The Taste of Autonomy: My Journey to a Proper Cup of Coffee

The trouble with a lingering unfortunate event that limits your ability to do things yourself is that it forces you to accept whatever is given to you, even if you don't quite like it, simply because others don't do it your way. You see, I recently had an accident and haven't been able to move around the house as I'd like. Even normal daily tasks, like getting up and setting up the coffee maker, have become a total odyssey. Getting to the kitchen is an exhausting process and, when I ask for coffee, unfortunately, it’s never brought to me exactly how I like it.

My brother makes me what I call "coffee candy"; my sister-in-law's is way too strong and very sweet; my husband’s is very weak and also sweet; and my neighbor’s... well, hers is just watery. What a mess! Faced with this situation, I’ve had to gather my courage. The first few days were horrible because I couldn't even get out of bed, but later, hopping along and using a kitchen stool for support, I managed to make it. It took a long time and I felt a lot of pain in the process, but I reached the counter.

Fortunately, throughout this recovery process, my 8-year-old son Diego has stayed very close to me and makes everything easier. For me, going from where I keep the coffee maker to the trash to dump the old grounds is an exhausting ordeal. Reaching the sink is another process; washing the pot and getting back to prepare the coffee is yet another. It is an enormous effort in terms of distance and time—not because my kitchen is particularly large, but rather because I cannot move one of my legs.

So, I lean on my son. At first, it was overwhelming, and I even felt like crying, especially when I saw how long everything was taking me. By the time I finally got to drink my coffee and head back to my room, the pain I felt made me think twice before trying again. However, after so many failed attempts where others made me coffee I didn't enjoy, I began to process my new "travel times" and adapt.

By relying on my son—"take this," "bring me that," "put this here," and "move that there"—we have coordinated much better. Although I don't feel as much pain as those first few days, my son helps by passing me things, and then, while I make my way back to sit in the living room to drink my coffee, he warms it up again for me. He does this because he knows I don't like lukewarm coffee. Thus, despite the whole process and the time it takes, I can finally enjoy a delicious cup of coffee made by me, with my own measurements and the flavor I love.

And yes, I confess I am very picky about my coffee, especially when someone else makes it and "skimps" on the coffee grounds or adds sugar as if there were no tomorrow. I’ve now internalized the idea that good things take time, and a great cup of coffee will always have its wait and its moment. I admit I am very restless, and that is one of the things that has affected me most in this situation; my mind is still active, even if I’m not as physically mobile as I was less than a month ago. My leg still hurts, but it is healing; it, too, is living its own process.