As you may or may not surmise, when I reached day 7 of my Lyme Treatment Protocol, I failed to reach vertical status. It took approximately 4 days to wade through the intense fatigue, air hunger and body scream to where I could handle being up and around for about 20 minutes at a time. The next day saw another victory for the horizontal plane. I was delighted to cycle through this several more times.
I rejoiced in the sheer visceral proof of the death of the spirochete. I imagined a bloody battle inside my very being in which thousands of ugly, hairy germs (conjure the mucinex comercial) were screaming in agony and dying excruciating, well-deserved deaths. My spirits rose. I couldn't wait to be well enough to sit at my computer and share this with the world as I'm sure the image of me lying on the couch and panting with rosy cheeks is just awesomely heroic and inspiring. The only thing completely puzzling to me was my husband's complete and utter withdrawal, his short, clipped responses to me. I didn't understand his unwillingness to help me out with even a drink of water while the chores piled up and the children fended for themselves.
It's not that I was unfamiliar with this type of behavior. This has been his standard response throughout our marriage when he couldn't deal with his anger toward me for being a "crazy hypochondriac." It's just that I thought a diagnosis meant he could, you know, love me again. It is ever my habit to fear the worst in the absence of affection. I am a bit like a puppy dog in this respect.
[Before I go any further with this, be reassured that he and I are on the other side of this now. I recently told a friend of mine that for the first time in about 10 years, my husband and I are getting along. *insert happy tail wag dance*]
Anyway, there I was, watching him move farther away and waiting for him to let me have it. Patiently waiting for the outpouring of stress and vehemence that is reserved only for the safe target centered on the foreheads of the ones we love most. And while it's not really a secret that I married my husband because I am a sucker for kind hazel eyes and broad shoulders, it's worth noting that my shoulders are pretty sturdy as well.
One of the things I had to accept early on, was that I could not physically make myself be the normal wife he needed and expected when he married me, that I had expected to be when we married. I have not been a good partner to him in the most mundane ways. My attempts to get out of the house and earn a little money generally end up increasing our financial burden. I get sicker and go to the doctor more. I can't follow through and initial investments don't yield return. His stress level climbs, and his burden as the provider for our family is uneased and even increased by my need for good insurance and assistance with running the house coupled with the increasing knowlege that his deepening fatigue might be more than simply the stress of an incapacitated wife.
Add to this recipe a man who is generally reserved, was taught to take responsibility for his family and takes pride in self-sufficiency and you begin to see why he just can't handle talking to me. It is impossible to unleash that kind of frustration without it whipping wildly about the room. But since I am wise enough to know there is no way around it, I provoke him until he makes me cry. He feels better. I feel worse, but like I said, my shoulders are pretty sturdy, and I accepted this quite a few years ago. My husband, on the other hand, has to accept it now.
It took several days of me being horizontal and asking him what was wrong. "Nothing." Several days of him refusing to take me to the grocery store. "I thought you said you were going later." (I called my mom at 8 o'clock one night because we were out of diapers. He would not budge and my mother who lives 20 minutes away came over to put the youngest to bed.) He finally drove me to the store when we were out of milk, bread and everything else. I was able to walk through the store at first, but still in denial, he asked me to get the sugar we had forgotten from another aisle. I did it, but that was it. I had to go to the car. He finally cracked on the way home.
After it was all finished, the sentences that came out of his mouth were actually pretty funny. These types of sentences usually are after the fact. At the moment they are spoken, because everyone involved is so vulnerable and desperate for intimacy, these sentences cut to the quick. They only ever have a fraction of the truth in them. A moment of belief and reaction before reality catches up to the person holding on for dear life. But, they're sort of like ripping off a band aid. It stings really bright for a minute, but it can only really be skin deep. The deep truth underneath is always that you love the heck out of them and you just want them to love you back. You were just afraid they didn't. Or couldn't. Or wouldn't. The truth is usually that you were just afraid.
Survey: Did you ever mess up a relationship because you mistook a flesh wound for indifference?
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