Robby’s recovery from surgery is slow. To say that he is uncomfortable would be an understatement. Even adding the words swollen, tender, sore don’t really come close to an explanation.
And he’s frustrated. He can’t really do anything. He makes the trip upstairs once a day to sleep for a few hours in our bed. Most nights he makes it until close to 5 a.m. before he creeps back downstairs to wait for the next vicodin dose. Last night he only made it until 2 a.m.
We’re usually a pretty decent team when it comes to taking care of the basics. I do the laundry but he carries up the heavy baskets and we fold it together. He can’t carry the baskets or fold right now. He can’t empty the dishwasher or give the dog a bath. He can’t change the sheets or shovel the walks. He can’t drive– so the ferrying of Jack to and from school and to activities is out.
He was able to make Jack’s lunch last night. Which I appreciated. It took him quite a while– but, with Jack’s help getting the stuff out of the bottom drawer of the fridge– they pulled together a nice little lunch.
We’re ridiculously grateful, of course, that this is a temporary condition. That he isn’t going through this much “discomfort” only to have to face a round of radiation in a few weeks.
We’re just tired. I’m tired of being the only ox in the yoke. And I’m sad to see him so frustrated that he can’t do the things he wants to do. The breaking point was the other morning when I could hear him and Jack arguing downstairs. There was a long break of silence. And then, a few minutes later, raised voices again. Jack came upstairs sullen.
“What’s going on downstairs, little man?”
“Dad was trying to snuggle me.”
“And?”
“It didn’t really work.”
Jack can’t crawl up on his lap the way he would normally. So they’d tried to cuddle with Jack balanced on the arm of the leather chair. It was lopsided and awkward.
We’ll be glad to have him back to his old self.
