З життя
Коли хвороба стає випробуванням для любові: як я зрозуміла, що обрала не ту людину
**Щоденник**
Хвороба сама по собі – річ неприємна. Але ще гірше, коли поруч людина, яка, здавалося б, має бути опорою, але натомість лише байдужий спостерігач. Саме так я почувалась, коли в найважчий момент залишилася сама зі своєю слабкістю, а мій чоловік, Тарас, вирішив увімкнути телевізор і влаштуватися зручніше на дивані. Я лежала з температурою під сорок, тремтячими руками намагаючись дотягнутися до чашки, а він, не відриваючи погляду від екрану, навіть не спитав, чи потрібна мені вода. Не те щоб чаю – звичайне: «Як ти почуваєшся?» – так і залишилось невимовленим.
Я родом з невеличкого містечка під Черніговом, у нас у родині було прийнято піклуватися одне про одного. Мама й тато завжди трималися за руки, навіть у старому віці. Якщо хтось захворював – вся родина перетворювалася на міні-лікарню. Теплий чай, компреси, курячий бульйон – усе було, як треба. Я думала, так і має бути. А тепер я лежу, наче чужа у власній хаті. Щоб не померти від спраги, мені доводиться підводитися з ліжка й тягтися на кухню. А мій чоловік – навіть не кліпне оком. Не через жорстокість, ні. Просто йому байдуже.
Коли він хворіє – зовсім інша справа. Він може розбудити мене серед ночі й попросити принести градусник, воду, краплі. І я біжу. Не тому, що зобов’язана. А тому що кохаю. Бо так відчуваю. Бо так правильно. Я викликаю лікаря, варю узвар, готую щось легке, щоб не нудило. Я поруч. А він? Він уміє лише питати: «Ти сьогодні на роботу йдеш?» І якщо відповідаю, що ні – спокійно повертається й іде. Ні пропозиції допомогти, ні купити ліки, ні запитати, чи є в хаті хоч якась їжа.
Я намагалася говорити. Не раз. Але кожну розмову він перетворює на жарт або ображається, як дитина. Мовляв, я вигадую, перебільшую, драматизую. А може, і справді? – ламала я голову. Може, я занадто чутлива? Але потім згадувала, як стояла на кухні, ледве тримаючись на ногах, а він просто підійшов, поставив брудну тарілку в мийку й пішов. Наче я не людина, а обслуговчий персонал.
І тоді я вирішила: чинити так само. Не зі зла – просто сподіваючись, що він зрозуміє. Захворів він – а я мовчки зайнялася своїми справами. Ні чаю, ні ковдри, ні доброго слова. Він одразу ж почав нявкати: голова болить, їсти нічого, пити нічого. «На кухні все є», – спокійно сказала я. А він? Він не розумів, що відбувається. Метушився між холодильником і мікрохвильовкою, голосно зітхав, стогнав на всі квартири, сподіваючись, що я здамся. Але я не здалася. Я думала – він зрозуміє.
Та нажаль. Наступного разу, коли захворіла я, він знову проігнорував. Лежала я з температурою, з болем у суглобах, а він пройшов повз, навіть не глянув. Я спробувала ще раз поговорити. Нагадала йому, скільки років я за ним доглядала, і як лише раз вчинила інакше. А він мені – «Ти тоді за мною не доглядала, тепер і не вимагай». Усе. Один випадок перекреслив усі роки турботи. У цю мить я зрозуміла: він не вміє цінувати. Він не запам’ятовує добра. Він бачить лише те, що йому незручно.
Я не витримала. Мені й так було погано, але всередині кипіло. Я сказала усе, що накопичилось. Усе, що стримувала. А він образився. Обидівся! Не я, яку кинули в хворобі, не я, у якої навіть моральної підтримки нема, а він – великий, могутній чоловік, якого не погладили по голові в потрібний момент.
Напевно, я помилилась. Сильно помилилась у людині. Він не той, з ким хочеться постаріти. Не той, хто принесе води в останню хвилину. Не той, хто стане опорою. І від цієї думки болить набагато сильніше, ніж від будь-якої хвороби.
**Життя вчить: якщо любов не рівна – це не любов.**
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