New visitors policies for this hospital system were recently announced. I was told yesterday that under the updated guidelines, my husband can now be classified as an “Essential Care Partner” and visit me twice a week for two hours at a go. My nurse was fantastic about getting the requisite paperwork filled out so that Husband can come today, which just so happens to be our (ninth!!!) wedding anniversary.
I remember being as relaxed on my wedding day as is likely achievable for someone as anxious/neurotic as I am. I stressed about some of the little stuff, sure, but there was no question in my mind about the most important “detail” of all—who would be waiting for me at the end of the aisle—and there hasn’t been since, even when that handsome man spits sunflower seeds into a pop bottle and leaves the disgusting mess on the living-room table.
It probably says something that this habit, gross as it is, was the worst thing I could come up with when trying to think of a divorceable flaw. I mean, let’s be real here: the man’s a true winner.
When I’m feeling especially guilty about what he has to deal with because of my health issues and and tell him so, my husband’s predictable response is some variation of, “I signed up for this. You’re my wife, and I want to help you. You’d do the same for me.”
Which is, of course, true; I would do the same for him. What’s also true is that the fact that he’s been doing the heavy lifting in the “for worse” department isn’t lost on me.
And yet here we are, nine years after our wedding day, thirteen years after we met, and when I stop to reflect on it, I recognize that our relationship, one based on mutual respect, love, and support, is stronger than ever.
That must be some kind of magic.