My husband's recent surgery, which took place exactly two weeks and eight and a half hours ago but who's counting, has given me a new perspective on sickness, health and the whole damn thing we call living. Ever since Mitch authorized a surgeon to cut into his shoulder and mess around, our entire life has been about nothing more than that very thing. His right arm--and he's a rightie-- is in a sling that keeps it immobilized, and thus he cannot drive or open pickle jars or feed the cats or slap around an intruder should one appear, although he swears he would rise to that particular occasion.
Still, he sleeps--or more accurately doesn't sleep--in a chair in the living room, forget the marital bed. Let it be noted, however, that he can cut his food, and please God, forgive me for that one time I tried to do it.
Bottom line: We take our health for granted and complain about petty things, while everyday life for many, many, many people is so much harder than everyday life for most of us. We are busy stocking up on supplies for an impending Category 2 storm, while the residents of Haiti, many of whom lost limbs, are still living in huts and tents more than a year after a devastating earthquake flattened their country.
I am reminded of the old adage: "I cried because I had no shoes, and then I met a man who had no feet." I am trying hard to count my blessings, but it's hard to remember to be thankful when your once-debonair husband has trouble zipping up his own fly.
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