"What a Pleasure"
How to Care for Each Other When We’re Not at Our Best (Or Even at Our Worst)
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Recently Elaine shared a nugget she pocketed from a podcast we listen to regularly—Weekly Energy Boost. It’s a weekly spiritual forecast based around the teachings of Kabbalah. In this particular episode, they mentioned the power of claiming, “What a Pleasure” in the midst of struggle, and the ability it gives you to drop into your heart space, let go, and feel gratitude in any given moment. Like when you’re late and you hit traffic, cue—What a Pleasure. Or when you’re physically sick AND homesick, cue—What a Pleasure.
Well, last week Elaine and I got a stomach bug, and man, it was a doozy.
She was caring for me while she was sick AF. At one point, I was vomiting into a trash can while she was hunched over the toilet on the other side of my wall, puking in violent harmony. Shit got real.
We were in my bed for a day and a half. We watched Pretty Woman and Love Jones, when we could keep our eyes open. We synchronized our sleeping and puking, as well as our attempts at eating and hydrating. My room became the sick den. Freya brought in little cards she made to cheer us up, and even made us breakfast, which we sadly couldn’t eat. She held down the fort in her own little way.
We were a care collective in motion.
We ate popsicles and threw them up. And then ate more. Popsicles have seriously NEVER TASTED SO GOOD. It probably helped that Elaine made them with coconut water and mango lemonade—that good shit. I’m hooked.
As shitty, literally and figuratively, as the whole thing was, not to mention that our tummies still haven’t recovered almost a week later, the thing that stands out to me most was how fortunate I felt to have this kind of relationship. Yes, she was on the clock, but her care went beyond that shit, and I felt a deep need to care for her as well.
Our care goes beyond the clock, it’s in relationship and harmony, and it’s messy and imperfect, but it’s a more conscious exchange, and we show that in so many ways, no matter how small.
It shows when I tell her, soaking wet post-shower, to just throw me on the bed, trash can in hand, and go, so she can make it to the bathroom. It shows when I skip asking for this or that, because if it means it makes her life easier, and it doesn’t make or break mine, I’ll be happier without it because she’s ok. It shows when she grabs me a wipe for my face while I’m yakking, because she knows that will make it less painful and gross when I’m done.
This is collective care. Seeing each other, being fully present, bending together, and healing together.
At one point I was so deep in my tired-sad-sick-girl mode that all I could do was reach my hand out to hold hers in solidarity. We’re in this together, and thank you for being here. I know this is hard. And ridiculous. I’m grateful. I love you.
Even just a simple, “are you ok?” felt like an offering. An acknowledgment of her humanness in a crazy care setting that I wished she didn’t have to do. I wish someone else could have come to our rescue and helped us both with all the things. But we were on our own, and dammit, we made the most of it.
When my Friday night caregiver, Jessica, agreed to arrive early for us, I made sure to request two ginger ales, which she was happy to pick up for us. She even offered us her Pedialyte and miso soup she had on hand. Girlfriend showed up with goodies.
Collective care strikes again.
It felt so good to tell Elaine to stop doing ANYTHING and just relax. Finally, I was able to ask her, “What do you need? Want some soup?” and then to have Jessica help make us all dinner—it was amazing. She made Freya ramen, which our little helper was delighted about.
There was a shared exhale in sweet relief between Elaine and I when Jessica took over. Reinforcements had come to our aid. We were on the up and up.
What a pleasure.