Pressure as exerted by particle collisions inside a closed container.
It's 9pm. Pete cut his ankle. We're not sure where or how. But he asked if I could come investigate when he noticed blood on the kitchen floor. He scraped off a chunk of flesh from his right ankle. His sock was saturated with blood. “You didn't feel this?” I asked. “No,” he said.
I've been concerned about his feet since he's been in a wheelchair. They're often puffy, filled with fluid... and a bluish color. That can't be good.
His right leg is weaker than his left, although both legs at this point are weak. He's lost a lot of dexterity in his fingers too. And while I'm listing things – his balance and core muscles have taken a hit this last year.
Help. Yesterday's help was about cleaning up blood from an ankle. And then cleaning it up from the rug. And then cleaning it again from the ankle because it wouldn't stop bleeding. And then cleaning the rug again. Cleaning the leg rests on the wheelchair – ew. Yes, ew. Gross.
But the thing that got me was having to clean the ankle again. He can do this. Once we found where the wound was, he could take care of it. He can left his leg, he can clean it. He can elevate it. He can take care of himself. I'm fine scrubbing the rug. I get that he's not going to be able to get on his hands and knees and scrub a rug. But taking care of his own ankle. Yes, he could. And yet he relied on me or I enabled him to rely on me for 30 minutes before I came to my senses.
Wait a minute... you can do this. Why am I doing this? Why am I helping? Why do you need my help for this?
There I stood in the middle of our gigantic handicap accessible bathroom sticking up for myself and my time and my energy. Like an attorney, I argued on behalf of the spouse who is being taken over by the caregiver. “Which do you want?” I asked, “A spouse or caregiver.”
Both. The answer is both.
Now it's 5:44 in the morning. I hear the beep of his electric wheelchair come on, “budup.” First I hear him grunt a tiny grunt as he swings his legs out of bed, hoping that the momentum will position him upright. Then I hear another grunt or two as he transfers from bed to chair. Then, “budup” and he's off. The wheels of the chair on the rug sound like Gumby. Remember Gumby? “Shoop, shoop” only this is more like a constant, “shooooo... until he stops, oop.”
I'll wait without worry for about five minutes. Then I'll wonder why I don't hear anything. I'll give it another five and then if still there is no sound, I will say, “You ok?” Usually that is followed by “Yup.” Usually means 90% of the time. But 10% - yes, it's only 10% - but my Lord, it's 10% of the time, the answer is, “No, I could use some help.”
The wound was open. Clean the wound. Clean the floor. Neosporin. Bandaids.
This time there were no questions about whether he wanted a caregiver or a spouse. The answer is both. I am a spouse/caregiver. The hardest task is both balancing those roles and parsing which is which.
When Pete cut his ankle, it was 9pm. We had a finished a full week of work and play together. A big party, an early morning with our granddaughter, a movie and a meeting with a builder. He's exhausted. It's possible that I am too.
When he needed help again at 5:44, I helped because he's bleeding and tired and dripping blood on our floors! I step in because he needs to get back to bed so that he can get up for church tomorrow . That's where our friends are, where his support system is. It is the place where everyone knows his name. It's where others receive his love and return in kind. Some weeks when he misses church, I am the only human contact he has.
It's 8:30am the next day and he's too tired to go to church.
What is this blog about?
These are some of the reflections that I am fashioning into a memoir about coming to peace with my husband's diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.