That is a direct quote from my husband.
It was last weekend and I was in pain; joints swollen, muscles aching, head spinning. All of this just because Phoenix decided to have the rainiest June 1 in over 100 years.
In college, I loved the rain. I loved running barefoot into my apartment courtyard, warm pavement beneath my feet, cool rain on my head, and my friend’s goldendoodle running wild with me. I loved those days. Rain in Phoenix feels like a chaotic form of magic. I reveled in this magic; it gave me life and joy.
Now, that same magic steals the very life from my bones. I can only lie under my weighted blanket, wait for my cocktail of painkillers and muscle relaxers to give me a touch of relief. Chronic illness is a slow and gentle theif; not breaking and entering but shoplifting your joy. You reach for the energy and joy had carefully shelved only to find it gone.
As the rain pitter pattered on our vintage outdoor furniture, my tears began to fall. There were chores to do, tasks to complete, and so much of life was passing me by, even the boring parts of life.
“Let me go clean out the fridge before you take the trash to the curb,” I told my husband, drawing a deep breath to steel myself.
“No, no, just tell me what needs to be done,” he insisted.
“I think it’s some veggies and leftover chicken but I won’t really know until I see it,” my voice cracking. “Please, just help me up so I can do it. I can do it!”
He chuckled sadly and held me in our bed.
“Why are you laughing at me?” Hot anger was being doused by my tears.
“Because,” he struggled to say between laughs, “you are stuck in bed but literally crying to let me let you get up to do chores. This feels like a caricature of you as a person.”
I laughed along with him, drying my tears on his shirt. The smell of him as he wrapped me tighter calmed my pouring tears. He scooted off the bed and offered me a handle. As if we were regally entering a ball, he helped me to our messy fridge and we cleaned it out together.