Panic, Post boxes and Re-adjusting my life

The long-suffering wife's hands and feet were itching yesterday. Big time. In an attempt to keep everything in the highest level of panic possible we refered to the medical books and diagnosed obstetric cholostatis, and the need for an induction. This resulted in a rush to hospital for a blood test, the result of which arrived a very leisurely 8 hours later. Hospitals are among the dullest places in the world. Blood tests seem okay; panic over.

With time to kill the wife dropped the bomb shell. She doesn’t want me to talk about post-boxes with our baby. Ever. She is somewhat concerned that I will explain why I don’t “do” postboxes and that this will be adopted by our child. Let me explain – first of all post boxes in England are red. They sit on the corner of roads, and are locked. Big red metal locked boxes. Into these boxes, people put cards, letters, cheques, communications, thoughts. Around collection time the metal box is full of thoughts, of half conversations, all just sitting there waiting. I don’t understand how someone can walk past one and not feel a little uneasy. The thought of metal red boxes, safes for people's ideas and hopes and dreams and fears – and gas bills, just sitting around innocently is a very odd thing. I feel a sense of awe to see people just walk past them as if it wasn’t strange. The thought of putting my thoughts in one, even protected by an envelope, of letting it sit there in the jumble of other people's ideas, is just to much for me.

Along with the fast approaching birth of our child is, of course, New Years Eve. More to the point, there is party on, an event, oh what an event, a London bash which makes me want to cry with joy, an invitation to a night of excess. So I think to myself – "why not go, it will be great." Okay I confess I won't be able to take the wife and baby – but I am sure she won't mind me going... and then I pause and I know she will, I know she will mind a lot and with that realisation I am deeply aware that a part of my life has ended as surely as another one is beginning.

Yours as ever

The Broken Man

The Long-Suffering Wife?

Hi!

Broken Man is away at a training weekend for the next couple of days, so he has asked me to "guest blog" for him. I've never done this before, so please don't all desert his blog while he is away, or I will look very bad! On the other hand, don't give me more comments than him, or he will feel very bad. Not that we are competative, or anything!

In case you hadn't guessed, I am Broken Man's "long-suffering wife", although I have to say that I don't feel very "long-suffering". It's something I've been thinking about over the last couple of days. As most of you know, Broken Man is dyspraxic. This manifests itself in what most people expect, the clumsiness, but in many other ways as well - above average intellegence, very logical thought progressions and very poor memory.

We have learnt to cope with these issues pretty well; they are just part of our lives now, so we don't even realise that we are "coping", to us we are simply living. It didn't occur to me how alien the way we live is to others until a small incident with a forgotten laptop today.

Broken Man left the house for his training weekend today after I did. Normally, if I'm not around I would leave a checklist of things to remember to put in the car, but this morning I forgot. When I got home, I realised that he had forgotten his laptop. I was due to visit a friend, but, as she has a son who is dyspraxic too, I was able to call her up, and just simply say that Broken Man had forgotten his laptop and I needed to take it to him, so I would be late. She understood exactly why I needed to go.

I only realised how relieved I was that it had been this particular friend I had been letting down in the car on the way home. I have been in this situation before, and have received a torent of well-meaning "advice" and comments from other friends. People say things like "it was up to him to remember, I wouldn't be chasing after him" or "surely he can manage just for a weekend", or "you do far too much for him".

I have got to the stage where I nod politely and move on. It doesn't seem to change anyone's opinion when I try to explain how panicked Broken Man would be if he had to try to make hand-written notes, and how he would invariably lose the notes at some point, or why it really isn't his fault that he forgets things, or the style in which he writes, which *requires* the use of "cut-and-paste", necessitating a computer.

Many people seem to feel a sense of indignation for what I "have to do for" Broken Man. I wish they wouldn't. I don't. He has his difficulties, and I have mine. No-one seems to feel indignant on his behalf because I have such bad panic attacks when I go near a dentist or a hospital that he has to take time off work to accompany me, so why do they feel that way about me helping him out when he needs it?

Dyspraxia is a very hidden disability. I'm sure that no-one would think it odd if I helped my blind husband cross the road, but they do think it's odd that I will go out of my way to help Broken Man in the areas he finds difficult (in the same way that he helps me in areas I find difficult - it's a 50/50 thing!). Our relationship works - I just wonder why so many people feel the need to fix it!

So, I will sign off as "the long-suffering wife", as long as you don't think I really am! :)