Helpless

It feels so strange to go from living with a man who is IN CHARGE in a big way to one who suddenly becomes "helpless."

Case in point:

Last night Hubby came down with the 24 or 48 hour bug that has been going round and round and round again.  Nearly everyone has gotten it -- I had it right after Thanksgiving (or maybe it was at the start of November; time telescopes on me lately). 

Anyway, last night Hubby got all cold and had an "icky" feeling so he asked for a cup of hot tea, which I delivered.  Hubby no longer enters the kitchen unless I make a special request of him.  He did make a pot of spaghetti sauce this week after I'd sauteed the beef and onions and boiled the pasta.  He also helped me cut up some beef to freeze so we could take steaks to Wendy in Houston when we go later this month.  But that's the extent of his kitchen activities in December. 

A friend called, talked with Hubby for a bit and then was commiserating with me about the tub mishap when Hubby suddenly demanded, "Have you run me a hot bath?" 

What the heck?  The bathroom is less than 10 steps from the bedroom.  You can't run your own bath?  And it's so important to have one that I have to interrupt my one phone call this month directed especially to me to ask if I've run you a bath?  Of course, my friend quickly hung up the phone -- she never was a person to delay a needed warm bath -- and I dutifully ran a tub full of plenty of suds and even a good splash of Epsom Salts, for aches and pains. 

Out of his bath, back sitting on the bed, suddenly Hubby moans, "Pot." 

"What?  You want a pot?  In the bedroom?" 

More moaning.  "Pot!  Pot!  Pot!"

He's going to vomit --and he's not willing to walk the 10 steps to the bathroom to upchuck in the proper facility.  Now I kind of understand.  Vomiting can be a fairly strenuous activity and any activity sends his poor heart into a race that makes him feel scared and vulnerable.  Again, dutifully, I fetch the pot.

The normal 24 hour activity ensues in the pot -- but here's the killer for me.  Hubby puts the pot on the floor, crawls into bed, and ignores the mess he has made.

Now.  In the 40 years we have been together (come 2013) I HAVE NEVER ONCE ASKED HUBBY TO EMPTY OUT MY VOMIT.  NEVER!  There are just some things one has to do for oneself. 

In point of fact, if I get sick Hubby ignores it and me.  I can lay dying on the bed, rolling in agony, and Hubby will calmly go about his business as if I were not at death's door.  He doesn't offer soothing drinks or dry toast.  And he never cleans up a mess. 

And this is the man that expects me to empty that nasty pot he just threw up in? 

Here's where it gets really upsetting -- the pot wasn't going to empty itself and it did not smell pretty.  So I carried it -- as far away from my body as possible into the bathroom and emptied it; then into the kitchen and washed it out; and finally back into the bedroom to Hubby.  All the while I was fuming and my fury continued to grow. 

Lying pathetically in the bed, wrapped up and shivering in the quilt, his apparent illness suddenly had no affect on me. 

"You will never expect me to empty your vomit again.  You have NEVER done it for me -- and I'm never doing it for you again.  You throw up -- you clean it up just like you expect me to clean up my messes.  Got it?  GOT IT?"

Even the dogs quaked in the bed.  "Okay," he murmured quietly as I stormed off. 

This morning Hubby is still doing poorly.  I walked the dogs at 7 a.m. Then the hot tea and buttered toast were delivered. At the moment, he's in the bedroom moaning softy.  This helplessness has turned my strong, macho man into a poor baby.  If he throws up breakfast, he's cleaning up his own mess, helpless or not.  

Becoming the Man of the House

I've always admitted that my husband has clear dominant tendencies. That hasn't changed. He's the boss, he's the man in charge, he controls the remote when he's home. On the other hand, he never had clear role distinctions which, because I always found him interesting and funny and smart, made the fact that he had to be in charge acceptable. Somebody has to be -- I think 50/50 is probably a myth.

Now that he's aging and been sick, things are changing. Oh, make no mistake, he still thinks he's in charge and he still controls the remote when he's home, which is almost always now-a-days. I've pretty much given up watching TV -- one can only take so much of Walker, Texas Ranger and Judge Judy (how can a smart man watch such crap?). But the role thing -- now that's pretty much gone up the tubes.

Hubby was the strong man -- big chest, huge biceps, strong thighs. In his past he has boxed and lifted weights. He was always extremely physical and hands-on. He could move refrigerators on by himself.

Now I carry the groceries. All of them. I just had to drag into the house a 30 pound bag of dog food (we buy this god-awful expensive stuff for Gussie who has lost weight on it and has had an 80% improvement in his dental hygiene since we started using it and the big bags cost a little less than the smaller bags -- hence 30 pounds). Just getting the bag out of the car nearly did me in -- and getting it through the garage up and up the stairs into the house! Wow! I was sweating by the time I finally made it to the kitchen.

For the past month I've had to do all the grocery carrying -- and he LETS me! We pull into the driveway and I say, "Okay, you get the dogs into the house and I'll bring the groceries" and he nods, gets Luie leashed up and Gussie out of the car, and off they go into the house and he lays down in the bed. Lately he doesn't even bother to go into the store with me. He sits in the car, lets me make the purchases, and load everything into the car when I wander out. And when he gets done with this trip, he's napping while I'm unloading the car.

The blood clotting factor has finally reached 2.4 -- we knew it was getting close when he bled all over the bed after one of his injections. And then he got a bloody nose that wouldn't quit. So we've finally gotten to stop the morning and evening shots. Still, the pills are numerous and making him sick to his stomach nearly all day long. So to insure that he has something in his belly before we start the daily regime, I'm fixing breakfast nearly EVERY DOGGONE morning. Tea. Toast. Scrambled eggs with cream and cheese and onions and green pepper. Sausage patties or bacon. Sliced bananas. Apple juice. I'm NOT the cook in this family -- he has always been the chef. Okay, I'm frank to admit that on the mornings I leave for school at 5:45 we stop and get him a breakfast croissant at Dunkin Donuts, but otherwise I'm making sure he has breakfast by 9 a.m. every morning -- and that included the all those snow days and weekends.

It's hard wrapping my brain around this latest turn of events. I never aspired to be the "man of the house." Still, whatever it takes to keep him truckin' along. At least the dog walking chores are still his (however, with all this snow which is still higher than the dogs' butts, I get the "clean the poop out from under the grand piano chore"). We have another doctor's appointment on Tuesday. I made sure it was AFTER school because I intend to have a real heart-to-heart with our young physician. We've got some things that need improving.