There are many roles that a person plays over the course of their lives. One that I never envisioned for myself is caretaker … of people that I love. It started about eight years ago when my wife suddenly and unexpectedly started having seizures, as a result of the epilepsy that we never knew she had. Of course unless you grow up wanting and expecting to take care of people as a vocation, you never will anticipate this role sneaking up on you. (since then, my brother and my mother have joined in the need to have some caretaking - my role expands)
Now let me make it abundantly clear, my wife is no wilting violet, hypochondriac, in no way does she ever live a “poor pitiful me” attitude in life. But there have been a number of moments in the last eight years where she is utterly dependent on help to even get dressed or showered or out of bed in the morning. Something neither of us ever could have imagined when we got married over 27 years ago. Something that neither of us would have believed could happen to us. But it did and it does. And now I am going through severe back pain in a chronic ongoing pattern that is both incredibly painful and very worrying, and I need a caretaker!
So we find ourselves at another one of those moments, recent surgeries keeping her immobile, as much as she hates any kind of perceived weakness in herself and as much as she detests having me (or anyone) help her. The result is that I cook by proxy sometimes - another unimaginable role that I can do now with aplomb. Cooking by proxy entails Brenda telling me what to do from whatever prone position she finds herself forced to remain in, while I make jokes and behave badly in the kitchen. Thus it takes two of us to make a simple cobbler, one that a small child could have done. But we did it together … in roles that we could not have imagined just a short while ago … and we had some good laughs along the way. Perhaps these role changes are not as bad as they seem? Perhaps this is the way to really grow and develop, by being forced to do so? Hmmmmm . . .
