The other night, I lost it with Trey.
Not completely, but enough that afterward, the silence between us was heavy. It wasn’t really him I was angry at, not fully. It was everything else. The pain in my leg. The fog in my brain from the constant pain. That feeling of helplessness. But that is not what I focused on. It was the way the mess around me keeps growing while I’m stuck here, sidelined. The things I’ve asked him to do, like take the trash out, empty the fridge of old leftovers, bring tables inside, but all these things still sat undone after many days.
He works full-time and goes to school, I know that. But my mind can’t help asking, Why can’t he do it all? I did. I worked, wifed, parented, handled all of Trey’s school activities, and after-school activities. I took care of Tom through ALS, managed his at-home needs, VA care, non-VA care, showed up for everyone, all without letting the big things drop. That impossible standard I lived under has a nasty way of turning into expectations for others. Expectations that after the caregiving years, I am not sure I could live up to now.
The truth is, I’m angry because my ability to “get things done” has come to a grinding halt. I feel useless. Helpless. Like a burden. And that’s when it hit me. This must be what Tom felt. I thought I understood it when I was his caregiver, but I only ever skimmed the surface. Living it is different and this is temporary.
The other night was dark. I wasn’t myself or maybe I was the version of me I try to keep buried, the one who cracks under pressure. I yelled. I cried. And then, I apologized. Because I didn’t like who I became in that moment. I may even have talked to Grant that night and just said quietly, “I think I just need a hug.”
Today is better. The pain has eased a little, my head feels clearer, and I can see a sliver of light through the fog. I still can’t bear any weight on my leg, and while the tenderness is still there, it is tolerable now. I actually got out of the house today for a little bit, and about 30 minutes on my scooter, I was reminded again of the pain. I can also tell you I am maneuvering around the house more on my knee scooter. I do have to do 20-point turns to turn around, but small victories, right?! I can now see the acute phase of this injury may be over as there has not been any new bruising for a day or so and the truly healing part has started.
I still don’t know why this happened. There’s no poetic exchange. I mean, I can’t even say, I tore my calf muscle, but Lou survived.
But maybe this moment was never about the injury. Maybe it’s about what it’s teaching me. To slow down, to ask for help without guilt, to stop tying my worth to how much I can get done, and to show my son that sometimes our emotions run the show… and that owning it and apologizing isn’t weakness at all. It’s strength. The real kind.
I’m learning that I’m not as alone as my mind sometimes insists I am. That love can show up quietly in the son who forgives, the boyfriend who steadies, the friends who check in and help me.
Maybe this isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s preparation. A reminder from God that sometimes the strongest thing you can do… is let go.