Care

I’m writing this update on my cellphone, sprawled out across my partner’s soft bed. It’s another gloriously sunny day in Palmy, and my current view from my luxurious resting spot is the lagoon, all sunlight sparkles and rippling water.

My beloved is in the other room, playing video games, having urged me to rest. I’ve been having trouble sleeping recently — a known side effect of the steroids I’m taking to help with my chronic coughing — but there’s lots that contributes to being tired ALL THE TIME. Just growing cancer will do it, for one; violently coughing for much of the day kinda takes it out of you, there’s being mildly uncomfortable or in pain or not being able to comfortably breathe, there’s managing an overwhelming number of emotions. It’s…a lot.

I guess that’s why I write these…things. It helps.

But I’m not actually writing to complain, today. What I wanted to write about how it is to let yourself be looked after. And what a gift it is to care for someone that selflessly.

I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly independent spirit — raised by an extremely capable and resourceful single mum, me and my sister were brought up to be pretty practical and self sufficient. We are happy in our own company, stubborn about doing things for ourselves, and wary about relying on other people for things.

Since getting sick, one of the things I’ve had to learn to accept is that…my old life, my old way of living is impossible. As I’ve grown weaker, and more ill, I’m less able to be the independent force I’m accustomed to being. Doing it myself isn’t always possible, or practical, or wise. So I have had to learn to accept that I’m vulnerable and accept help without feeling selfish or lazy or like I’m taking advantage of it.

What made me think of this was my boyfriend, doing everything he could to encourage me to sleep this weekend, when it became apparent that for whatever reason, I was sleeping better in his bed than my own. He would leave me in bed and run errands to get me food and drink, leave me napping quietly and checking on me periodically. My lovely man checks that I’ve had my daily medication, gets out of bed in the middle of the night to bring me painkillers, and rubs my back gently while I am having coughing fits.

I’ve never felt so loved.

Sometimes — a lot of the time — I feel guilty and sad that I can’t be the girlfriend I was when we first met, the girl with energy and independence and a full life beyond hospitals and doctor’s visits. He shouldn’t have to be my caregiver. He shouldn’t have to be thinking about what happens when my condition declines and care becomes a 24/7 round the clock thing for my loved ones to deal with.

But it’s the hand we’ve been dealt, and I’m just humbled to have such amazing people sticking by me.