'Til we're old and wrinkly

Indulge me by letting me brag on my husband for a few minutes. He’s not had an easy time the last couple of years, and having a formerly Superwoman wife who is now living with multiple health problems doesn’t make anything easier. (For anyone with fibromyalgia: I don’t recommend starting menopause. Ever. Don’t try to sweat it out. At the first sign of hot flashes or mood swings, go to your gyno or your witch doctor or someone who knows something about these things and get hormones, or vitamins, or whatever works for you. Fast.) Yet even though he’s occasionally cranky, and once in a while on a bad day has said things he’s later regretted, (and haven’t we all?), he will, at my lowest of low points, do something so wonderful that absolutely has me switching from my normal waterworks to tears of joy, and pride, and gratitude that he’s the one I chose all those years ago. (Plus our anniversary is coming up in a couple of weeks and I need all the spouse points I can get.)

Like earlier this week. Until then, I had been fortunate enough to be having a decent run of sleep (For those of you who don’t know me well, last summer I stopped sleeping. A stellar night was four hours, and some nights I didn’t get a wink. This went on for four months. Nothing – not from the health food store, not from the pharmacy, not even a tranquilizer dart - could put me out for more than a few hours at a time. Then I simply crashed, got some good medical care, and started getting better. It’s been touch and go since, and there are some bad nights, but far more fewer and far between than they used to be.

But this entry was supposed to be about him, and not my adventures in insomnia-land. So let’s get back to that.

On the bad mornings after the bad nights, he’s there for me. And I don’t mean that in the pop-psych-70s-Kalil-Ghilbran-wedding-on-the-beach-there-for-me sort of way. Physically. He’s there. And he’s a night owl, often not getting to bed until 3, 4 in the morning.

I get up at 6.

And he’s there. Letting me cry on him. Reminding me that one bad night doesn’t mean I’m going to crash and burn all over again. Keeping me company through my morning routine.

And on Tuesday, when it was – and this hasn’t happened in months – two rotten nights in a row – he drove me to work. I hadn’t even asked. And he picked me up after. And then took me to the doctor. Sat with me through the appointment. Even though it’s the doctor he hates with the uncomfortable waiting room who keeps us waiting forever.

Then he took me home.

He’s taken me to other doctors, he’s chauffeured me here and there before I was well enough to drive myself, but this one day meant more to me than all of the rest. And that’s only one of the joy and comforts of sharing one heart (and sometimes one brain) with someone for so long.