Déjà vu—the shoe on the other foot

Sometimes what goes around comes around

It’s not always about politics, though that is never far from my mind. I’ve been thinking how—if we are fortunate—life gives us the opportunity to repay our debts. Not our financial debts, but our debts to those who have given us their love and time and assistance. That’s what has been on my mind this week.

Three and a half years ago I was scheduled for back surgery, a fusion with rods and screws. Not something I was looking forward to, but I had chosen it instead of the continually deteriorating and painful inability to walk more than a few steps, the nights when I could not sleep without pain. It would be my third back surgery in 15 years and I insisted to the surgeon that it was going to be my last.

So on July 1, 2021 I was prepped and waiting for surgery, washed, shaved, hairnet, hooked up to various monitors. But the heart monitor kept emitting an ominous beep beep. My heart rate would not go above 40 bpm, which is what would shut the machine up. The anesthesiologist came in to introduce herself, looked at my heart rate and shook her head. No, she said, I won’t do this.

Later that day I had surgery to install a pacemaker that would keep my heartrate above 50. I went home and waited a month to get back on the surgery schedule.

For weeks, months, my partner Jan had been dealing with my inability to do much around the house, in the yard. I could still cook our dinners, but that was about it. The back surgery, when it came, was a long procedure and a painful recovery. I went into a rehab for a week and Jan came every day, bringing me clothes, a travel mug of decent coffee, while I learned to walk again. At home, all of daily life fell on her.

But I was getting stronger, was more able to walk using my hiking poles for balance. This is going to work, I told myself. Until it didn’t. My left hip began to scream whenever I walked or stood for long. On my birthday in November I had a hip replacement and was again totally dependent on Jan. I slept in a recliner for 3 nights because I couldn’t lift my leg up to the bed. To go to the bathroom at night, she had to get up and help me out of the chair to use the walker to get the few feet to the toilet.

By the time I was able to walk and help with daily living, it was January. For six months, Jan did it all and then some.

Our normal daily life is shared. We both do some things, like walk the dog, but our comfort zone is divided tasks. I love to cook. Jan doesn’t. She is happy to take care of dishwashing and laundry. I love opening my dresser drawer to find my clean clothes neatly folded and put away. We divide our animals chores—Jan takes care of what they eat, I take care of cleaning the kitty pans and the yard where the dog poops. And if there is anything disgusting to be cleaned up (like animal barf), I’m in charge. How did we come to this separation of tasks? I don’t even remember, but we’ve been doing it this way for 30+ years and it works for us. Usually.

Last week, she had hand surgery. Four years ago she had the same surgery on her left hand, but this time it was her right hand, her dominant hand. She knew that surgery was a cure, because she’d been there before. And she needed to be able to do simple things, like brush her teeth, but more importantly, hold a paint brush.

We knew was going to be painful. The first one was. When the total nerve block of her arm wore off, the pain was excruciating and continual. Pain meds helped some, but never enough.

Her right hand is wrapped in a huge bandage with only the tips of her fingers showing. Most of her shirts won’t fit over it. But she tucked in under a warm blanket on the couch.

My job? Everything. Buttoning or zipping whatever needs closing, administering nighttime eye drops, cooking, dishes, sweeping, feeding cats and dog (and remembering to keep their water bowls filled) and all of the daily things we would usually split. How did I do? Well, I needed an in-service when it was time to run a laundry. I had to learn how to put out our vitamins each morning. I have never bothered to learn what I need to take, morning and night. I do know how to run the dishwasher, But the gift of sharing daily tasks is that we don’t have to know everything or remember everything. And sometimes it seems like magic when I find clean clothes in my drawer or she finds dinner appearing every night.

Today I am amazed that Jan copes so well and what she can do with her left hand—brush teeth, eat with a fork or spoon, put on her pants and socks and shoes (yes, the step-in kind!), plug in and unplug her phone and iPad, hold a book and turn the pages. I have never had to think about how to cope without both hands. And especially without the hand I use for almost everything.

Her pain is better on this 6^th day, but not gone. When the swelling goes down in another week, the bandage will come off and she’ll get a cast for a month.

So I expect that I will only get six weeks or so to repay Jan for that six months of care. Even that is a gift. A gift for me. Life has given me a chance to put the shoe on the other foot.