90 Days (AKA Marital Bliss)

When I think about how happy I am, I think of you.

When I think of you, I think of how different we are.

When I think about our differences, I think about your strength.

When I think about strength, I think about our love.

            Based on my past (or even my present) I cannot type this and proclaim to now be some expert on marriage. That assertion would be laughable. However, what I have learned is what works.

            There’s a lot that’s obvious to me after 3 months of marriage to you. Foremost among them, and as evidenced by the above half-assed haiku, I am no poet. The main thing though is that one key reason for a marriage to fail can be traced back to not knowing what you have until it’s gone.

            Even before our wedding I knew what I had in you. Someone that would support without nagging. Someone that would care without being critical. Someone who would love without judgment.

            I am free to be myself, even as that person subtly changes over time. That is something that I have never experienced with anyone else. The only expectations are: That I love you in return and make you happy. God help me if I ever falter on either of those two points.

            People always ask me, “David how will I know when it’s the right time to get married?”

            Nope wait, hold on - this has actually never happened. Alternatively, I insert myself in to their conversations about marriage straight away and tell them they are asking themselves the wrong question, and instead should be asking; “Have I found the right person to get married to?”

            People sometimes say, “Relationships are hard, relationships are work.” These people are wrong. If you are with the right person, relationships are easy. Getting along, living and loving together is effortless. You’ve reminded me what love is, and that marriage exists as an expression of and dedication to that rare kind of love.

            If I could ask anything of you after 3 months it would be simply; keep setting the tone, and I will keep doing my best to respond in kind. But as a reminder I am a slow learner when it comes to these matters, so please be patient.

Always know that I love you.

Everything's Gonna be OK?

I saw Tim walk into the break room, shoulders hunched, head down carrying his red Igloo cooler.  

“How’s it going Tim?” I did it, I asked the question to which no one really wants to hear the answer. Based on the most current office gossip I realized I already knew the answer anyway, which made my question all the more regrettable. From my perch against the counter, I took a swig of soda.

Tim looked up at me with those basset hound eyes life had recently given him, “Do you really want to know?” He made his way to an empty table, manhandled a seat, and plopped himself down along with his things.

Internally, I gasped, he had given me an out. “Yes of course.”

Wait, what the hell did I say that for?

Tim cocked his head to one side. It would’ve reminded me of that canine head tilt, but in his eyes I saw no confusion, only suspicion. He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Are you sure?

“Let’s hear it,” damn it I was too polite. I barely knew Tim and I didn’t think that whatever he was about to tell me I was qualified to hear as a random co-worker .

“Well you heard about Heather?” he said it as if he were testing me, feeling out the level at which I had dipped my feet into the stream of office gossip.

I nodded, as Tim unpacked the contents of his cooler. I saw the main course of his lunch was some mystery concoction of a light brown globular mixture in a tupperware container. He also set aside a smaller container which held a brownie, last was a bottle of generic sports drink. I remember because the pale blue liquid matched his eyes.

Tim’s eyes told me he already knew that I had known about his wife’s condition. “She’s gotten worse,” his words were sharp, short and to the point.

I was in too deep, and I felt like Tim needed an outlet, so I did the unthinkable. “Hmm, how is she doing?”

Tim shot those skeptical eyes my way again, still not sure if I was truly asking because I cared, or asking out of some poorly constructed sense of duty. I wasn’t sure myself. “Bedridden, for, “ he looked at the ceiling for an answer, “oh about a week now.”

“Sorry to hear man.”

“Yeah, she’s losing a lot of mobility.”

“Oh yikes,” I sighed, “so any positives, hints of improvements?”

“Nope,” Tim popped open his container of brown goo.

I tried to change the subject, “Whatcha got for lunch there?”

He didn’t take the bait, or the hint.

“She’s having trouble taking care of herself, so it’s getting harder on me, physically...mentally.”

“Can you get any sort of help with that?”

I didn’t expect Tim to respond with any humor, even if glib, but he did, “Are you volunteering?” the comment was flaky and dry.

I forced a chuckle. “Well I meant family, that sort of thing?”

“Heather’s family? Bunch of backwards religious fanatics. My family? Elitist rat racers. So no I doubt it,” Tim’s voice lowered, “I mean honestly it’d be nice just to get someone in there to deal with her incontinence.”  

I broke eye contact with Tim. In desperation, I turned to the only phrase that came to mind, “Everything is going to be okay.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed and his lips became tight. “How dare you.”

“Huh?” I sipped on my Mountain Dew.  

“I tell you that I’ve spent the last week cleaning up my dying wife’s shit and the best you can do is ‘everything is going to be okay?’”

Tim’s comment should’ve thrown me, or pissed me off. Afterall, I didn’t volunteer to be the one for him to take his anger out on. But as I looked him over and tried to think of how to respond, I saw his face for the first time, really saw it I mean. I had worked with this guy for three years and never really knew what he looked like. And what he looked like was a man that had let life walk all over him.

When I remained silent Tim barely hesitated in berating me again, “I guess the next thing you’re going to say is ‘In time I’ll get over her’ right? That seems to be a popular phrase too, like everyone’s already preparing me for the worst. Well god dammit she’s my wife! How the hell could anyone think I’d want to get over the love of my life?”

Tim began to sob, I didn’t speak. I just let him, let me (and everyone else) that had made one of these empty, self-serving comments have it.

Tim pushed his lunch away in disgust. “Chose your words more wisely next time.”