I am sincerely not a very good wife. I'm hindsight this isn't incredibly shocking, because I was a mother first and truthfully, I'm not exceptionally very good at that, either. The fault lies not with these beautiful men - one of them 33 and a perpetual child and the other 7 and a half and usually much too big for his britches - but entirely with me. If you asked me to describe myself in three words, I would give you two that are quite positive; loving and tenacious. Anyone who has ever been a wife or a mother will tell you that those two characteristics will take you far. However, like the character who requires a fatal flaw, my third word would be selfish. Even my love, at times, is selfish. I expect to be the priority. I expect constant attention. I expect that my word be law above all others. And when it is not, I am exceedingly good at making people feel very bad about it. I'm not proud of this, it simply happens to be the truth, and I am a realist. While I have learned, in over 7 years with a handicapped child, to be a pretty good mother, I haven't had that kind of time yet in which to learn how to be a pretty good wife. I apologize for this a lot. That doesn't make it okay, and though I could sit here and lament about how my bipolar disorder and anxiety should give me an excuse, I won't. I'm claiming the truth as my own, because the truth will set you free.
On top of my dubious mental health, I also have physical limitations. My immune system is weak, and I have one lung. Respiratory illnesses are not a simple thing for me. So I am literally terrified of things like a stupid cold, which right now my poor Pet is laid up with. I have not touched him for two days. I have excommunicated him to the bedroom, and yelled at him every time he so much as gets up to take his dishes to the sink. I see how I'm hurting him. A good wife would put thoughts of herself aside, dote, nurture. If he had a stomach bug, I'd be right there, cleaning up puke and telling stupid jokes. If he had freaking EBOLA, I would shun a HAZMAT suit to cuddle with him. But he is congested and his throat hurts and I can hear his voice going and being in the same room with him incites panic in me. When he talks, I hear monitors and feel the cold tubes delivering oxygen to my useless, weak lung. When he clears his throat or has a little cough, my chest is heavy and I can feel the IV in my hand, I can smell the sterile hospital room and feel all those strangers poking and proding me with their needles and their stethoscopes and see the frown lines on the respiratory therapist's face. I don't see him, I see germs and fear and terror and years of isolation and ICUs.
And I hear myself begging him to understand, but he can't. He's never been there when a stupid cold turned into double pneumonia or they've had to drain fluid from my lungs or I've been on oxygen for weeks like a little old lady, and I'm thankful for the diligence I keep so that he hasn't had to experience that fear. So if he has to be mad at me and only see how selfish I am, then that's okay. Because I'm learning how to be a pretty good wife. And if he has to be angry and hurt to be spared that, then I will take it. And if I get a cold because he insists on touching clean dishes to put them away, I will tie him to the wall and beat his cute little ass until he begs me to stop, and then some.
No comments:
Post a Comment