Five years ago today I tricked that poor hapless bastard into marrying me.
We beat cancer together. He worked at least as hard as I did – probably more so. He arranged baby-sitters, missed gobs of work, and even gave up his ticket to see the last ever game at the old Yankee Stadium. With infinite patience, he reheat the same bowl of chicken noodle soup over and over again in the hopes I would eat a little bit more. (Later I also learned he was melting entire sticks of butter in said soup to sneak me more calories. I still have my doubts about that approach.)
I never walked into chemo alone. He kept detailed notes on each visit. He sent regular updates to friends and family and fielded all the tough phone calls. He cried, screamed, bargained, and battled right beside me. He shaved my head and held my hand as I sobbed in the bathtub. He mixed my Gatorade and carried my hospital bag. He fastened my bra when my fingers stopped working. He comforted me and loved me.
We’ve celebrated ten birthdays, set off the fire alarm nine times, purchased eight power tools, survived seven rounds of chemo, sang six rounds of “Blood on the Saddle”, submitted offers on five houses in Maplewood, traveled to four different continents, watched three Olympic opening ceremonies, lived through two surgeries, and navigated one kitchen remodel. Every single one of those things was easier, better, and more meaningful because we did them together.
He always sits patiently while I watch my American Idol – though he won’t admit he thought Adam Lambert was brilliant, too. He cries at sappy commercials. He finds me a cop show every night so I can fall asleep. He makes me laugh. He loves my family.
Thanks for not letting me die, bubs. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for five fan-frickin-tastic years. Here’s to another fifty more.
I’m so lucky he loves me…almost as much as I love him, the poor hapless bastard.
Amen to that. Here’s wishing you all the best in those next 50.
And I thank you both for keeping the bar raised so high.
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