My heart aches for my dear hubby. His neurological pain has gripped his soul and is stifling the man I married. His speed and strength have diminished at a wicked rate. Medications have only increased his fatigue and further dwindled his self-esteem. Sometimes, he tries so hard to complete a task, yet he has not learned any moderation. He gets engrossed and keeps going, which sounds lovely if it would stop there. The crash comes when he can no longer physically stand. I’m speaking for him for he has already fallen asleep, but it seems shame, disappointment and regret are all spun together and wrapped with a thick coat of anger.
I love this man and don’t want my words or actions to indicate otherwise. I make the jokes and complaints of most American wives while I cringe inside at his pain. I can relate to the chronic pain that constantly attacks the mind and body, but Bob has consistently had more rage burning inside. He works to keep this killing emotion to only embers glowing brightly to just a select few. Their strength is growing, and I know not what to do.
Being upbeat and positive is hard, particularly when my own body is screaming internally. The added humor is not healing to him for he often prefers his own silent corner of the universe. His glimpses out are decreasing. He doesn’t want others to view inside. I worry at our physically disabled state and don’t know what to do that could help. If others know the key to ease his pain, I pray that I could also be enlightened.
I have my blog and love of language to help me ease over those rocky days. My husband tries but many times is too engrossed in his own hurdles to help me climb over my own. My daughter can discover my pain and encourage my progress, but I don’t want my aches to always darken her days. Then I have my grandsons! Need I say more? Those boys keep me moving if for nothing better than a new YouTube video, art gallery in the mail, Skype session or special stories of their latest antics.
This week, wonderful workers have diligently toiled to rid our home of any remnants of our recent fire. Their professional effort is stellar. Yet a burden still exists while your home is filled with strangers coming to your aid. There are always questions and forms, signatures and decisions. I’m pleased to find our basement finally being cleaned, but it is at a much faster pace than Bob or I have seen in a long time. We still are saying goodbye to furniture that held many memories. Toys and clothes are discarded or donated. I’m glad to help others, but I admit some twinges when Stephanie’s first bike is hauled away or a case of Barbie’s is thrown in a dumpster. They belonged to a daughter whom I will always cherish and to a time I relish. You see, when that bike was ridden, Bob could run along beside it. I could sit on the floor and play Barbie’s forever. My daughter has grown to become a woman who now inspires me. She is at a new place in her life where I am blessed to visit. Not being closer in distance is a bother, but being a shadow of whom I was is a pain that melts my spirit, further darkening our setting. Bob isn’t ready or willing to even come out of those shadows.
Others run for cover to avoid seeing a friend when they appear in old clothes and no make-up. They cringe when spotted when not appearing at their own level of being presentable. For others to see them dirty and disheveled while buying a burger and fries is devastating enough to have them smothered in embarrassment for 78 years. I could go on and on with humorous anecdotes, many of which have happened to me, but I think you have grasped the basic mood.
We’re different. (Stop snickering. Let me explain.) Bob and I hide in the shadows for we don’t want others to determine what we have become. I’ll admit it. I’m fat! I rise slowly. I walk as a drunkard when vertigo strikes. My eyes scrunch together when noises tilt my headache past migraine. Basically, I’m a fat, drunken turtle with a bad headache. See, I can laugh over my health. Others worry that I hide behind the humor constantly making myself the brunt of the jokes, but sometimes that is easier, for then I can slowly stand and move at my speed without attracting the same attention. The jokes will lesson when I am ready to let others glimpse at the person I have become.
I explain this for Bob doesn’t have that same humor or love of language as I. His blog would always be short. (Maybe I should try that technique sometime.) His focus remains rooted in the pain and the inner shame that agony rips into view. He stays hidden away, angry that he has changed. He’s in pain, the chronic type for his muscles, mind and soul. Please God. Help show my Bobby that life really is good!
One Way God Uses Chronic Pain to Prove Life is Good:
- You have to admit that it makes great jokes. Come on, a fat turtle with a hangover!
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