A few days ago I wiped out on the walkway in front of our house. The doctor says “bad sprain.” The doctor says “stay off that foot for at least a week.”
Carol says, well, mostly things that shouldn’t be spelled out here.
Himself is to be commended for all he has done. Our usual divide-and-conquer chores have fallen squarely on his shoulders, feeding us both, cleaning the house and kitchen (and cat litter). Doing laundry. Shopping. Feeding cats and catering to their demands. And most of all, catering to mine. Is anyone actually a good patient? A patient patient? Certainly not moi.
It’s amazing how much you take for granted in your everyday life, doing this and that with nary a thought. But once you’re hobbled, even temporarily, suddenly the tiniest thing that needs doing needs someone else doing it for you.
He bought us a whole roasted chicken, and we laid siege to it while it was warm and then picked the rest off the bones for cutting up for future meals to put on salad, on nachos, on whatever. Nothing that requires too much prep. The bones are in the freezer for stock making when I’m back on my feet.
Was that the best roast chicken ever? No. But it was pretty good, and it was there when we needed it. And that’s enough.
To stand on one foot and lean against the counter while cutting vegetables would be dangerously stupid. Hopping across the kitchen on one foot with that knife in hand to wash it would be even more dangerously stupid.
No running with scissors, and no hopping with knives. No matter how self sufficient we are—or think we are—there are times when we need to let someone else help us out.
Thanks Andy, for all your help, and more importantly, for ignoring my crutchy crankiness. You’re a champ!
I love you!