“I wish I could fix you,” is my husband’s frequent lament. The ache in his heart is palpable. There’s nothing nonchalant about his fervent wish or desire to heal me, end my pain. He extends his hand and his heart fully.
I wish it, too.
Sometimes I remain silent rather than amp his concern for my aches and pains. If the multiple physicians I’ve seen can’t diagnose and fix the myoclonus that plagues my daily living, why should he be able to? But logic doesn’t rule his head – his heart filled with love does.
Sometimes I say “I’m fine” to his quizzical look though I inwardly wince as I raise or lower myself from a chair.
Perhaps I’ll convince my body to cooperate with that sentiment. Perhaps I’ll convince myself and/or convince him. Perhaps our combined thoughts, prayers, and wishes will convince the magic of the universe to intervene.
Do you say, “I’m fine,” when people ask, “How are you?” when in public?
I don’t. Not since the pandemic and our lengthy period of nationwide quarantine. Since that over-arching episode, my response has been, “As well as can be expected.”
Midwesterners have this problem. Midwesterners are, perhaps, the most compliant people on Earth, trusting to the point of accepting insult with a smile. Self-advocacy was not taught in public schools when I was a child of the ’50s.
Nor was it modeled by my humble, self-effacing parents.
We were taught to be grateful for what we had. After all, children in China were starving, so eat those carrots and peas. Further, those children likely sleep on the floor or straw-filled mattresses, so just go the f*ck to sleep. You’re fine.
Enjoy this tune while you contemplate, Constant Reader: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4V3Mo61fJM
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