It was early in the morning. I was taking my meds, and Eric was standing next to me. (Now I’m grabbing the spoon and eating the yogurt with my meds, like a grown baby.) I thought of the day that was awaiting me: having (an awful) breakfast, then doing speech and leg exercises; walking; doing arm exercises; stretching; having (a passable and more-than-enough) lunch; reading, writing, and translating (a bit of pleasure to cut the boredom); having dinner; and taking my meds and cleaning myself, with Eric’s help. And then, the next morning would come, and I would have to start all over again. So, I asked Eric how he did this every morning. “I wake up,” he answered. His tone said everything.
I thought how he had to go take every step and repeat it over and over, just like me. And I thought how tired and sick of it he must be, just like me: getting up; taking Nathan to school; making my meds and bringing them to me so that I could take them; going (virtually) to work; going shopping to the grocery store and the drug store; cooking things so that I could have lunch the next morning; working again; making dinner when he finished work; after we had dinner with Nathan, making my meds; and helping me clean myself. Then, the next morning would come, and he would have to do things all over again. And the same things would happen on weekends, sans work.
So, I decided that I would suggest to him that in order to avoid feeling worn-out and frustrated, we should help each other. We should think together and remind each other of the same things he’d suggested years ago, and repeated them when dreariness overwhelmed me. Every day one of us showed tiredness; every day one of us felt like quitting; every day routine seemed to get the best out of us, we should mention the three Ps: be patient, be positive, and push. He shouldn’t hide his feelings from me out of a need to protect me. We should take this journey together and pick each other up when we fell.
I thought how he had to go take every step and repeat it over and over, just like me. And I thought how tired and sick of it he must be, just like me: getting up; taking Nathan to school; making my meds and bringing them to me so that I could take them; going (virtually) to work; going shopping to the grocery store and the drug store; cooking things so that I could have lunch the next morning; working again; making dinner when he finished work; after we had dinner with Nathan, making my meds; and helping me clean myself. Then, the next morning would come, and he would have to do things all over again. And the same things would happen on weekends, sans work.
So, I decided that I would suggest to him that in order to avoid feeling worn-out and frustrated, we should help each other. We should think together and remind each other of the same things he’d suggested years ago, and repeated them when dreariness overwhelmed me. Every day one of us showed tiredness; every day one of us felt like quitting; every day routine seemed to get the best out of us, we should mention the three Ps: be patient, be positive, and push. He shouldn’t hide his feelings from me out of a need to protect me. We should take this journey together and pick each other up when we fell.
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