Since I was in and out of the doctors offices and the ER all last week and the fact that I can’t pull up my own panties, our home has gone to hell. We have dog hair tumbleweeds lining our hallways and by the looks of our desecrated thunder bucket in the bathroom, I am beginning to wonder if both my kid and husband needs glasses to perfect their peeing aim.
There is hockey and baseball equipment scattered all over and every time I open my fridge I’m punched with an ungodly smell. I almost picture myself as Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbuster’s and I fear that one time I’ll open it and the ghoul Zule will pop out.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
So I decided to start where I left off.
The laundry – the very thing that almost killed me.
I sorted them and all I needed was some muscle power to pick up the clothes and move them. Chunky put the first load in the washer for me and then I asked Shawn to move the wet clothes into the dryer. That’s all I wanted Shawn to do. His only job. Take the wet clothes from the washer and put them in the dryer.
Take the wet clothes and put them in the dryer Shawn.
The wet clothes go in the dryer.
Open the lid of the washing machine and take the wet clothes out and then put them in the dryer.
Washer to dryer.
What the f*ck happened Shawn?
I love how he just stuffed the screwdrivers in there.
Like here, fix yourself dryer.
When he asked me where we kept the superglue, I could almost smell the bad idea and bad ideas smell a lot like burning superglue in a dryer.
He’s a man who sees something broken and needs to fix it. He will try to MacGyver just about anything back to life. You should see our lawn mower that’s held together by duct tape, my son’s mini-hockey sticks that have snapped in 7 different places, and I don’t even want to know how he got my car to stop leaking but he’s always successful at fixing things.
And then there is me – seemingly fractured physically, mentally, and emotionally.
He knows that what causes me to stand in front of my kitchen cupboard panicking for over 3o minutes as I pull the contents out and rearrange them over and over because my antipsychotic pill boxes (ironically) won’t stack up neatly isn’t because of me – it’s because of an invisible illness.
He knows that what causes me to retreat to bed early to lay on an ice pack and what causes me to cry because he has to put on my underwear isn’t because of me – it’s because of an invisible illness.
Just like the flu, he can’t fix bipolar disorder and he can’t fix chronic pain but he tries so incredibly hard to do what he can.
It’s wearing him out and I can tell.
I can see it in his eyes, the way he carries his shoulders, how his feet hit the floor.
I can feel it in hurried kisses and embraces that once confidently answered my question “Is everything going to be ok?” They almost feel like they’re unsure now.
I can hear it during those sleepless nights – his light breath, wrestling with the pillows, peeking at the clock.
He feels helpless and frustrated and stressed. I know he does.
I just wished that he knew that he really only has one job and he’s doing it right.
Loving me unconditionally.
I hate what my illnesses are doing to him.
To all of us.