In Daddy’s Hands

A year ago, my husband’s health took a turn for the worse. He hasn’t been the same since, and neither has our family. Andrew can’t use his hands to do things most of us take for granted; for months he has been unable to work, drive a car, or perform most household tasks. The mothers I’ve talked to get it; “Oh, you have to do all the work.” I bemoan the fact that he’s an enlightened husband turned backward and at times helpless by his condition.

I’m plagued by the urgent questions: What will we do if his disability claim is denied after public benefits run out? Now that my first novel is coming out, what if I wind up having to defer my dreams? And then I wonder what our son Alex will grow up thinking about Dad.

I enjoy roughhousing with Alex; it’s a mixed blessing to be the preferred playmate of a 2 ½-year-old. His favorite game is “Crash Mommy” in which he lurches at me head on, always pausing first to flash that winsome grin of his. Alex knows he cannot crash Daddy. He can’t have his diaper changed by Andrew, nor ride in his father’s car, which is rusting outside from the salty air currents near Ocean Beach. He has learned to adjust to his dad’s limitations. But I still haven’t.

Andrew has a messy, unpredictable condition called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. My son can still find comfort in Daddy’s arms (which work better than his hands). Alex can get his father to croak out endless verses of “Wheels on the Bus” to avoid going to bed. But when he gets older, and soon, stronger than his dad, who will throw him a baseball? Not me; I’m all thumbs at ball sports. Even if my husband recovers much of his functioning, some repetitive motion – on the computer, in the kitchen – could send him over the deep end again.

Except for a bit of swelling in his hands, Andrew’s condition is invisible to most. I feel like I’m the only one with X-ray vision to see its effects, and be at the mercy of them. When it’s crowded on the bus, nobody is willing to give up a seat for him. His hands may feel like they’re on fire, but he still has two hands. Other than the overstuffed fanny pack that turns him into the Michelin Man, he looks normal.

Both our moms keep asking, “When is Andrew going back to work?” Even the doctor doesn’t know. We’ve been on a roller coaster with private health insurance, and if the disability payments stop, we’re in for a rude awakening. Having already given up big chunks of my former life to be a mom, I don’t want to sacrifice my writing career to be the sole breadwinner. It feels like a family curse, as my mother and her four sisters have all been thrust into that role at some point.

The other morning, on a walk near the beach, I encountered a homeless man muttering to himself. That sour odor drew me back, but I was curious to hear his self-talk.

“You gotta go to work. You gotta get back to work.”

I could hear my husband saying this to himself. Some days, I have faith that everything that has unraveled will be okay again. That a body could will itself back to health. That a father could frolick with his son without crashing into his own frailty. Most days, all I can do is take each turn as it comes, and find comfort in the small joys. Like an Aikido master, my son knows how to encounter life, as he bolts toward me, all limbs and smiles, throwing himself forward completely, without fear.