Much Ado About A Fork

I forgot to pack a fork in my husband’s lunch bag this morning.

“What’s the big deal?” you might ask.
“So he buys a sandwich,” you might scoff.
“You packed a lunch for your husband?” you might gasp.

And in any other sane, reasonable world, I would wholeheartedly agree, and then some.

But for someone who comes home with permanent bruises from hobbling about on crutches all day, not having a fork is a very big deal. Even being able to warm something up in the microwave on his own is a huge, and recent, step forward.

He can’t just go down to the cafeteria. It’s too far a walk.
Even if he could, he can’t carry anything from a shelf to the cash, because he needs both hands to maneouvre.
He could slip a plastic fork into his pocket and bring it back upstairs, to begin the process of heating his frozen lunch, but by the time he manages this 30-minute-minimum roundtrip, he’ll be nauseous from exhaustion.
So, he’ll ask someone to kindly make the trip for him, and sit and stew in a morose mix of guilt and shame while he waits.

All for want of me forgetting this morning, after being asked – and even having a memorable discussion of washable vs. disposable forks and the difficulties therein of washing – to put a fork in his lunchbag.

Yesterday, Dearest had a hot shower for the first time in over 3 months. It turns out that it’s pretty tough to get into a bathtub when you can’t put any weight on one of two legs, and your tub’s too deep to put a chair or any other assisting device into. So, it’s been 98 days of spongebaths. We’ve now reached the 75% weightbearing stage, and so Dearest thought he’d try. There was some terror involved in slipping bathmats and crutches in a confined and densely tiled and wet space, but, he did it! I did a jig, I’ll admit. Over a shower.

We also went out on our first date in over 4 months this past weekend. Whoever would have thought such a mundane activity as a movie with your spouse would be so intensely exciting? Who would have thought I’d be doing about three times as much as when I had a newborn, on about the same amount of sleep? Who would have thought I’d be fighting depression off with my bare hands amidst, and because of, it all?

I’m not trying to be a superwoman. I’m not aiming for perfection. I’m just trying to not lose my job, not drop out of school half a semester away from graduating with the first graduate degree in my family’s history, not cause any further harm to my weekend warrior husband, and raise a very bright, active, challenging and delightful boy. I’m not trying to succeed at anything – I’m just trying, desperately, not to fail at everything.

There are a lot of cracks in my varnish, some fine and beautifully indicating well-earned wear. Some, not so fine. Some, wide enough for a fork to slip through.


2 comments so far

  1. Lynn on

    Rough day…hope tomorrow is better. But if it is any consolation…I loved your writing here. So beautiful and evocative.

  2. Kathleen on

    Lordy. Its the little things that will get us, indeed.
    Like your closing.

    Remember to breathe.

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