Feeling like a burden

My week is not going so well.

My body feels like a hostile robot that I cannot control: The sciatica lingers, the opiate drugs constipate the digestive system, thinking is slow and feels generally purposeless.

Tom does not hover overly¬†much. He knows that I’ll tell him what I need and that I hate to whine.

He is very sweet in caring for me. He anticipates my needs and never shows any annoyance at my endless stream of demands. He makes wonderful sandwiches and tummy-satisfying dinners. He tries to keep me from doing too much, as I am inclined to do.

But he is so busy with work – especially after my 12 days in the hospital when he was with me day and night – that I feel like a real burden asking him to fetch and carry so much. It’s not his fault. He does nothing to make me feel I’m a burden; it’s all my own sense of my ill presence just outside his home office.

I had thought by now I would be able to do more for myself. But anything that involves much brain activity is really a strain. Physically, I can get around OK, but I’m not very strong yet. I’m trying to just concentrate on relaxing and recovering.

By happenstance a friend sent an email about a retired nurse, June, who is looking for work and comes highly recommended by a neighbor.

I think I will be more comfortable at home, in the quiet house surrounded by the birds and trees.

Tom doesn’t like the idea of my being alone, but now that we can hire June he consented. He knows I want to be home.

And I won’t feel like a burden there.

I won’t have to worry if my dictating of emails, my moans and complaints, my need to be fed and take my pills, or my thousand discomforts will disturb his need to concentrate on his work.

These come from my own internal perceptions, my own propensity to worry. It’s a lifelong priority of mine, instilled by Mom and Dad, to be independent and take care of my own needs. Being a burden is the biggest sin.