So, when I first came home in a wheelchair, I thought to myself, “This is our big chapter. We’re going to get through this together.”
During that first week, my husband felt distant.
Silence. Angry. I thought he was just stressed. He would help me eat, take a shower, then disappear into his office or leave the house.
About a week later, he sat on the edge of the bed. His expression was purely “time for serious discussion.”
“Listen,” he said. “We need to be realistic about this.”
My stomach knotted.
“Okay… realistic how?”
He rubbed his face.
“You’re going to need a lot of help. Like… a lot. All day. Every day. And I didn’t sign up to be a nurse.”
“You promised to be my husband,” I said.
“Yes, but it’s different,” he replied. “It’s like a full-time job. I’m going to have to put my life on hold. My career. My social life. Everything.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I know it’s hard. I don’t want this either. But it’s temporary. The doctors think—”
He cut me off.
“Temporary always means months. Months of wiping you, lifting you, doing everything. I can’t do this for free.”
I stared at him.
“For free?”
