A Story Of Life, Love, And Strength

I’ve hesitated sharing this because it’s not solely my story to tell. However, of the few others involved, one has no idea that I write or work With The Band, and the other is my boyfriend. He fully supports my writing and has told me before that he doesn’t mind.

So, I suppose the time has come to tell my story.

In the spring of 2011, Ian and I were celebrating a year and half together. We lived in the (semi) renovated basement of his childhood home while we saved money for our first home together. I’d just finished a freelance position and was on the job hunt once again. Ian had just marked his first anniversary of playing with his band and was going on eight years with his day-time employer. Things weren’t the best, but they were pretty good.

Ian’s father lived in the main portion of the house.

In lieu of rent, Ian helped his father, who was unemployed, with the household expenses and upkeep. I threw in my cooking on occasion to break up the monotony of his dad’s frozen dinners. While we might have had our disagreements from time to time, it was, on the whole, a nice time.

Then, on a bright Saturday morning in May, it all changed. I woke up, saw Ian off to work, and sat at the computer, headphones on, listening to music, ready to begin a day of job searching, writing, and photo editing.

Ten minutes later, Ian called. Since it was time for his shift to start, I assumed he had simply forgotten something at home.

I answered with a smile.

Within in seconds, it was frozen in place. His dad had fallen, Ian was saying. Paramedics were on the way - as was he - could I go upstairs and wait for them?

I hurriedly threw on clothes more presentable than pajamas. (Read: I put on a bra.) I rushed up the stairs to find his father sitting on the kitchen floor. Don was flushed, obviously angry and embarrassed, but appeared to be unhurt. Before I could ask what was wrong, Ian was bursting through the kitchen door saying the paramedics were out front.

I rushed through the house to let them in.

Don’s right leg sometimes gave him trouble, I honestly didn’t think it was more serious than his leg simply giving out. Since he’s a bigger man, it was difficult for him to maneuver once he had fallen. (No, this was not the first time he’d fallen since I’d known him. Just the first we’d had to call for help.)

I walked back to the kitchen, expecting the paramedics to already have him standing.

Instead, I found him still on the floor and everyone standing around trying to find out how to lift him onto a stretcher. They lifted, expecting him to be able to put some weight on his legs. He cried out in pain and Ian grabbed my hand in worry. We stood by as they eventually got Don onto the stretcher and stable.

They informed us that they were taking him to the hospital - we were welcome to follow behind.

That Saturday morning was the start of a long week spent at the hospital: Don had broken his hip.

Fortunately, he didn’t break the actual joint, so a hip replacement wasn’t necessary. They performed surgery to repair the broken femur, which had snapped in five different places. While Don made it through surgery with flying colors, it quickly became apparent that he was not recovering at what hospital staff would call a “normal” pace.

A week later, instead of Don walking out of the hospital, like we’d been led to hope, we wheeled him out in a wheelchair. Ian and I held bags of equipment to help us take care of him at home.

All plans were put on hold.

We moved into a spare bedroom upstairs as Ian used our savings to pay for out-of-pocket medical expenses for his father. My job search came to a halt, I was now a caregiver to Don so that Ian could continue to work. His income had to support all three of us.

Eventually, we discovered why Don was not recovering. He had multiple sclerosis.

While the diagnosis helped us to get him approved for disability and get him the care he needed; the care he DESERVED, the diagnosis came as a great blow to us all. Don had to deal with sudden and infinite change in his lifestyle.

There were no more talks of when he “got better.”

Now there talks of celebrating the smallest victories. Instead of traveling to visit his sisters and friends, he now had to rely on them visiting him. His freedom was gone in the same moment his financial and medical concerns were addressed.

It is still something he struggles with, over a year later.

Ian had to grow up more than any man in his early thirties should. The easy life of an adult man with only the responsibilities of he and his girlfriend was ripped from his hands. Now, he must watch his father age at an alarming rate.

Ian has aged as well. He now was the man of the house, making decisions not only for himself but for his father. The pressure of responsibility is a heavy burden, and it’s taken a toll on him. He’s much more serious now than he was when we first met. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s been hard for me to watch him age.

I learned a lot about myself during all of this.

I learned that I was not made to be a caregiver. I don’t have the patience and compassion required - I am eternally grateful for those who do. Don is now getting better care than I ever could’ve provided. I also learned how to truly be in love with someone.

In past relationships, when things got tough, it was easy to say good bye. Through the worst of it, many friends asked why I didn’t leave. If it was too much to handle, just go. Oddly, leaving was never an option. From the first day, I’ve rolled up my sleeves and did what was needed. My heart knew before my mind - I loved Ian. And our love wasn’t something to give up on simply because things were hard.

And things did get HARD.

There were nights I cried and screamed out of frustration until my throat was raw. There were days I wanted nothing more than to pick up a pack of the cigarettes I had quit smoking and breathe their sweet relaxation. Drinking wasn’t an option; I needed to be alert in case of an emergency.

There were moments I watched helplessly as another piece of Ian cracked under the pressure. And there were moments when the three of us would sit in silence, overwhelmed by life, each of us in the throes of our own depression, unable to reach out to another, weakened by the demons in our minds. 

In the end, lessons were learned, life was lived, and we each made it out a little bit stronger… if a little bit scarred. Don is living in an assisted living facility where he receives the care and independence he needs and deserves. Ian and I have moved into our own little apartment and have started rebuilding our future.

Life sure can throw some real curves.