On a one-to-ten scale of tragic circumstances, Bill and I rack up a big fat Zero. For this, we are grateful daily and hourly. However, stuff happens, even to us–more specifically, to Bill, who is now recovering from successful surgery to repair the rotator cuff and nearby locations in his right shoulder. His arm is immobilized in a sling. He has to sleep upright. Discomfort and pain are involved.

Aside from ordinary procedures like colonoscopies (see “Colonoscopy: A Love Poem” in my book Windshift) both of us are innocent of serious medical interventions. Therefore, this challenge serves not only as a dose of reality, but also as a means of improving our interpersonal communications in a way that thirteen years of being a couple has not equaled. Let me speak mostly of myself.

I have a problem with listening. This problem has three aspects: 1) I don’t always hear what is being said, especially when spoken to from another room or in the midst of air-conditioning whoosh or any other form of interference; 2) I do not wait to hear the entire statement, whether by jumping to conclusions or making assumptions or impatiently tuning out; and 3) I fail to understand what is being said, or misinterpret, or otherwise screw up the message without asking for clarification or explanation. Do you as a spouse or relative or friend relate to any of these issues? This problem of mine precedes present conditions. It warrants intentional practice and correction.

Meanwhile, I’m learning a little about what it means to be a caregiver. Bill prefers to handle his own needs as much as possible. Even in normal times, he doesn’t welcome hasty advice or intervention, even well-meant. In the current situation, can he sometimes seem testy when I seem officious? Well, maybe a bit.

Some requirements of care are physically demanding—in this case involving lots and lots of ice, and lots and lots of stairs. Keeping schedules straight, dosages recorded, and doctor’s orders punctiliously observed requires attention to detail that one person on this team (that would be me) lacks the gene for. Bill is practicing acceptance and endurance.

For the time being, we are living in a bubble more restrictive in some ways than the bubble of covid isolation in which we’ve spent the past eighteen months. That unwelcome rehearsal makes the next few weeks of healing and rehabilitation seem more manageable. Time has slowed down even more, days of the week matter even less. I can only imagine what life must be like for those who live in a permanent bubble of caregiving (and disability) that has no end in view.

Six weeks (acute) and six months (ongoing) of healing and therapy will bring Bill back to his active self, his woodshop projects, and his keyboard skills. He’ll be as focused in his recovery as he is in everything else he does. Goals. Plans. Actions. Rinse and repeat. I’ll try to minimize any tendency to hover and fuss. Perhaps Bill could learn how to enjoy it more. We’ll work out the balance as we go.

We’ve missed going to the island in Canada these two years. Friends there have visited the cottage and sent us pictures. All is well, even without us. This time next year, we’ll hope to be at Blackwater Lake again. However, at home, just as in our little wilderness to the north, we’ll experience the healing we need, body and soul, through gifts of love and friendship and learning how to be better people together.