Last summer I was running, fell, and Hurt my right hand. Because I aim for honesty in my writing - and an Injury of this sort might cause you to believe I was running fast, and fell due to sheer speed - I’d like to set the stage.

I am a slow runner and (while I wish I was capable of athletic feats and tragic, graceful injuries) what actually happened is that I was shuffling up a hill about two blocks from my house, probably listening to “Sugar” by Maroon 5 on my headphones which was on heavy rotation in my running playlist at that time, when I just face-planted. Not because of an impediment in my path or a wayward vehicle, which are not things I require for falling.

My right hand, which I used to brace myself upon hitting the pavement, continued to hurt for a month, then longer, and I finally went to the doctor, who sent me to physical therapy. I went to sessions for weeks, where I sat and happily watched HGTV during the ten-minute ice-pack portion of my stay, then proceeded to do exercises like rolling a tennis ball up a wall and carrying a weight for three laps around the room. It was a COVID delight, to be honest, chit chatting (through our masks, of course) with the kind staff and rejoicing in a solo activity with the goal of making something better - and it was working!

My hand and wrist got stronger and throbbed less. I’d accidentally miss a session or two, and it would start up again, my therapists explaining that we hadn’t quite “gotten there” so slowing down allowed it to flare. Over this past summer, with a few trips on the calendar, I stopped going regularly, then stopped going entirely. My hand felt fine, and I figured going back was overkill.

But over the past few weeks the pain has started up again. Across the top of my right hand, and through my forearm. Sometimes making my whole arm hurt. From a fall I incurred while running about 14 miles per hour! Both embarrassing and impressive.

Besides the fact that I should obviously address this, there’s another part of this hand injury ordeal that I keep thinking about; a larger theme. Even though it’s really tough to get to PT sessions when you’re working and have kids and it’s a pandemic, and even though I didn’t bring this injury on myself in any purposeful way, I totally blame myself for this injury, and for the fact that it’s resurfaced. I didn’t do enough exercises at home. I skipped enough sessions that I never healed. I’m doing something in daily life to aggravate the injury and, although I don’t know what it is, and I’m not a doctor, I should be able to figure this out.

I blame myself for the hand, and I blame myself for a lot of things that occur - or get skipped, ignored or forgotten - in our lives, even though they are clearly not my fault. Some of these things, like my injury and getting the laundry done in a timely manner, are more on the “debatable” side. I can, but I shouldn’t, blame myself so harshly for the fact that Gabe doesn’t have clean soccer socks. It’s a problem with numerous causes, including the removal of soccer socks in the car on the way home, which is a hallmark and total joy of parenting during the fall sports season.

But some of these things are not in the “debatable” category. Yesterday I went to work in the office and J got the kids ready and walked them to school. They were late, and when I heard this, I blamed myself. I did not have a reason or even the semblance of a reason. I wasn’t there, but if I had done something better at some juncture, they would have been on time. First of all: what? Second of all: who cares if they were late?

I’m going to try and avoid discussing the obvious here because there are people far more talented than I who have really nailed the whole analytical-essay-about-the-domestic-front angle. But let’s state just a little bit of the obvious for reference: a lot of people, and many, many women, I think, engage in this sort of self-blaming-behavior; it is silly; and it’s detrimental to our confidence and well-being. Many women describe a feeling I know quite well, which is the constant mental stream of to-dos and have-not-dones that result in a generalized state of frenzy. It’s all on us and if there’s a failure at any juncture, it’s our fault.

The answer is very clearly NOT that we should stop planning, engaging or signing our children up for soccer practice (do not even think about telling me that is the answer.) The answer is not that if I hadn’t taken on a full-time job or had three children that I would have the necessary time for my regular ice-pack and “Property Brothers” date at physical therapy, and my hand would start feeling better again, and that I’d be better at planning playdates and able to maintain a backyard vegetable garden.

The answer is definitely not that one day I’ll be organized enough and finally “get it right.”

I think the answers, and the reasons behind them, are multi-faceted, and wrapped up in so very many long-standing tenets of our society. And I’m not the right person or writer to properly address this issue (that women clearly end up doing too many family-facing chores in heterosexual partnerships and other problematic expectations in relationships…that modern life is sort of impossible “to get right,” considering the norms of work, childcare and required soccer gear).

However, I’ve been discussing this feeling with people (mostly women) in many contexts over the years, most recently with a group of close friends via text. Really dissecting the feeling of things being “all on us,” and the simple act of identifying the issue has felt, if not revolutionary, well, then, a step in the right direction.

I talked about it with J recently, too, which was positively enlightening.

“When things go wrong in any given day, “ I told him, “I figure it’s my fault.”

“Huh,” he replied. “When things go wrong in my day, I figure it’s on someone else. And that I probably did everything right.”

(A pause here, where I’d like to state that upon saying this, and me being like “REALLY?” he was like, “Yes.” And then he said, “You should write about this!” That is what he said. So I’m not airing private grievances here. Furthermore, this wasn’t an argument, by any means. It was simply a sweet conversation we had one evening that basically summarizes the whole history of gender politics in our country.)

It’s not as easy as me needing to feel less responsible for things. Maybe my husband, and others, should feel more responsible for things.

And it’s not something that I, Cara McDonough, whose most widely-read piece of writing was probably the one about how Lasix made my dog incontinent, am going to fix. Instead, it’s something I’m noticing, and questioning. I’m working on calling out the problem of too many household responsibilities falling to me, but I’m also aware that it shouldn’t be my life’s work to discover the remedy. And, while it is important to take responsibility for our actions - I’m working on refuting the feeling when I truly bear none. Because it’s a stupidly heavy weight to continue carrying, at least so often.

So last night, when I was taking Gabe to piano, and were almost late because he forgot his mask and he was stressing out big time - because we were so late last time that we missed the lesson - I told myself, “That’s not your fault.” And this morning, when he forgot his tennis racket for his after school tennis club, I reminded myself, “Not on you, either.”

(Another aside that, in writing this, I’m realizing how much of my concern stems from ITEMS GABE CAN’T FIND and that, perhaps, it’s actually all on him.)

Not on me that we aren’t sure what we are having for dinner. Not on me that the dog needs a walk. That I don’t have time to read as much as I used to, or do yoga. That Adam Levine’s poppy vocals distracted me as I attempted a casual jog and I hurt my hand and it still hurts.

It’s not on me, it just is.

Whatever this is… an acknowledgment, or mindfulness or calling out the insanity… that’s how I’ve been handling this feeling as of late.

Sometimes we make real mistakes - we make them all the time.

But sometimes the medication your miniature pinscher/Pomeranian mix takes for her congestive heart failure has unfortunate side effects, and the best bet is to cede control, claim zero responsibility and reserve all that energy for the endless potential of this literally messy life.