Take Care

            Last night Sylvia told me that she wants her leg to break, and that she keeps trying to make it happen. When she is hanging upside down at recess, for example, she tries to let go of the bar, only to find it is impossible to do.
“Why do you want to break a leg?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I already knew.
“So you will care about me,” she said matter-of-factly.
“But we do—” I started to protest.
“Oh, I know you care about about me,” she cut me off. “But you know. Really care.”

Sylvia’s right again; I do know. Sylvia wants our undivided attention, our un-distracted sympathy. I remember how I daydreamed about getting really sick when the kids were little. Part of it was I wanted nothing more than a reason to stay in bed all day; I was exhausted to the core. But it was more than that. After taking care of others day in and day out, my number one fantasy was for someone— anyone— to take care of me.
When the twins were infants and I felt conflicted about giving up my job, I started looking for ways to expand my world beyond the confines of home and family. Volunteer work seemed an obvious answer, and what simpler way to make a contribution than to finally give in to the Red Cross’ pleas for platelet donations?
Unlike giving blood, donating platelets often takes upwards of two hours. You lie in a chair with needles in both arms, making it impossible to hold, or do, anything at all. It came as no surprise to me, even then, that that was exactly the kind of meaningful “work” I wanted to do.
           I said as much to a technician once, as she adjusted my television screen. I told her that I had three little kids at home, so it was nice to do nothing for a change.
          “That’s just sad,” she said emphatically, shaking her head. “You have to come in here just to get a break?”
I laughed out loud, pleased by her compassion. But I also knew it was more than that. Sure, it was nice to lie back and watch a movie in the middle of the afternoon. But even nicer was the care they took. When I was cold, they brought me heated blankets and tucked them carefully around my legs. When I was thirsty, they held a cup for me, and when my lips began to tingle because of the falling calcium in my blood, they brought me Tums and fed me pretzels one by one.
Was it sad, I wonder? Once, when my blood pressure dropped too low, there was a flurry of activity around my chair. Concerned faces hovered over me, and I began to cry.
“That’s good,” one of the technicians said matter-of-factly. “Crying will help too.”
           Did they think I was crying because I was frightened by the dizziness? No, I cried out of weakness and out of gratitude, and the pure relief of being taken care of.

          It seems a very human need to me, this longing for care. Perhaps in communities in which people are less isolated than in ours, it is easier to come by. If my mom lived downstairs, for example, and I was sick or tired, she’d make me a cup of tea and tell me to go lie down.
          Instead, we struggle on, alone. It does not surprise me that in our busy, isolating world, so many of us are willing to pay handsomely for such care. We can pay for someone to massage our backs, paint our toes, blow dry our hair. But the true care, the kind of love-in-action that Sylvia craves, that kind of care is harder to come by.
           A few years ago, when a good friend turned forty, she told me she had decided to give herself forty days of self-care.  A walk, a bath, a latte, flowers... Every day she would do something nice for herself. At the time, Clayton was four and the girls were two, and while I liked the idea, I couldn’t bring myself to add one more obligation to the daily to-do list. But this year, I remembered what she’d said. Forty-four days of self care? Could I manage it now?
          I told the kids about it.
         “What did you do today?” Clayton wanted to know.
          I told him I’d bought myself a cup of coffee. My husband, overhearing, laughed.
         “I do that all the time anyway,” he said.

          I didn’t make it to forty-four, or even forty. I stopped counting after day six. The demands of work and family asserted themselves; my resolved slackened. But today, bone-weary at only seven thirty, I let myself take a bath instead of cleaning the bathroom. There’s a desk of clutter to be cleared up downstairs, not to mention the never-ending laundry, but instead I made myself listen to my mother’s voice inside my head.
        “Why don’t you go lie down?” she said.
So I did.
         Perhaps one day I’ll make it to forty-four, after all.