A Year Sleeping On the Couch
No, my wife didn’t kick me out of the bedroom. I didn’t do anything wrong or anything like that. But for the last year, longer actually, I’ve had to sleep on the couch because of this nerve pain I’m dealing with. Turns out the only way I can get comfortable enough for some precious hours of sleep is to sleep sitting up. If my body angle shifts below ninety degrees, I get spasms and jolts, so sitting up is just what I’ve got to do. Each night, after I say goodnight to the wife and kids, I make my lonely march downstairs and hit the couch, hoping this will be the last night I have to spend down here. It’s ridiculous.
Fortunately, I live in such a loving household, the inconvenience of Dad taking up residency on the couch is not a problem for anyone. Really, the whole family has been amazing through all of this, keeping my spirits up by not letting on how bad they feel for me. Sure, they try to mask their sympathy, but I can see through it all. When my wife tells me I’m “ruining the new couch,” I know she is really saying, “I’m sorry you’re having to go through this.” When my daughter impersonates me by holding her back and grimacing her face, I know she isn’t really making fun of me — she just wants to connect. And when it’s late at night and I discover that one of the kids took my only pillow, I know it’s their way of saying they are going through this with me. I’m so loved it hurts.
All kidding aside, my family has been incredibly supportive and patient through all of this. They’ve had to put up with a lot during this time, and I long for the day where I can make it up to all of them. Especially the kids. Kids expect their fathers to represent some sort of physical strength, and to have one who can’t even pass the soccer ball around without breaking out into painful spasms, must be pretty demoralizing. Or put it this way, pretty demoralizing because I had set them up to expect a lot more from me.
Before the events that fried my insides and made life so painful, I was as active as they come. My kids had witnessed me run the Boston Marathon and climb all of the 4000 footers in New Hampshire. I took them sailing overnight, taught them how to ski, and coached as many baseball games as I could. We went camping, hiking, and mountain biking, and had adventures in places like Acadia, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon. I was a “yes dad”, willing to go the extra mile to make sure my kids were having all of the experiences life could afford. I couldn’t help it; I wanted to be unstoppable for them.
But in the blink of an eye, I was stopped. Suddenly I was unable to do any of the things we had all come to expect and I tell you, the worst pain I’ve endured through all of this isn’t the lightning shooting through my spine, but having to replace all of my yeses with nos. Having to say no to a hike or to an adventure. To say no to kicking the soccer ball or throwing a baseball. To say no to even going out to dinner with them because I can’t eat or drink anything without pain. Having to repeatedly say no to living the life I want feels like death by a billion paper cuts, and I’m sure the kids must have wondered at times, “where did my dad go?”
The last three and a half years have felt like the real me has been trapped in a walking prison. Like I’m banging away on a soundproof, one-way mirror, shouting at the top of my lungs, hoping someone can hear me. I’m still here guys! I’m right here! I’m coming back! Trust me! Can you hear me? CAN YOU HEAR ME?! But no matter how hard I shout, my words fall on deaf ears. Or doubtful ones. After months and years of promising to get better without showing any significant progress, I can totally see why it might be hard to still believe me. But it’s the truth. I’m coming back. I don’t know the date, but it’s going to happen. I know this because it’s the only alternative I’m giving myself.
We tie so much of who we are to our physical selves, it can be hard to see the person that lives inside at times. At the beginning of all of this, my family wasn’t alone in wondering where the old me went. At first I thought the old me was lost and gone forever. But after awhile I realized that the same guy was living inside, he was just hard to see. As I work my way back, inch by inch, and see my physical strength start to realign itself with my mental strength, it’s making me aware of all the mental toughness out there that we will never see.
Our society puts too much stock in our physical toughness as being a reflection of our mental fortitude. Yesterday my son was watching this reality tv show called Strong, where relatively fit people compete to get in even better shape, and lament about their struggles to get ripped. It’s pretty dumb. At one point one of the competitors spouts off about how he believes he is the most mentally tough person in the world, all because he can lift a bunch of stuff. That’s good. Maybe he is. But what would happen to this guy if he was paralyzed? Could he handle that? And if he could, would anyone recognize his toughness anymore?
Physicality, or lack thereof, can make it so easy to think someone is less of a person than they really are. To believe that person isn’t trying enough or doesn’t care enough. To dismiss their battles and discount the efforts they are making to improve their situations. Of course we all know that one shouldn’t judge another by their physical weakness, but do we? I know for me, living this experience everyday and really feeling how we are more than the manifestation of our physical presence, is incredibly illuminating. There is so much in all of us that we cannot see.
Originally published at https://wanderingmattlarson.com on April 30, 2021.
