Yesterday I came home to a flooded basement due to a faulty sump pump installation. A couple hundred dollars and a plumber later, I had a fuse sitting in front of me that apparently needed replacing. I sent a picture of the fuse to my husband.
Last night, I took the carpet cleaner downstairs and sucked up the water in the area I could reach, but there were a lot of places I couldn’t get to. I knew what I would face when I came home this afternoon, so I spent my entire commute trying to psych myself up for a few hours of carpet cleaning.
There are several large and heavy items right in the middle of the room. I can’t move them and I can’t get past them to get to the area where the worst of the water is, so I knew that it would be a struggle to get the work done. I knew I would have to ask my husband to help me, but I was going to try to tackle it myself first. After a very difficult day at work due to some unexpected administrative changes, I wasn’t sure if I could handle much of anything.
I came home, discovered that someone had eaten the last of my favorite cookies, dragged my feet while going to change into my shorts and flip-flops to tackle the basement, drank a glass of ice water, checked Facebook, and finally went down to the basement—and discovered an inch of water in the same room I’d been working on last night.
That fuse that that plumber handed me? My husband and son each thought the other one was going to replace the fuse. They were both wrong. Oops. (Edited to add another “oops”: Because the fuse needed to be replaced, the pump was plugged by an extension cord into an outlet across the room. Silly me, thinking it was bad for a cord to be sitting in water when I discovered yesterday’s water, unplugged the sump pump. That is what caused today’s mess. Oops.)
Whatever had been keeping me together all day and during the long drive home broke. I could feel my shoulders and spirit slump. I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t even bring myself to cry. All I could think was, “I need my husband.”
The thought startled me. Having major problems trusting, I refused for years to depend on my husband for anything. I refused to need him. I insisted on feeling whole and capable apart from him. I didn’t want to be taken care of. One of the things that has changed as a by-product of our marriage renovation is that as I feel more connected to him sexually, the emotional connections have grown as well. It isn’t hard to need him. In fact, I can’t even recapture the sense of what it is like to feel apart from him anymore.
Needing him right now is strange. It still feels a new to be in this place, to know that I am depending on him for something. At the same time, I feel comforted. I know I don’t have to face the basement alone. I know he will replace the fuse, fix the sump pump, and be with me while we take turns using the carpet cleaner. Realizing that a) I actually need my husband, and b) I can depend on him is so freeing. I can feel my spirits lift.
So here I sit, waiting for him to get home from work. He will drive our daughter to her job, pick up the fuse, get us some drive-through dinner (hey, some days are just made for that), come back home and wrap his arms around me. Then, I’m sure, I will finally be able to cry. And it will be okay.