Returning to normal
This morning, Anne said to me, “It’s nice to have you back at the kitchen table.”
We were in the dining room, but I knew what she meant.
A week after getting hit by a truck, I took breakfast for the first time at the dining room table, joining Anne in a quasi-return to normalcy. I couldn’t scoot in my chair due to the leg and ankle braces, but we were sitting together.
It was a day of firsts; our first meal together at the same table, and the first square egg I fried and photographed in more than a week.
Anne had begun cooking her own in a round pan but admitted that she has been missing my square eggs. She agreed to let me try and cook one.
She carried the tripod into the kitchen and set it before the range. On my way to the bathroom, I stopped to cook her an egg.
The routine we’d been in of me frying and photographing her daily eggs was shattered last week after my motorcycle accident. All of our routines stopped.
Now, we have different routines.
My routine is sitting in a chair for 22 hours each day and requires crutches to leave the chair for short trips, often to a different chair, like the one at the dining room table.
Her routine requires her to empty the trash, load and unload the dishwasher, cook every meal (except her egg, which I may now begin to do), make our coffee every morning instead of only when she is awake before me, wash my hair, do my laundry, and drive herself to work.
Most importantly, she makes sure to leave me with accessible food and water when she leaves for work, much like one does if they own a cat.
Today, she is going to the pharmacy to buy a shower stool so I can bathe; that will be another first this week.
After a week of having to walk with crutches and support myself on one leg, I thought I could stand long enough to fry her an egg, and I did. It gave me the confidence to try and sit at the dining room table.
I’m ignoring my watch’s plea to stand every hour, and am focused on taking small steps and not falling when I walk. I’ll ease into more mundane tasks as appropriate.
Anne has been an angel throughout, as we both adapt to our new routines.
The ankle boot will be on for six weeks, and it will be a while before I can crawl into bed, lie next to her, and hold her hand as we drift to sleep; a simple act that we miss more than anything, except maybe walking.