On Monday, my husband got himself a new knee. In a few more months, the other will also be replaced.

Originally, the plan had been for me to have both of my knees replaced, but a car accident changed those plans.

I admit it’s been really tough for me to go through this, since I’ve been working toward knee replacement for a number of years. I was told in 2005 that I’d likely need at least one knee replaced, and by 2008 or so, having both replaced became a certainty. My weight and health prevented that, and quite frankly, I wasn’t mentally and emotionally ready to take that step, so I went through a litany of treatments to prolong the inevitable.

Beer?

In 2013, I finally started down the path I currently am on; the most successful of my weight loss efforts, and the most relief I’ve had for my knees, to date. A year ago, I would have told you that 2017 was my year to finally commit to surgery and replace my knees, but as fate would have it, a negligent driver pulled in front of my husband on a local highway and put those plans on the back burner.

The pendulum has swung in the opposite direction and we have switched places. Where I was once dependent on him, he is now dependent on me. I find this a bit of a shock, as I’m sure he does, as well — although I have no doubts he will see marked improvement from one day to the next. Yet, he’s struggled, knowing he can’t help me do the tasks that must be done.

In truth, had I stayed at my former weight, I’d be useless to him right now. I would have been unable to even walk far enough to visit him in the hospital, let alone the things I’ve needed to do, both for him and for our household, since then. He was my caregiver, then, pushing me in a wheelchair when I could not stand the pain of walking. I am his caregiver, now, as he regains what was lost.

The morning I knew he would be discharged from the hospital, I had a bit of an anxiety attack. Sometimes, the things I’ve accomplished don’t seem entirely real, and I have to admit I was terrified of him coming home and not being up to the task of caring for him. It’s one thing to be able to boast that I’m up to walking 6,000 steps a day; it’s entirely different to realize you are fully responsible for taking care of someone else, temporary or not.

One was a choice. The other was a requirement. I was way out of my comfort zone, and I still am. I’ve been the gimp around here for years; switching places with my husband had never been in the plans. I have not necessarily handled the stress well and met it head-on, brimming with confidence. No, it’s been more like — quite honestly — being scared shitless to be the one who must carry the burden.

Then again, this is life. It’s the life I’ve been training for since the day I decided to try to lose weight again. Sure, it matters that I can walk a lot better than I used to, but it matters more that I’m up to the task of caring for a loved one, physically able to drive, to walk, to carry, to support, to constantly move, to be strong when necessary.

Because that’s the way I break the walls down and live.