Infirmity is a great test of love. I don’t want to go on and on about my bad back – which is thankfully now on the mend after some intensive physio – but God the last few weeks have been hard. And not just on me. It’s a reminder of how quickly the dynamic of a relationship can change; how delicate is the balancing act which keeps things smooth or rocky.
Like many households, we have a division of labour, and it suits both of us. Ben’s the driver, I’m the cook. He does the bills, I do the garden. We both share the bins. While I’ve been out of action Ben has had to take over everything, sometimes with me in a supervising role. I think in many ways it’s the supervising that brings the most stress. Hovering over someone’s shoulder while they try to cook something you’ve cooked a million times is not the ideal way to spend an evening.
That’s not to say it hasn’t sometimes been funny; for instance, this weekend when we decided to liven up the garden. We ordered some new plants online, but the flowerbeds had to be cleared. Unable to bend over, I stood, rigid and upright, wielding a long bamboo cane, pointing regally at individual plants and declaring “weed” or “not a weed”. Ben accordingly pulled things out.
But then I went and sat indoors, feeling useless and disconsolate. It’s one of the hardest things about being the patient – the lack of independence and agency. Days are very long when you can’t move enough to fill the time. I’m someone who enjoys reading and writing and watching films, but I’m also used to looking after myself, to getting things done.
I’ve been lucky to have Ben looking after me, and can’t imagine how I would have coped on my own. But needing help in the shower, and being unable to put shoes on, or make a cup of tea – it’s astonishing how quickly you can feel old and helpless. And very lonely.
I was reminded of the lockdown isolation, and how it wasn’t so much the absence of close friends and family – all of whom were available on the phone or a Zoom call – but the casual everyday contacts we barely notice, which made life so hard. The waiter in my local café, and the man in the bakery, and that lady with the dog I pass every day on my walk – I don’t know any of their names, but I’ve really missed them.
Anyway, I’m hoping that by the time this goes to print I will have seen them all again. Far later than I should have done, I went to see a physio. After an hour on his table I could have married him. In many ways it was a gruelling hour, as his hands sought out the exact tender places around my spine, pressing hard just where it hurt. But it was that kind of pain that is suffused with relief and the knowledge that it is helping. I left his room – strapped up with rock tape like I was about to step out to the Wimbledon final – feeling better than I had in weeks.
Back at home I said to Ben that he was fine to go out that evening, as he had tickets for a gig. I’m sure he was very relieved to escape. It is draining having to do everything, while also worrying about someone.
We’ve both tried to remain stoical, but there have been snappy moments with each other. And sometimes I’ve felt that I couldn’t possibly ask for any more to be done for me, it would be too much. I can see how you start to feel like a drag, wearing the other person down.
The unexpected side effect of all this is that Ben seems to have fallen in love with gardening. As I sit and write this, I can hear him out there sweeping up after planting yet more pots, all of his own volition. He has drawn a plan of the garden and is learning what everything is called. This might be the start of something, who knows.
[See also: Not in my name]
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This article appears in the 21 May 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Britain’s Child Poverty Epidemic