, there are a world of things that you simply
can't manage by yourself.
I've been aided in this phase by the
fact that I pretty much wait on my wife hand and foot everyday,
anyway. (Insert rude riposts and cat calls here.) And by waiting on
hand and foot, I don't mean that in a bad way. I enjoy doing things
for my wife, mostly. And she enjoys doing things for me. I just get
more opportunities in the average day than she does. The more I write
about this, the worse I'm going to look as both a husband and a human
being, so let me get back to the point.
I think stage two is tougher, really.
When Sheri was hurt and in pain, doing what needed to be done was a
no brainer. When I've already made four trips to various parts of the
house without a stop in between, “Could you please get me a cup of
coffee?” becomes a testing moment. Not a, “Why don't you get it
yourself moment,” but, “Really? Coffee? It can't wait?”
But then I look at this amazing woman,
whom I truly do love; who has been right with me through two of the
toughest years of my life, filling my needs and doing things I can't
do for myself, and just get her the coffee, or the sock, or her cell
phone, or her nail file, or the cough drops, or the pad and paper, or
the drink of water, or her Chapstick or....”
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere
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