It happened on a Friday evening nine weeks ago. It was not as if the step was unfamiliar to her. Over the past 21 years she had passed up and down its single tread 15,000 times or more going to and from the garage. But on this particular day for just an instant the step, somehow, seemed unfamiliar. Perhaps it was the lighting. At half past eight, the sun was beginning to set and the room was dimly lit. Or perhaps it was the effects of fatigue. She had spent the better part of the afternoon tending to her flower garden, admiring and absorbing the beauty of each blossom – especially those of her beloved dahlias – and gently pruning those that had passed their peak, making room for new buds and blossoms to be admired another day.
We will never know for sure the cause of that fateful misstep; and what would it matter if we did? Knowing would not change the outcome – a hurried trip to the emergency room to learn she had broken her ankle in two places, so badly that a seven inch metal plate with seven screws would have to be permanently affixed to her ankle bone; and this would be followed by two long months of convalescence.
And so began a precious time of bonding between a caregiver (that would be me) and his beloved caregivee (that would be Yvonne.) It truly has been a delightful and enjoyable nine weeks. Not since the early days of our marriage – almost 48 years to the day of Yvonne’s accident – had I served her breakfast in bed, and now I had the privilege and pleasure of doing so every day. Of course, other chores needed to be performed, but none were so burdensome as to be called a chores. Whether it was cooking, laundry, house cleaning, or tending to Yvonne’s personal care needs (my hands-down favorite task) I relished them all.
Striving to be a thoughtful and attentive caregiver was a pleasure, a role I looked forward to with the dawning of each new day. To my delight, the affect on Yvonne’s spirits and wellbeing was almost startling. Despite her pain, never have I seen her so happy – almost giddy (granted, during the first few weeks this may have had more to do with her pain meds than my care.) Each time she rang the bell calling me to her beside for assistance she would have a glowing smile on her face that expressed wordless appreciation for my kindness; and each time I would return her smile affirming my love and desire for her happiness.
The weeks flew by for me, though I’m sure they seemed long to Yvonne. There were several milestones along the way. The first was having sufficient strength to go to the bathroom on her own. A second was being able, with assistance, to transfer from the wheelchair to a comfortable chair on our back porch where she could enjoy a breath of fresh air and hear the birds sing. But the major milestone was getting to step into the shower for the first time after three long weeks. As you can well imagine, having me wheel her to the backyard after dark to hose her down with cold water from the garden hose was not fun.
Finally, at week six the doctor fitted Yvonne with a boot and told her she could slowly begin bearing weight on her foot. It was cumbersome at first but she quickly got the hang of it and was soon hopping around the house with a gimp that reminded me of Marshall Dillon’s sidekick, Chester Proudfoot (yes, Proudfoot really was his last name.) Her progress was so successful we were able to make a long planned trip to Natchez, Mississippi and then to Yvonne’s sister’s home in Florida. At times Yvonne was even able to get around without the boot.
By the time we returned home Yvonne was ready to be emancipated from my care, and when we visited the doctor two days later he signed the official release papers. The next day Yvonne was behind the wheel for the first time in nine weeks. Anticipating her release, she had scheduled an appointment with Pam to have her hair done and then spent the afternoon getting reacquainted with the clerks at all of her favorite stores.
Meanwhile, I was sitting at home pondering this expected but no less traumatic change in my life. I knew I would miss caring for Yvonne and the joys of cooking and cleaning, but my greater concern was the order of our home. During my brief tenure as grand caregiver I had rearranged the house so that everything was in perfect order, especially the kitchen. The cupboards, refrigerator, counter tops, even the utensil drawers were all ideally arranged for maximum efficiency and convenience. The thought of these things being changed was, frankly, disconcerting. After studying on the matter for a few minutes I had an idea. I quickly penned and posted on the refrigerator, “Rules for Keeping Our Home in Perfect Order.” It was not a long list but covered the essentials.
I was standing at the top of the back steps when Yvonne returned from shopping so I didn’t hear her come in. When I did hear her she was standing behind me on the back porch. I turned to see she was wearing her boot. “Hi Honey,” I said. “Why are you wearing the boot?”
Rather nonchalantly she said, “I’m wearing it for reinforcement. I’m going to finish the job I started nine weeks ago, and this time I’m not going to miss.” With that she drew her foot back and gave me a thundering boot with the boot squarely on my rear knocking me down the back steps.
Half dazed I looked up to see Yvonne throwing something toward me. It was a crumpled piece of paper which I opened and began to read, “Rules for Keep…”, but Yvonne interrupted and said, “You can post those rules on the refrigerator door of the camper and spend your time organizing it because that’s where you’re going to be staying for the next week.” Then she turned, went in the house, and closed the door.
Still shaken from my tumble down the steps, I stood and limped toward the camper, thankful that I had not, so far as I could tell, broken an ankle from the fall. “She’s back,” I said out loud (but knowing full well she couldn’t hear me.) With the crumpled paper still in hand, I opened the door of the camper and made my way inside. Then, still speaking out loud but now with a tone of oratory, I exclaimed, “After all I’ve done, at long last now begins the winter of my discontent.”
George Brown is a freelance writer. He lives in Jackson Township with his wife Yvonne.