“Six to nine months of physical therapy,” they said. “You’ll need a lot of help at first. Transfers. Bathing. Getting around. No weight-bearing on your own for a while.”
I hated hearing that.
I’ve always been self-sufficient. I was the one who helped others, not the one who needed help. Still, part of me hoped this experience might bring us closer. When my father was injured when I was young, my mother cared for him for months without resentment. They joked. They were gentle. That’s what love looked like to me.
So when I came home for the first time in my wheelchair, I told myself, “This is our hard chapter. We’ll get through it together.”
That first week, my husband felt distant.
Quiet. Short-tempered. I told myself he was just stressed. He helped me eat, shower, then disappeared into his office or left the house.
About a week later, he sat on the edge of the bed. His expression was pure “serious talk time.”
“Listen,” he said. “We need to be realistic about this.”
My stomach sank.
“Okay… realistic how?”
He rubbed his face.
“You’re going to need a lot of help. Like… a lot. All day. Every day. And I didn’t sign up to be a nurse.”
