Remember the newlywed phase? How giddy it was?
You brought out the best in each other. Every day was a love-fest, nobody took anything for granted, and you promised to support each other forever. Words like “soul mate” and “my everything” were tossed around.
Yeah. Then real life happened.
I thought about that yesterday, as I cooked, cleaned, helped Widdle take a shower and fetched ginger ale, food, towels and chargers. I thought about it as I swept the floors, dressed his poor broken leg, washed another load of stretchy gym shorts and took trash to the dump.
Not exactly the stuff of romance, but that’s fine. Today, here and now, is still good, even if there’s no champagne or fluttering hearts. Life threw us a curve, but we’ll figure it out.
Even housebound with a titanium rod, four screws and 16 staples in his leg, Widdle is matter-of-fact with zero self-pity. (I’d be kicking, screaming and sulking if our roles were reversed.)
“I’m just glad I didn’t break both legs,” he said.
My beloved is an independent, active person. He’s used to planning and working, going and doing. Now he’s confined to the sofa with his phone, laptop, work schedule and Roku. (I force him to take brief breaks for naps and Netflix.)
Even though we were 40-somethings when we wed, “for better or for worse, in sickness and in health,” didn’t seem real, until it was.
“Better” has been great. Widdle and I have been fortunate to spend many hours in the company of friends and family. We share the same values (and we both like to eat). We have fun just hanging out on a Tuesday night. No-one makes me laugh the way he does. When we were dating, he told me a story on the phone--about a possum that jumped out of his truck—that made me double over. (That may have been the moment I fell in love.)
We’ve traveled from the Caribbean to Canada, Key West to Alaska. We’ve hiked through the California redwoods, watched killer whales in Juneau and spent a night in Victoria, B.C., photographing white horses pulling dazzling, pumpkin-shaped carriages outlined in fairy lights. (Full disclosure: I also ate maple candy until my hands shook.)
“Worse” has been, well, worse.
We buried and mourned beloved friends and relatives. Lightning hit my townhouse. Pets died. I needed surgery. He needed surgery. (NOTE: Both were outpatient, which cannot be compared to inpatient surgery to piece a leg back together after it shatters like a saltine cracker.)
We were thankful for the good times and slogged through the bad times.
Every now and then Widdle would ask, “Will you take care of me when I’m old?”
“Of course,” I always said. “It would be my privilege. Will you take care of me when I’m old?”
His reply never varied: “I don’t have the patience, but I’d hire somebody who did.” (Which made me laugh every time.)
Lo and behold, I’m taking care of him way before he’s old. And, corny as it sounds, it IS a privilege.
I’m not a nurse by temperament or inclination—the girlfriend of an injured friend didn’t leave his side FOR 67 DAYS, which I admire but can never emulate—so caretaking doesn’t come naturally.
What does come naturally is the gratitude I feel—for the wonderful life Widdle has given me. For standing between me and an often hostile world. For saying, “Let’s do it” to any suggested adventure.
For being—heck, I’ll say it—my soul mate.
Julie R. Smith, who pours a mean ginger ale, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.
