Riding In Cars With Husbands

Well, my husband.

Hi.

I’ve had to spend some time this month writing about the physical side of my disability.

I usually don’t focus on what I can’t do, and I usually don’t care. But I feel like I’ve been justifying my life and the help I need and now I’m actually exhausted.

Maybe that’s because I wake up and feel I haven’t slept. Maybe that’s because I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.

No, literally.

There was my wheelchair, Isla’s TV chair (beds are only for jumping on these days), and the chair we put the laundry basket on.

So there I am, watching cartoons. Not new. Isla’s running through the house with half her uniform on. Also not new. She comes through to me and gives me two of her stuffed animals wrapped up as gifts. Old, but new.

Another old, but new to us thing, is our car. In the last few months I’ve found it difficult to literally drag ass into our excessively tall SUV. So now we have a sedan.

My Dad’s been saying for months we should get a car like his. And after trying five cars in two lots last week, we drove home with a version of Dad’s car. I do try so hard to blaze my own trail.

Car shopping was also date night, because Neil and I like to multi-task. We made a pact not to talk about Isla, or our over-crowded house, his work or my writing or trying to write.

That left not a lot, but we did talk about what we’d do if we won the lottery. And he did set his jacket on fire.

Stick with me.

The closest I can get to being spontaneous is showing up at a restaurant without reservations. Which for us means a lot of traipsing around, with me getting hangry, and then going home for Oreos.

So, we actually booked dinner, I wore something that wasn’t a pair of PJs, and we both felt very grown up.

We were seated next to an actual cozy fire.

I also ate a lot of bread. Somewhere between the third piece of bread, and then not bread, Neil is sweating.

‘It’s hot in here,’ he says.

‘You’re smoking.’

‘You’re not bad, either.’

‘No, your jacket’s too close to the fire.’

We cooled off with ice-cream, because we could. From an all-night supermarket, because there was one.

I was in the kind of mood where I had to switch my brain off, so we spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out if Caddyshack has a plot. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Honestly, I had big plans to get some writing done, making the most of the change of scene at the hotel desk.

Instead, I fell asleep.

The next day, we drove back home to Isla in our new old car. The first song Neil had queued up for the trip was Scenes From An Italian Restaurant, by Billy Joel.

It’s nice to be known.

Stick with me.

I mentioned I spent this month filling out disability-related forms, being one of a number, even though I know we are all more than that.

But that’s the thing.

I’m mapping out what I can and can’t do, admitting that the only thing I do completely independently is read and type.

That even my alone time is with other people, because I can’t get in the car, drive for an hour, and come back refreshed.

How hard it is that the care of my child is overseen by me, but unless we’re on the same level, and the kid stays put, what she needs is facilitated by others.

But I’m still me. Still Isla’s mother and Neil’s wife, and me. I still read books, and drink too much coffee, I still like to curse as creatively as possible, and love getting mail that isn’t bills.

I’ve been thinking about this ever since I read the terrible things we love from The Bloggess. Our weirdness makes us who we are, not just how far we can walk. Or not.

That’s why I cried when Neil put my song on. Because that’s his wife’s favorite song, or one of them. And he knows that. No matter where we’re sitting, or how nostalgic my taste is.

He remembers who I am, and reminds me when I need it.