Failing
I cannot honor my promises
I am failing my love.
Not on purpose. But no matter the angle from which I view myself right now, I am demonstrably failing Kim. And I have been for several weeks.
I rely on the kindness of friends and family to visit her, because I have lamed myself. I cannot drive. And I cannot walk without crutches, so I need someone to push me in a wheelchair when I visit. And I cannot sit comfortably for more than thirty to forty minutes at a time (which includes drive time), so my visits to Kim last only about fifteen to twenty minutes.
And so Kim faces her future in a sterile hospital bed surrounded by an incredibly loving and enthusiastic family and her own indomitable will.
But not me.
I’m sure she feels doubts. I know she is confused and sad at times. Times she would love to have the support of her partner. The man who kissed her forehead through his paper mask every night when he left her during the first couple weeks of ICU. The one who then swore that he would always be there for her.
Except now he isn’t.
That first week following her stroke I spent twelve-hour days sitting in soft hospital furniture, hips below my knees, right knee always crossed over left. In retrospect, it isn’t the least bit surprising that I developed a short, tight hip flexor on my left side. It hurt to stand, it hurt to walk, but what could I do? I had obligations. And did I take any self-care measures at that point? Stretching? Icing? Rolling?
I took ibuprofen.
Kim was hospitalized. Her kids were sharing the house with me. There were so many more important matters that required attention. And I was fit (though seemingly less so than I thought), so I could push through this minor annoyance and handle it later.
Spoiler alert: that choice proved unwise.
Soon my adductors and my glutes and my iliotibial band joined in the complaints, and the hamstring and abductors weren’t far behind. It was getting harder to walk at all, impossible to do so without limping noticeably.
But I still needed to get my steps in, right? I needed to salvage whatever vestige of fitness remained after two weeks of responsible vigil. I needed some way to diffuse the tremendous stress I felt with Kim’s stroke, but there was never enough time outside of the twelve hours of hospital visiting hours to complete everything, let alone de-stress, so walking was something I could incorporate into my day. The right side was fine, so the left hip could wait until my life and its new routines clarified a bit more.
Except that it couldn’t. The body cashed my check and decided to charge usurious interest as well.
A 2am call to my brother, and he and my nephew carried me out of Kim’s house and into the ER. My left hip was on fire. Several muscle groups spasmed, sometimes together, usually serially. Relief was elusive, limited, and short-lived. The doctor seemed mystified, but sent me out with crutches and instructions to max out over-the-counter ibuprofen and acetaminophen and a prescription for a mild sedative that provided not even a speed bump to the pain inflicted by involuntary contractions by my now-rogue muscles.
That was three weeks and a few days ago. After three days of agony I enlisted my chiropractor and set a physical-therapy appointment for the soonest I could get in, which was more than two weeks away. The PT appointment was underwhelming; it seems three weeks of not bearing weight atrophies muscles, which just makes rehabbing them harder. Chiro has been punishing, but it’s helped heal the less-damaged areas and isolate the worst.
And to sleep. The pain from the spasms was so constant that I could manage at best three hours of scattered rest in a day. And forget restorative sleep, which is exactly what I need most.
I’m still using crutches to move around. I sleep better but not great, and I can do most of the basic tasks of running a house, even though it might take me five times as long to feed the dogs or get dishes into the dishwasher. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of time, and maybe that experience will help me patiently support Kim when she gets back to the house, but it is faint consolation.
The fact is that I’m not with Kim as I promised her. When she needs me to be with her. I will heal, hopefully soon. And I will still be her devoted partner, beside her through what comes next and next and next after that. I will atone, redeem my love and my commitment to her, for the rest of our lives together.
But I’m not with Kim now. And I will never be able to reverse that failure. Its taste is bitter, but it is true. I trust she’ll forgive me my frailty, but if not, well, I have earned that judgment.
And some how and some way I will make peace with it.
Eventually.
