Autonomy

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. 

The most brilliant, saturated orangey-reds I had ever witnessed were spread above me in a sheet of shuddering glory. Maple trees had no rival when it came to changing clothes for the season. They also excelled at boosting my mood as I hobbled from the building behind me; each assisted step picked a careful route along the blacktop until I made it to our vehicle. My husband pulled open the passenger side door, guiding me in with a steady hand and an encouraging smile.

I loved those inviting fissures by his eyes and mouth—today more than any other day. Wrinkles are, after all, a testament to multitudes of expressions. The deepest marks of joyful times have been our default for years.

I paused to take in the sound of rustling overhead. Several paper thin, star-shaped treasures had alighted on the roof of the car, perfectly contrasting with the dark blue paint. More littered the ground like pops of paint splashes on the pavement.

My husband had been waiting, his hand on the car door. He didn’t rush me. With a nod of consent, the door closed. The shivers of fall were left outside.

I told myself I could do this. The inconvenience of it all would be behind me in a few months’ time. And I had that ever-helpful soul beside me—still smiling as he entered the car—offering his boundless encouragement. 

By the time we reached home, the swelling had tightened my sewn-up leg. Sitting awkwardly in the car had stifled any previous lift from the colors of the outside world. I needed help just to gain my good leg; humiliating and awkward. My breath caught, and a tear slipped between my squinted eyelids.

My love was there, holding my arm and reaching with the other. He asked me what he can do, but the answer is nothing. What I tell him, however, is far less amiable. A callous comment emerges. I resented myself in that moment for allowing physical and emotional pain to override my default.

No more smiles. Not now. The journey up the stairs was excruciating, but every step, he was there. Whatever hurt my current state may have caused him never showed. How could he love this wrecked soul as such? Even I wanted to run far from my broken body. 

I told myself it was temporary. The medicine would kick in, and my leg would heal when it’s ready. Any internal and external division could be mended until it was back to our default.

By the time the nerve blocker wore off at two a.m., I stirred to a frightening level of pain ripping through the surgical site. My husband had slept in the other room to allow me extra peace since he tended to snore. Everything was still and dark around me; stifling me. I wanted to scream, but I forced my fingers to the light switch…

The pill bottle…

I nearly fumbled the cap. A single tablet slipped down my throat with a gulp of water. After thirty minutes of writhing in silence—my pillow moistened with tears—I still felt the pressure building. Only then did I recall the doctor saying I could take two pills if necessary. Fear of addiction or side-effects had buried that detail. 

Another pill made its way down my throat.

I prayed, and whimpered. The golden light of my favored salt lamp carried none of the healing hues of autumn. It highlighted the walls of my prison. 

How pathetic I felt to give myself over to pride and fear. I understood it then; why people begged to be allowed to die. A pain so great, I might have chosen death as an outlet? How could I possibly have equated myself to someone with a terminal illness? A war injury? Anything far more severe than the corrective surgery I endured for my fractured bone?

I told myself the pain would subside. With deep, even breaths, the edge of it faded. I had no idea how long the ordeal lasted, and I didn’t care. The worst was over. Surely, I was forever past that horrific level of physical agony. Sleep beckoned me with healing comfort.

By the time two weeks of spending every day in bed had passed, the full weight of confinement had settled into my subconscious. Before then, I never fully understood depression. I had short bouts in high school and college, mostly prompted by heartbreak or family struggles, but nothing so all-encompassing as that smothering notion that I may never move past this blockage.

My husband reclaimed his side of the bed, waking for work. Gentle as always, his fingers drifted through the sheets to find mine. A warm touch of skin and kind words reminded me that his mother would assist me today. I nodded. When he dressed and prepared to leave, I had no smile for him. My default felt as far away as the leaves carried on the wind. He kissed me anyway, infected by my somber mood.

I loathed myself again. What must he have thought of me lying there? I could no longer cook our delicious meals or clean up after our cat. His tasks had tripled while I was stagnant.

I told myself I was healing; that this will be a memory we laugh about over cinnamon tea next autumn. The unfortunate truth was I didn’t believe it. Did he? I couldn’t tell.

By the time I was able to descend the stairs unassisted, the pain pills had become a memory. My love and his brother had installed a new rail for extra support. I almost tumbled once when my crutches slipped, but I kept the incident to myself. My pride was lapping enough at its wounds. I was determined to do some cleaning; cook something for dinner...bring the light back into life.

My husband had new lines in his forehead. His crinkling mouth was less intense, and twice he called my best friend over to help coax my spirit out from deep inside me. This wasn’t me; so dejected and forlorn. If I didn’t work to start fixing it, would this mood shadow our lives for years to come?

It was awkward, moving about the kitchen with rubber wedged under my arms and the inability to use my hands. It took four times longer than typical, but the components of a decent meal were prepped. He would be home soon.

I told myself I could mend it all. Every frown, every sobbing demand to be left to my misery would dissolve into the texture of spiced chicken and rice.

By the time the dried remnants of fall littered the back deck, I was able to confidently dodge around them with my two metal companions supporting me. This time while I relished the crisp edge of the breeze, my husband was with me. Both of us leaned into the rail to watch the few remaining leaves clutch to almost entirely bare branches.

He said, “No more crutches next week.”

My default had trickled back to me. I could feel it tugging at my mouth, riding on the fact that independence would soon be mine again. “Can’t wait. I know it’ll ease your mind, too.”

He hummed a reply, the lines which had deepened from my worst days returning to his forehead. Did I dare to ask what weighed on him now? Hadn’t I fixed it all with my earlier apologies, dinners, laundry…

“What I can’t understand,” he said after a gradual sigh, “is why you didn’t call for me. I was right there. I could have...but you didn’t even cry.”

His words locked my shoulders, flinging me back to the day of the accident.

The support I was climbing had broken. All my weight landed on a sharp edge. I pitched forward, feeling a crack at the source of explosive agony. I couldn’t get enough purchase to free my leg. 

How am I going to get myself out of this? 

A stranger ran to help. My husband’s voice came soon after.

“Babe, what happened? Your leg’s bleeding!”

His strong arms pulled me up, but I fell to the ground in silent suffering until I could finally blubber between ragged breaths that my injury was serious.

By the time my reverie deposited me back on the deck, I turned to meet the pinched countenance of my husband. The entire time, he had been hurt the most by my pride; that I fought relying on him like an animal lashing out at a rescuer. A lifetime of doing for myself out of necessity had created an interior distance that couldn’t be fixed by exterior means.

“It honestly didn’t occur to me to call for help.”

“That doesn’t seem weird to you?”

Didn’t it? Shouldn’t it? With all the extra time I had to think and pity myself, I hadn’t realized how odd my reaction had been. Wouldn’t any normal person have called out? When had I reached for such an insular goal as never requiring help? Such a notion had no place in a marriage where two people endeavored together to form an unbreakable bond.

My hand alighted on his, turning his attention to me.

“It’s been hard feeling so helpless. But I couldn’t have gotten through without you.” And I mean those words. A fraction of shadow lifts from his features. It wasn't enough. “Will you keep helping me?”

“Of course.”

I shook my remaining pride away. “No, I mean continue helping me learn what it means to count on you?”

His new forehead crease disappeared; replaced by his signature smile. I joined him in our renewed default.

My scarred leg with its new interior hardware will forever serve as a reminder; a true tragedy is squandering the perspective gained from adversity.