A couple of nights ago I had a meltdown. We were having takeout and I started to think of something Andrew had done earlier that evening that had really bothered me, and we talked about it, and before I knew it I was crying. Crying for the first time since the day where I was admitted to the hospital and they had to lift me from one bed to another, which hurt indescribably a lot. I honestly don’t think I have cried since. But that night, I sat there in my wheelchair across the table from Andrew and wept into my nachos; feeling like everything was just going to shit – including our relationship.
After dinner we went our separate ways; he went into the office, and I went back to my bed. I was still feeling incredibly emotional, but my feelings had gone from feeling hurt to feeling an extreme guilt that I had ruined our dinner; our nice, expensive takeaway dinner, which was supposed to be special and romantic, and instead turned out to be a complete disaster.
But by reacting to whatever it was that Andrew had said or done, which I of course don’t remember now, it was like I had opened up something inside of me that I’ve been putting a lid on ever since that day I went to the hospital. My emotions were all over the place, and I felt an enormous sense of tenderness and affection towards Andrew, who I felt like puts up with too much shit from me. The few times we have ventured out together with my wheelchair I have managed to create several miserable situations, for purely selfish reasons. I find it hard to deal with this. I find it hard to sit in the chair and be pushed around. I miss walking around and touching things, choosing where my feet should tread next. Andrew does an amazing job helping me, and I wish everyone could have someone like him in his or her life, because he steps up, you know? He’s there, and he loves you unconditionally. And that means something, especially in this day and age, where so many are so wrapped up in themselves and their own needs that they don’t want to sacrifice anything for anyone else. You never know when shit is going to hit the fan, and then it’s important to have someone, who will help you clean it up – or perhaps even offer to do it, if you are unable to. You are welcome for that image, by the way. Someone who doesn’t cry because his girlfriend’s broken pelvis got in the way of him having a great vacation, and all of the fun and games have been replaced by taking me to the bathroom and helping me get dressed.
My family often mentions how exhausting it must be for Andrew to be my aid 24/7. It is a tough job; sometimes it’s even a thankless job, because the person being helped is so wrapped up in his or her own misery that they forget to show gratitude. That would be me, sometimes. You see, I tell him with words how grateful I am all the time. At least once a day I thank him for being such big help to me, for taking care of me. But I don’t always show it. I don’t show it when I break down in a shopping mall because I can’t look at the things I want to look at and I feel like he is walking too fast, and the wheel-chair hurts. I don’t show it when I yell, “BUMP!”, when we are walking down the street (FYI, Copenhagen is not very handicap-friendly). I could give you many other examples of times where I have been shitty, but I won’t, because I am too embarrassed. I wish I could handle this thing more gracefully – that I could find it in me to always be hopeful and full of energy, to not let this situation break my spirit. But I have to be honest with you: I am at the end of my rope, and I am holding on with tooth and nails.
I know I am not myself right now. It reminds me a bit of the summer where I broke my hip, except I am not in shock. At least I don’t think I am. I feel like I see everything very clearly, despite my morphine haze and frustration. Andrew is going to London on Friday and will stay there until Wednesday next week due to a work-opportunity and also to see a friend whom he has known as long as he has known me. I was supposed to have gone with him; we had even bought me a ticket. It would have been our first vacation together. Our first time exploring a country together that was foreign to the both of us. I felt so grown-up when we ordered those tickets, like, woah, we truly are adults now, traveling together like this. When I ordered the tickets, I didn’t get a cancellation insurance for either of us, which I think says something about the mindset I was currently in. Despite knowing that I am always in a high risk of breaking something, I was feeling so great at the time that I didn’t even imagine anything could go wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking. I always get a cancellation insurance. If there is anyone, who needs a cancellation insurance, it’s me. Luckily we were able to get the money back anyway (thanks to American Express), but it’s still one of those what the fuck things where I can’t understand what I was thinking. Like the time I chose to drink from a glass that I knew was chipped and cracked and didn’t notice the piece of glass at the bottom. If my sister hadn’t seen it, I don’t know what would have happened. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, and it scared the hell out of me. The fact that I could make such bad decisions, especially decisions that would have consequences of that kind of magnitude… it scared me.
I was also supposed to have gone on a cruise with my whole family. The occasion was my grandparents’ golden anniversary, and because I have the most amazing grandparents in the world, they had arranged for us all to go on a cruise around France, Spain and Italy together. A Golden Anniversary means 50 years of marriage. I just looked it up and my parents made it to Crystal before they divorced — that’s 15 years. I wonder if they knew that. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to most people, it’s just me who is suddenly interested. Andrew and I just celebrated our Tin Anniversary, except we are not married yet, and it kind of kills me to know that the timespan will be reset when we say “I do”. Tin is 10 years, and we celebrated it a sushi restaurant, where I managed to drop my full glass of coca cola zero as I was putting it down, and consequently soaked up Andrew’s pants. Happy 10 years, honey — hope you don’t mind it sticky. But back to the cruise. I was supposed to have gone, but about ten days or so before we were leaving, I decided that I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t well enough, and I didn’t want to be a burden to everyone else, who would have to push me around. I also felt it was wiser to be close to a hospital, just in case something happened. It was the right decision, but it hurt nonetheless. To me that is often the case with these so called “right decisions” — they hurt like hell. (Don’t worry, I had bought a cancellation insurance).
I don’t expect anyone to read all of this, I just think this is what a blog is for.