It is becoming hard to ignore. Every day there is another comment, another sign. My primary caregivers — my husband, Norm, and 25-year-old daughter, Kate — may be getting a little tired of the job.

Since I had surgery Jan. 29 to remove a cancerous tumor, along with several centimetres of bowel, I have been on the slow road to recovery. In fact, there have been days when it feels like I have stalled along that road.

Kate and Norm have been my fellow travellers. From my early days of staying in bed to my recent days of holding court in the easy chair in the living room, they have delivered my beverages, tried to entice me with special food, rented me movies, taken me for walks, played cribbage with me.

But they seem to be doing it with a little less enthusiasm these days.

Part of that may be that I am now soundly beating Norm at cribbage. I see that as a sure sign that I am getting better; he sees it as something slightly less positive. Yesterday, as I opened up a 50-point lead heading down the home stretch, he threatened to break my pegs (the lucky red pegs!) — hardly the attitude of a happy caregiver.

Recently when out for a walk, we stopped to chat with a neighbour. His wife was away caring for a friend who had just had surgery.

“Ohhhh,” I said, “I have so much sympathy now for someone who has gone through surgery.”

“Ohhhh,” my husband said wryly, “I have so much sympathy for someone who has taken care of someone who has gone through surgery.”

Then, a final blow, the other morning he rushed off to an early assignment without making the coffee. He didn’t even offer an apology. The message was clear: if I wanted coffee, I had to make it myself.

With Kate, the signs are a little more straightforward. When I asked for a glass of water recently, she got it for me — but not before she pointed out that I could have gotten it myself.

Last night, when she was making dinner, she suggested I could set the table. It is clear to her that my days of having my dinner delivered to me in my easy chair are over.

And it is true, I am quite capable of doing most things for myself. I may do it slower but I can do it. There is no reason any longer to expect Norm and Kate to wait on me hand and foot — aside from the fact that I have gotten quite used to it.

In fact, I like having minions. I like sitting in my chair giving directions. I have become very good at saying things like, “We should vacuum the living room,” or, “We should clean the kitchen.”

I see it as an inclusive “we.” Norm and Kate see it otherwise.

“She is using ‘we’ again,” they’ll say, looking at each other smugly. “You know what that means.”

Yes, my days as recuperation queen have ended. My caregivers are giving a little less.

Of course, they are not off the hook yet. I am starting the final leg of my treatment. I go for chemotherapy for five days a week, then I have three weeks off. I do that for four months. Hopefully, at the end of that I will have beaten the cancer.

Norm and Kate are busy arranging their schedules to accommodate my trips to the hospital. Unfortunately, there is no way to know how I will react to the chemotherapy. I made it through the first round before Christmas with only a few side effects. I may not be as lucky this time — which means Kate and Norm may not escape their caregiver roles just yet. I may be back in my easy chair, graciously handing out commands.

— TESSA WILMOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF