No. Not Today.
Hi friends. Me again. Though I want to feel chipper and happy, my heart isn’t quite in it today, which is exactly why I’ve chosen today to check in with y’all. Pull up an Adirondack chair, pour yourself a glass of sweet tea (or unsweetened if you prefer) and let’s catch up. Let your toes burrow into the sand, and we’ll listen to the waves crash on the beach, because #lifegoals, y’all.
Where do I even start? I’m not even sure anymore which end is up. I thought with the end of immediate surgery prep that life would sort itself out, and that my schedule would settle down. That hasn’t been the case. Because now, it’s turned into another level of fresh hell that somehow has landed on my shoulders, whether or not I wanted that responsibility.
The plan was, when the surgery was postponed, for Hubby to work on lowering his glucose numbers to be closer to adequate control. And to some extent, that’s happening because I’m making better choices for both of us. Until you’re in a position where you’re responsible for another adult’s health, and it’s implied the fallback is on you? You can’t know what it’s like.
After the surgery appointment fell through, his nurse came in loaded for bear, asking ME questions about why his numbers were so out of whack. I really wanted to look him dead in the eye and say, “You know? Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Because let’s face it. I can buy healthy food all day long, but I can’t make him choose cherries over candy.
I’ve struggled with maintaining my agency in this marriage, in this relationship. Not only from Hubby, but from people outside the two of us. Caregivers. People on his health team. Too many people assume way too much about us just looking from the outside inward. And unfortunately, when their assumptions are wrong, they land with a dull thud.
Case in point. A few months ago, a member of Hubby’s medical team came for an annual check-in. This person was not a physician or nurse, but a nutritionist. He came waltzing in (using that word for dramatic effect – he did not actually dance, except around the truth) and threw around broad generalizations. The one that hurt the most, though, was this:
“I mean, you’re married and you obviously love each other.”
I’d like to thank you, kind sir, for not just coming into my home and placing labels that may, or may not, apply to this relationship. If that assumption was obvious to him, that was a gross misread of the room.
If you’re a caregiver, and if you’re tempted to offer such sweeping statements without context, please don’t.
Another instance was a caregiver who I asked to run a simple errand; bring home a sub sandwich for Hubby. She asked if there was something else I needed. I mentioned in passing an on-sale item, but that I wanted to go myself. Instead of doing simply what I’d asked of her, she bought the thing anyway. Perhaps I should’ve been happy because she saved me a trip. But, what if the trip itself was my respite? She took that from me without asking.
I’ll preface this next part by telling you about a blessing that arrived in April this year—a 55” Samsung Smart TV. I mean, this thing is beautiful, and I got it at no charge through an Amazon program. Being as it’s fifty-five inches on the diagonal, it was a larger TV than I had ever handled, so after I assembled the stand, I needed help putting the new TV up. And that’s where I ran into the second, bigger issue.
The caregiver from the grocery store debacle was the same lady who helped me that day. And while I truly appreciated her help with the physical aspect, she, in her excitement, took over the actual set up. While I was working through an issue connecting my Samsung account, she simply kept going with the remote without asking me. I hadn’t asked her to take over. I was still doing it.
Help stops being help when it overrides the wishes of the person you’re helping.
It might seem like an overreaction to say that she is no longer welcome here. But having someone override my wishes in my own home?
Hell no. And while you’re leaving, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
One of the reasons you haven’t seen me around much on the pages of this blog is because my free time is no longer my own unless I’m deliberate about it. I have to carve out moments—opportunities—where I say, “You know what? I’m off-duty while your caregiver is here.” Hubby seems to believe that it’s my job to be a “gracious hostess.” They’re not houseguests. They’re employees.
The simple truth is… No one will just magically grant me three unhindered hours of time to write, make appointments, answer emails, call a friend, or just listen to music. I have to take those hours, or they’ll slip away. And since leaving my home has become more and more of a challenge, I’m creating a space where this time can quietly exist—whether it’s an hour or just ten minutes—without someone needing my energy or attention.
Every other Saturday, I have been responsible for an enormous task that I’ve done since 2023. And before today, though it wasn’t entirely enjoyable, I did the task with no complaints. But this morning, an argument broke out between Hubby and me that helped to put things into perspective. He wants autonomy with his healthcare decisions? Fine. Then that’s what he’ll get, but I can guarantee it will be nothing like what he imagined. Actions have consequences, something he seldom has to experience because I’ve always been here to absorb them.
- Meds run out? I make the two-hour round trip to Tampa.
- Glucose is out of control? I absorb the blame for his poor choices.
- Caregiver has a question? The first thing said is, “Hon, where is…?”
Consequences never disappear. They simply migrate to whoever is closest, to the one who has always accepted the responsibility.
Does no one ever think, “Hey, maybe Wendy actually needs a break”?
No. No, they don’t.
Because Hubby sees just his wife.
Because the nutritionist saw just the caregiver.
Because his aide saw just the family manager.
None of them see Wendy, the person. Wendy, the author. Wendy, the cat mom. In my loss of self, I’m invisible unless I say, in no uncertain terms, “No. Not today.”
So today, I washed my hands of the “big thing” that took up four to five hours of my Saturday every other week, and placed that responsibility where it probably belonged all along—on Hubby. On his care team. And little by little, this woman is taking back the things she’s lost, one stolen moment at a time.
Some people say to go outside and touch grass. In Florida, that’s terrible advice. The grass has fire ants. Stand in the rain instead. It asks nothing of you except that you be present.
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©2026 Wendy Londona. All Rights Reserved
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