Sick Fantasy

When I wash the dishes or trim the roses - pretty much any time I have a sharp object in my hand - I visualize myself accidentally cutting off a finger or slicing open my hand.  I think we all do this, some not even quite consciously.  For most, I suspect these images only hit the brain as a warning to not accidentally inflict hospital-worthy wounds.  But lately, my mental flashes of bloody limbs have gotten more like movies.  Instead of a quick picture that is drowned out by a renewed consciousness to watch what I am doing, I have come to take these imaginings as a possible vacation.


I imagine the entire scene unfolding and it appeals to me.  I am not indirectly talking about suicide or an attempted suicide or even a pretend attempted suicide.  I am imagining rest and being taken care of.  I imagine the attention that would be paid to me, the way in which my youngest would finally stop asking me to hold him.  I imagine that for a moment no one would need me and I would instead, be the needy one.  As I write this my 7 year old has asked me to read him a poem that he wrote in a book he bound in a class I taught at his school.  He also asked if he could sit in my lap while I wrote.  And I am grateful for that - for being his teacher, for his love of me and his desire to share good memories with me, memories I helped facilitate. While I type these words, my 3 year old has made a successful trek up my leg and into my lap, my hands are rigid on the keyboard to prevent his monkey paws from ripping them off and toward what he'd like me to do.


Back to my victim fantasy: The whole ambulance ride to the hospital appeals to me, "Well, you look like you gave yourself one hell of a cut!  What were you trying to do there?", the paramedic would joke - he would joke because of course, there would be no life threatening danger, just a quick ER visit and some stitches.  Maybe a few hours in a room alone to recover while I waited to be picked up by my, very grateful I am alright, husband.  He would probably bring me lunch, perhaps a sandwich made from food I didn't purchase, or maybe even something my kids would hate, like raw fish or a curry.


No children would be allowed in the recovery room and I wouldn't  mind.  For just a few hours in a day I would not be able to put myself second.  If I didn't tend to this horrible wound I would be in for some serious trouble, doctors orders!  And the follow-up care would involve absolutely no washing of dishes, nor bathing of children and certainly, under no circumstances, folding any clothes.


Because I actually do know what it is like when I am under orders to lay low (post-partum X 4) and the dire consequences to my marriage when I am not head of clean-up patrol, in this fantasy, my mother, the most tidy human on earth - would come over for 4 hours a day of cleaning, cooking and general childcare.  And since I am  thoroughly orchestrating how this disaster/miracle/stay-cation would go down, how about this:  My whole family, sick with concern and worry for me, would realize that it just isn't healthy for their dear, beloved wife and mother to be solely focused on their needs.  My kids would each pick a heavy-duty chore he could take on.  One would realize that laundry was his new duty.  Another, mopping and sweeping.  Even the 3 year old would see me as I really am, a mere mortal who needs a little bit of physical space every once in while.


And then after the scar began to fade and became just another great party story, I would end the tale with this life lesson, "You know what I really learned from that whole event?  The take-away? Boundaries.  You have to learn to put down boundaries."