Praise for My Man

He was sick in bed for a week. In all, sick for an entire month, with fever, trouble breathing, fatigue, headache and coughing. He dragged himself to work, week after week, and came home, had dinner and went to bed. Weekends he spent in bed. It seemed that it would never end, that my husband would be sick indefinitely.

We glimpsed into each others' worlds; usually I am the sick or injured one for weeks on end, while he takes over the grocery shopping and care of the children. And patiently waits for me to get well, while I bemoan my fate.

But he is long-suffering, he endures. He never complained, except once when I asked him if I could get him anything and he asked for a new body. He did a few things around the house and ran a few errands, even though I knew he'd rather not; that he'd rather be in bed.

The younger kids spent a lot of time with him while he was in bed, snuggling, reading, keeping him company. He was too tired to play or wrestle or swing them in the air, so they happily settled in bed with him.

Several trips to the doctor, a couple of antibiotics, inhalers and some steroids; I hated to see him pumped so full of medicine and none of it doing him any good, except the last antibiotic. It consumed my day, thinking of him and wanting to help him get well.

I couldn't concentrate, the housework was neglected, I feel like I lost a month. I felt like half of my brain went missing, it felt like part of me was falling away continually, over and over.

Then one evening, after a warmish day, he went outside to play with the kids. He got a bit winded and tired, but he was smiling and enjoying himself. And I felt a huge weight slide off my shoulders, the fog left me, and the next day I cleaned the house.

I marvel at how deeply content and patient this man is. How he does what he feels is his duty without complaint or excuses. How he is so steady even when very ill, so very dependable. How he is what a man should be. And he's mine.