After his accident, when he could no longer work my husband dealt with self-worth and identity issues. Who he saw himself as directly linked to his job. To me, my man was so much more, but men identify with a job description.
When Kirt could no longer function he lost identity and couldn’t hold his own, a couple of his buds came over to trim the yard. They discussed how they’d approach the problem. Kirt tried to get a word in only to be told, “Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it.”
“But, Guys, Guys, you need to know.”
They waved him off with a friendly dismissive and went to work whacking weeds. My husband turned to me.
“They wouldn’t listen to me,” he said helplessly.
“Now, you know what it feels like to be a woman,” I shrugged.
A short time later the two men flew out of the bushes with arms flailing wildly. They found the vine Kirt tried to tell them about. My husband had been devalued by his group. I felt his pain and saw it in his eyes.
My forehead slid into my eyes, my cheeks into my neck, which fell into my boobs that drooped to my belly bouncing against the door. If a man identifies with his work, a woman’s looks wrap up her self-worth.
My husband frequently told me I was beautiful and every day told me he loved me. He valued me and now I must find value in me or perish because who the hell else cares?
To find your inner strength you must have it. I always thought myself strong, but now old and emotionally alone, where is that strength?
I fought for my causes. I worked hard for a good life. I took care of my family. All of these things build character; I am nothing if not a character. Who I am has been determined by more than twenty-five thousand days. Some days have beaten me to a pulp, others I’ve scored and heard the roar of the crowd in my head.
I’m old and forgetful, but I’m the author of 25,000 days and counting. My history tells me the strength is in here.
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