It Must Be Like Having A Meal With a 3-Year-Old

I have learned so much over the past 4 months I could likely put it all in a 300-page book. And I probably will, mostly for myself, so as never to forget the journey we're taking.

As Steve and I had lunch together today I thought to myself, "dining with me must be like having a meal with a 3-year-old." Really. Truly. I ordered a chicken enchilada. As soon as it arrived I did what is customary these days and asked Steve to cut it up for me. Not only are my hands fairly unusable lately but I'm using a sling to relieve the pressure on my muscle from where they took the biopsy Tuesday. It's my left arm so asking a lefty to eat right handed is a joke all by itself but add to that the inability to really grasp the fork and I'm sure it's something to watch. This is no big deal to Steve and most often he offers before I even ask but it's hard just the same.

And I'm keenly aware of those around me. I'm certain most of them aren't making fun of the fact that I can't cut up my own food but they do notice, likely make judgments on why that is and it makes me so uncomfortable. The truth is, I would probably notice and wonder if I saw one adult cut up the food of another one. It's normal. But when it's me, I can barely hold back the tears. That's my one certainty these days--the ability to cry at almost anything.

Steve frequently tells me, "You know Julie, they aren't watching you nearly as much as you think they are. It's in your head." And I think he's right. Sure, a few may notice here and there but mostly I would have to agree (if really pressed) that it's not the ENTIRE restaurant!

But here's the one that really bothered me. A couple of weeks ago I went to a dinner meeting and ordered grilled chicken breast with pasta. I didn't think twice about it until the plate was placed in front of me. Instantly I panicked. How the heck was I going to eat that chicken? Should I just pick it up with my fingers and gnaw on it? I'm not quite used to having to think about this type of thing before I order. I looked around at the table and everyone else was eating. Good. Nobody had noticed the sheer panic on my face. Fortunately I was seated next to one of my closest friends. I leaned over and whispered, "would you mind cutting my chicken for me?" I was on the verge of tears and utterly appalled that I need this kind of help at my age.

"Of course!" she replied. Without making a big deal she took my knife and fork and cut it up then asked if I needed anything else. A few of the ladies noticed but nobody made a deal of it. I proceeded to eat my meal and we had a such a nice time I kind of put it in the back of my mind until we walked out. We got to her car and I said "Thanks for helping me in there and not making me feel like a fool for asking." The tears were no longer on the verge but were streaming down my face. She hugged me and said "it was really not a big deal. I do it for my grandson all the time!" I half laughed in my tears and said "I know, that's the problem - he's 3 and I am so NOT 3!" She laughed and said "that's what friends are for - don't think another thought about it."

She gave me back what I stupidly threw to the side as I requested help - my dignity. One of the things I've had to learn how to do is accept help from others and when I am able, to give it back freely while helping them to maintain their dignity. Even recalling this incident has made me cry all over again. If there's such a thing as "blubbering idiot disease" I most definitely have it.