I walk into Cari’s room. The lights
are dim and the TV is on. When she looks
up at me from her recliner, I notice she is
“Oh. Migraine”, I say, keeping my
words to a minimum.
She sighs. “Yup”.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be quick. I want to let you know a caregiver won’t be coming today, after all”.
“Oh. Who was on”?
“Liza”, I say.
And then I quietly leave the room, closing
the door gently behind me.
As I return to the living room, I reflect on our relationship. Cari and I met through a mutual friend. I had heard she had epilepsy, too, and I really wanted to know how she managed.
I had a lot of compassionate friends, but I knew it would be different if I met someone who dealt with the same issues that I did. I wanted to know: how did she cope? Did she have seizures often? What kind? Did she take meds? Were they under control?
We eventually got together and shared information, and shortly thereafter, became friends. The friendship turned into attraction and we fell in love. A year later, we exchanged vows in a wedding ceremony in our front yard.
When I knew we were falling in love, when I knew this was a relationship I wanted to pursue, I realized at some point we would need help (I had learned in the first few months of knowing her that she had other health challenges, including debilitating migraines, chronic sinusitis, and what eventually culminated in arthritis throughout her body, due to past injuries and years of playing sports. On top of that, she occasionally walked in her sleep!). At first, this help came from friends who were willing to step in when we were both down for the count, mostly to do needed errands. But I knew as we aged, we would need more assistance.
Evening is my favorite time of day, because it means that Cari will come out of her den and we’ll watch TV together for a couple of hours before the caregiver shows up for the night. One of our cats (Reggie) curls up between us as we watch our favorite programs. It’s family time for us.
I love this ritual. We may not talk much, but that doesn’t matter; her presence is really all I need. She gives me something that no one else can, because she understands what it is like to live with chronic conditions and because some of those conditions overlap.
Over the past 25 years, we have seen each other through seizures, pain, emotional ups and downs, struggles with doctors, changes in medications and even menopause. We have figured it out. We get each other. And that gives me incredible comfort, and that is what has kept us together.
There are times, though, when one of us becomes insecure and wonders: Am I too much for her?
Here’s my response when it’s she that feels this way:
You are my rock
not my hard place.
I lean back on your
solid stone so I can
feel the sun on my
face and the breeze
on my skin.
You are an artist.
You take the pieces of me
that are broken
– shattered shards –
and make them into
the light singing through
all of the colors
not leaving even one of them out.