Last night, my husband, Joe, was “feeling strange.” At our age (56), “feeling strange” is never a good thing, as in, at the funeral, everyone is whispering “well, he said he was feeling strange.” His stomach was upset, so he took some medicine and laid down on the couch and said to give him 30 minutes. This was very un-Joe-like behavior, after all, we had just taken his first baby back ribs off his new smoker, something he’d been looking forward to for hours. Thirty minutes later, I tried to wake him up and he wouldn’t stir. At this point, I was beginning to get concerned. The good news, he was still breathing, so I decided to give him 20 more minutes and then I was throwing cold water on him or possibly calling 911, depending. Luckily, he did wake on my second attempt, said he felt remarkably better and proceeded to scarf down a whole rack of ribs. I’d say his recovery was nothing short of miraculous.
I tell you that story to get to this. As we were getting ready to go to bed, I was telling him how much he scared me and how he was lucky I didn’t call the paramedics. He just laughed at his imagined near demise, gave me a hug and said, “When the time comes, I’ll be happy if you just think ‘he was good to me’.” That got me thinking, and Sweetheart, if that day ever comes, I’ll be thinking so much more. I am five months older than Joe, so I could very well be the first to go. There’s no need to wait until the end, but just in case, Joe should know what I think about every day.
I think the luckiest day of my life was when you found me. I think about how you call me beautiful, with a straight face. I think about how I sometimes catch you just watching me read and about how you rub my feet as you read. I think about the sacrifices you make by working hard to give me a nice home and a wonderful life. I think about how you laugh at all my smartass comments and how you make me laugh in return. I think you fixed what was broken. I think of how in 6 1/2 years you’ve only gotten mad at me twice, if you don’t count this post. I think of how you love your dog even when she’s a pain in our collective ass. I think about quiet weekends at home watching football and how you indulge my thirst for travel…and how I’m happy either way. I think about you, solid and dependable, and always there for me no matter what. It’s cliche, but you are my rock, and your steady support gives me wings. I think about how much better my life is with you in it, and how together, we are extra awesome. I think of comfort and passion, laughter and love, and the peace that comes from knowing I am right where I belong. I think of a thousand things, both large and small, that you do just to make me smile. But mostly, as long as I breathe, I’ll think you are everything…and of how good you are to me.