Afraid and Fearless

I hate mice.

Wait, that’s not really true. I don’t hate hate them. They have a right to exist. Just not in my house.

I think it’s more accurate to say, mice creep me out. They’re quiet and quick and oh-so-dirty (cue shudder).

A few weeks ago, Jim had to “escort” five of them across the rainbow bridge, but now there are a few more of their kin living in the walls that need to cross that bridge, too. The problem is, Jim’s been in the hospital for ten days and won’t be home for a few more.

Jim and I divvy up chores pretty evenly around here, and sometimes they overlap. But when it comes to critters, that’s Jim’s—and only Jim’s—area. A few years ago, a rabid racoon got into our basement, and Jim rigged a thingamajig to catch and kill it while Zuzu (our dog) and I huddled in the living room. Last year, a rabid skunk was in our yard and, again, Jim disposed of the poor thing while I sat in our bedroom with my fingers in my ears.

I’d hoped our mouse problem was solved, but a few days ago, when I was home between visits to the hospital, I noticed that one of our quick-kill mouse traps had been “engaged,” and that there was a faint smell of…death. I called Jim (this was before his surgery) and he said I had to: 1) pick up the trap; 2) dump the mouse in the woods; and 3) try not to gag (OK, that was me talking to me).

Wearing a blue rubber glove, I set the trap on the front seat of our side-by-side and—shaking the way you do when you are challenged to do something you absolutely do not want to do—drove to a grove of trees and disposed of the mouse. (I won’t go into details about how I had to shake the trap…) I drove home and washed my hands a dozen times, and suddenly, I felt remarkably brave. I did something I never wanted to do. Something I always relied on someone else to do. I’d had to be fearless in the face of fear.

OK, so it was just a mouse. I get it. I didn’t go off to war or anything. But for ten days, my life has been turned upside down, and fear and fearless have been playing dodgeball in my nervous system. My Number One Favorite Guy had a mitral valve replaced. Chest opened, the whole thing. He won’t be cleaning out mouse traps anytime soon. Or doing laundry. Or mowing the lawn. Or watering his tomatoes. Or feeding the feral cats that live in his garage. Or washing his hair by himself. Or getting out of a chair by himself. Or driving himself anywhere.

I’ll be doing (a lot of) that. Can I? Am I enough? Those are the questions that circle daily around my brain. I’m not 30 anymore. I’m 62. I have super bad knees and an ankle that’s just waiting to trip me up. Walking from the parking garage to his room at the hospital (the one they base “The Pitt” on), is painful, and I sometimes have to talk myself through every step. But it was in some of those steps that I realized that I can be afraid—for me, for Jim, for the future, of whatever changes that will come—and still be fearless at the same time.

Fear is natural. It has served humans and other animals well in terms of survival. Fearless, though, means we do what we have to in spite of fear.

I was afraid that Jim’s surgery wouldn’t go well. I was afraid he’d die. I’m still afraid of that. I can’t do anything about that fear except feel it, acknowledge it, and then focus on the things that require me to be fearless. Like setting new mousetraps and dumping them when necessary. Helping Jim out of a chair, washing his hair, driving him to appointments; being the person I’m challenged to be in this moment.

Am I enough? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But I can’t let my fear dictate how I move forward and help Jim (us) recover from the outcome of our new reality.