I hate being unable to do things that I know I should be able to do. I really hate not being able to do things that I once could do. Especially if it’s something I could do yesterday and can’t do today. I know, hate is such a strong word. But it’s the right word when you think about all the jars you can’t open and have to wait for someone to come and help you.
So today I thought I’d make a nice meal, it required some jarred items, in addition to the stuff I could work with. So I took everything to the counter and decided I’d open it all one time and then I’d be able to get what I needed when I did, and the I could put the lids on after. The first jar I went to open would not budge. I smacked its bottom, I used my jar gripper, I ran the thing under hot water. It would not move. Not even a fraction. Defiantly it held firm. It taunted me as I set it aside and grabbed another jar. I figured it was the stubborn one.
I was wrong. Very wrong. Wrong to the nth degree. None of the jars would open. None moved even a little. But I wasn’t about to give up. Oh no, not I. Instead I carried on with getting everything else cooked or chopped and all tossed together. I had hoped the jars would notice my earnest effort and relax into opening up easily. But apparently this was not to be.
It happens some times, with lupus and arthritis. Some days are just a little harder. And some days no matter what you try, you can’t get the darn jars of life open. Now in the past a moment like this would have me smashing the jars, cursing and crying. Rage really is what these moments would do to me.
But instead I sorted out was left to use as substitutes and enjoyed my meal al the same, if not exactly as I had planned. Beloved noticed my red cheeks, wandered into the kitchen and noticed the line of jars. But he didn’t ask. Nope. Instead he just opened them all, took the products out of them and put them in easy to open containers. “For next time,” he said.
I have people in my life who open jars for me, as well as bottles and sometimes even cook for me. And sometimes I hate that I need help, that I’m not able to do this for myself. But it’s impossible to hate those who pick up the pieces, open the jars and get living with lupus. It’s impossible to hate the tears and frustration these people shed out of their own dealings with lupus, albeit have to deal with someone they care about having lupus.
Some Beloved opened the jars, put the contents into easy to open containers and shed his tears in the pantry. He claimed that the fumes of onions from the pantry brought tears to his eyes. Except we don’t have onions in the pantry.