When I am sick or injured, I want to left alone. My natural instinct is to curl up in a dark corner until I feel better. I don’t want to be nurtured, cared for or pitied by anyone. There have been only 3 exceptions to this in my life:
- Aunt Essie
- Ellen, my wife
- My dogs
Aunt Essie always knew what to do to make me feel better. I would race into her home bawling with both knees bloody, skinned and scraped after tripping over the same damn crack in the sidewalk. She’d clean me up, spray me with Bactine (ouch!), patch my knees with big square bandages and then hold me in her arms while she rocked in her kitchen chair telling me stories until I calmed down.
Ellen, like Essie was a natural nurturer. She oozed love, care and nurturing. On the rare occasions when I was down with the flu or suffering from a brutal migraine she would quietly check in on me with chicken soup, hot tea, ice bags or medicine. She’d make the house cool and dark – keeping our kids and animals quiet while handling all the chores. She’d check my temperature. She’d rub my head.
My dogs have always been good when I’m incapacitated. Somehow they know. They’ll snuggle up against me in bed. They’ll be gentler and quieter than usual. They’ll accept less attention, shorter walks and the interruption in our normally action packed routine.
Aunt Essie passed away a long time ago and Ellen has been gone almost 4 years. I was lucky to have them both in my life to care for me and teach me how to be a caretaker.
I’m still lucky today. I have my memories of them.
And I have my two dogs, who snuggled up with me for an entire week last month when I blew my knee out and couldn’t walk.
If I live long enough, I may need to rely on someone to care for me at times. I really hope that never happens. The bar has been set pretty high.