З життя
Болезнь как испытание любви: как я осознала неправильный выбор
Болеть — само по себе тяжело. Но ещё тяжелее, когда рядом человек, который должен быть опорой, а вместо этого остаётся равнодушным зрителем. Именно так я ощутила себя в самый трудный момент, когда дрожащими руками пыталась достать чашку, а мой муж, Артём, спокойно смотрел телевизор, даже не поинтересовавшись, не надо ли мне воды. Не то чтобы чая — простого вопроса «Как самочувствие?» так и не прозвучало.
Я выросла в маленьком городке под Белгородом, и у нас в семье было заведено заботиться о близких. Родители всегда держались друг за друга, даже в старости. Если кто-то заболевал — сразу включался режим «домашней больницы»: тёплый чай с мёдом, горчичники, куриный бульон. Я думала, так и должно быть. А сейчас я лежу, как будто чужая в собственной квартире. Чтобы не упасть от обезвоживания, мне самой приходится тащиться на кухню, а муж даже бровью не поведёт. Не из-за жестокости — просто ему наплевать.
Но когда болеет он — всё иначе. Он разбудит меня среди ночи, попросит градусник, таблетки, воду. И я бегу. Не потому, что обязана. А потому что люблю. Потому что так правильно. Вызываю врача, варю морс, готовлю что-то лёгкое. Я рядом. А он? Он лишь спросит: «На работу пойдёшь?» И если отвечу «нет» — развернётся и уйдёт. Ни помочь, ни купить лекарств, ни спросить, есть ли дома хоть что-то съестное.
Я пыталась говорить. Не раз. Но каждый раз он либо отшучивался, либо обижался, как ребёнок. Мол, я всё придумываю, преувеличиваю. Может, и правда? — задумывалась я. Может, я слишком требовательная? Но потом вспоминала, как еле держалась на ногах у плиты, а он просто поставил в раковину грязную тарелку и ушёл. Будто я не жена, а прислуга.
Тогда я решила ответить тем же. Не со зла — надеялась, что он прочувствует. Он слег — я не подала ни чая, ни одеяла, ни ласкового слова. Он тут же начал ныть: голова раскалывается, есть нечего, пить нечего. «На кухне всё есть», — сухо ответила я. А он? Он искренне не понимал, что происходит. Носился между холодильником и плитой, громко вздыхал, стучал кружкой, надеясь, что я сдамся. Но я не сдалась. Думала — поймёт.
Но нет. В следующий раз, когда заболела я, он снова сделал вид, что ничего не происходит. Лежу с температурой, ломит всё тело, а он проходит мимо, даже не взглянув. Я попробовала поговорить снова. Напомнила, сколько лет ухаживала за ним, и как лишь однажды поступила иначе. А он выдал: «Ты тогда мне не помогала, так чего ты теперь хочешь?» Вот и всё. Один раз — и все годы заботы перечёркнуты. В тот момент до меня дошло: он не ценит добро. Он помнит только то, что ему неудобно.
Меня прорвало. И без того было плохо, а внутри всё кипело. Высказала всё, что копилось. А он… обиделся. Представляешь? Не я, брошенная в болезни, не я, оставленная без поддержки, а он — великий и несчастный, которого вовремя не приголубили.
Наверное, я ошиблась. Серьёзно ошиблась в человеке. Он не тот, с кем хочется встретить старость. Не тот, кто подаст стакан воды в последний момент. Не тот, на кого можно опереться. И эта мысль болит куда сильнее любой болезни.
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