It’s hard to be Leslie. Sometimes. She tries so hard to do everything and be everything. Full tilt at life until it all gets too much for her. When she gets sick, she gets really, really sick. Like many beautiful souls, she wears her luminosity lightly. And when her light dims, we all feel a chill.
The last two months were chilly.
Leslie is prone to motion sickness. Her approach to space is idiosyncratic. She’s had three bouts of mal de debarquement. Think of it as intense vertigo, the world spinning, constantly. We’ve learned that it’s an inner ear issue. We’ve studied her vestibular system. Now we know that extended travel plus stress plus windy roads or rocky seas or turbulent skies can all add up to a break down, one that requires months of physical therapy to get her back up on her feet.
I told her that I’d hang onto hope while she despaired on this go round. I felt strong enough to carry our collective burdens. I wanted to return her many kindnesses. I strove to shelter her. I knew that she’d recover. Until then, I vowed to be vigilant and helpful and steadfast.
The well don’t always help the sick. Sometimes the sick help the sick. And the sick help the well. There’s no magic formula or neat equation for how much pain you hold and how much love you give. As a couple, she doesn’t get a pass because of my chronic condition. For almost a decade, though, it seemed that way. The strong aren’t always the ones who sacrifice. The sacrificed sacrifice, too.
Would I be able to cope? Friends worried. I wondered. But who better? I know how to sit, quietly and faithfully, in a crisis. I know how to ride out the storms of fear and the lull of fatigue. “Just rest,” I told her, again and again, as assurance, as faith, as remedy. Rest. And she did. She leaned into my caretaking, as did I. Home-made broth. Scottish-style porridge. British mysteries. Snippets of books and poems. Silly sports stories. I fed her what I thought might comfort her. I drove her to appointments. I smoothed her hair from her forehead. I bought tea biscuits and sunflowers. I offered farmer’s market freshness: apple cider and leafy greens. I gave her treats to give to Gus who stuck close to her. Both of us tempting her to return. I wanted her to see what I see. The flawed beauty and tender strength of our little world. In us. All around.
It wasn’t too much for me. I was right where I wanted to be. Bedside with toast and her favorite marmalade. At the doctor’s with a list of concerns. Available. Open. Nurturing. Slowly helping her back to health.
She asks for sweet, hot, milky tea, and I bring it to her. On wheels.
great piece/peace… i feel you
What a girl and what a guy. I am so proud of you both but saddened by both your struggles in this world. Our babies are tough.
Wow!
Oh, Randy, your devotion to Leslie makes me cry – with gratitude. How admirably you supported her. You and Leslie should be a case study on how to make a marriage meaningful.
Powerful writing, Randy. I’m very moved by this piece.
Beautiful.
It’s all the little snippets, they weave, day by day, into a quilt of stunning beauty
This latest post took my breath away. I read it in bed, thoroughly grounded by MS, but able to still be at home because my partner is more well than I have been recently, and brings coffee, food, and comfort. You and Leslie (and Gus!) model the best of survival strategies.
Thank you for sharing the ongoing story of your journey. Your blog is one of the most important sites I visit, Randy. Without fail, I find cheer and humour and hope. (Superb quality of writing also!)
I am grateful for every response received. And when readers reveal their own stories and struggles, I feel honored, recognized, heard. So thanks, Denise, for showing me what these blogs, at the best of times, can do: console, acknowledge, soothe. This enterprise is definitely a two-way street.
Thanks for sharing your story- most recently in the G’burg magazine!
My husband is a PT who has worked with vestibular patients- and I myself have long history with cervicalgenic dizziness. For me, it’s a dynamic combination of neck and tmj issues, hormone fluctuations, and light sensitivity. Though it’ll never go away, I know good PT helps! Good luck to you both!