Courtesy of Tayla Blaire
When I envisioned my life with my husband, I thought I'd be well into my 80s before I'd need him cutting my food and helping me shower. I had an unwelcome glimpse into my old age when I was in an accident in May while riding a horse that left me with multiple broken bones and unable to walk.
When the accident happened, he was in Canada visiting his family. Upon waking from surgery, the first thing I croaked was to ask where he was. I wanted him for comfort; I had no idea how crucial his presence would be to my recovery.
After getting on the first flight he could once the extent of my injuries was apparent, he arrived back in South Africa, where we live. He stood there in the hospital ward, waiting for visiting hours to officially open, and would only leave my side when the nurses kicked him out. He'd then go home, working until midnight to catch up on the work he'd missed during the day when he was visiting me. He kept our financial burdens light while I was unable to work at all, my right arm rendered useless for months — not an ideal situation when you're a writer.
If he hadn't proved himself such a wonderful caretaker, I wouldn't have been discharged as early as I was, just one week after surgery. Upon returning home, he took over everything: ensuring everything we ate was one-hand friendly, cutting food into bite-size pieces, cleaning my wound dressings, helping me wash and dress, easing me into chairs, and taking me back to the hospital every few days for scans and blood tests.
While he cared for me physically, the way he tended to my mental health became even more important. The trauma of being thrown at top speed from a galloping horse (when I am not a rider) was severe. I oscillated between relief that I didn't die, a sentiment repeated by every nurse and doctor who expressed disbelief that I survived without permanent paralysis, and utter frustration at my slow recovery. I wanted to be well again quickly, and my body wasn't playing ball.
He cheered on every minor improvement, whether it was the first day I could hold a cup of water, move my arm, or take a step unaided. He kept cheering me on as I regained most of my abilities, taking hours to walk a couple of yards but getting faster every week. It was easy to berate myself, getting angry when I had a day that, at first glance, appeared to be a regression. He kept my spirits up as best he could, tending to the scars both physically and emotionally.
It would be easy for something like this to strain a relationship, but it made us even stronger. I tend to prize my independence, so this was a huge test for me: relying on someone else, someone I loved, for the simplest of tasks. It was an equally huge test for him, being called on to become a caretaker decades before either of us anticipated anything like this.
When we started dating, I remember sitting with him on a balcony, watching the crashing waves, chatting into the early hours, thinking that this was the first person I'd met whom I could imagine talking to in an old age home one day. This accident may have left permanent physical damage (I still have no nerve sensation on my right hip and thigh), but it also affirmed that I knew exactly what I was doing when I chose my life partner.
