He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his one foot on the floor, still dressed in his comfy clothes. His head’s bowed down and he’s shaking his stump.
I walk in and rest a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He startles at my voice as if he didn’t hear me calling his name or knocking on the door.
“Oh, hi, sweetheart.” He looks up at me with sad eyes, and I notice that expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go today.”
“You don’t wanna get outta the house and see some horses?” I ask gently.
“The pain is bad today. The weather changes are messin’ with me and makin’ it worse.”
The temperatures have been jumping all over the place for the past couple weeks. It’ll be in the low thirties one day and high fifties the next. Not great for those who don’t suffer with chronic pain.
“Can I do anythin’?” I ask, knowing there isn’t, but I offer anyway.
I’m disappointed he can’t go but I understand.
“No, no. You and Waylon go and have fun. I’m gonna take a sleepin’ pill and lie down.”
“Please be careful with that,” I remind him.
It sucks he has to be dependent on medication to help him sleep through the pain, but I mostly worry when it’s this intense and he takes so much of it.
“Don’t worry about me. Mom will be home in an hour.”
Since she’s off work today, she went grocery shopping and to pick up his monthly meds at the pharmacy.
“Waylon and I can wait until she’s home,” I tell him.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
I kiss his cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Before I shut the bedroom door, I call in my mom’s two dogs to go inside. They love snuggling on the bed with him and it gives me some comfort that he’s not alone.
Moose follows me into my room and sits on the bed with me while I text Waylon.
Harlow: Hey, change of plans. My dad’s unable to go today. He’s in a lot of pain, so he’s going to bed. My mom’s out running errands so I told him we’d wait to leave until she returns.
It can be hard for some people who don’t live with chronic pain or aren’t disabled—or live with someone who is—to truly understand that it’s not as easy as jumping in the car and going whenever we want. You don’t recognize what a privilege it is to have mobile freedom until it’s taken away or realize how many public places aren’t handicapped accessible. Between Dad losing his leg and me having two broken legs a year later, I can hardly remember a time in my childhood when we didn’t have to think twice about leaving the house and making sure there was a wheelchair ramp, an accessible bathroom, and wide enough doors for him to get through.
There’s been several times over the years where we’d go somewhere and then quickly find out how inaccessible it was, even when they claimed they were. Doorways too small, aisles between tables and chairs too tight, and only one or two handicapped parking spaces. I think his bad experiencesworsened his feelings about being a burden and added to his anxiety to the point where he stopped wanting to go anywhere.
Waylon: No worries. We can even hang out until he wakes up and then see if he wants to play a board game or do a puzzle. Or even watch TV.
Harlow: You’d spend your only day off sitting in my house and playing games?
Waylon: Of course. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.
Gah, he’s sweet.
When he arrives five minutes later, I throw myself into his arms and kiss the hell out of him.
“What was that for?” he asks when I finally let him breathe. “Not that I’m complainin’ but I was gonna limit the PDA around your folks.”
Laughing, I grab his hand and lead him into the hallway where we keep the games. “It’s just us for now.”
