Darren's calling me a big meanie right now because, despite the fact that he's wearing a t-shirt, a thick sweatshirt, flannel sleep pants, and lying beneath both a sheet and fluffy down comforter, he's shivering, and I won't give him another blanket. "But I'm cold," he says.
"You're not cold," I tell him. "You're feverish. And I'm not about to smother you under more blankets". As I sit and type I can feel his evil glare boring into the back of my head. He's right. I am a meanie. Would you believe I've actually been making him get up out of bed and walk around?! How dare I?
But really. He is doing quite well. Much better, actually, than either of us expected. Dutiful wife and nurse, I've been giving him sponge baths and fluffing his pillows and bringing him ice packs and pain medication, and, of course, cooking him comfort food. And, since I'm making it anyway, it's what all the rest of us have been eating, too: toasted English muffins. Hot Malt-O-Meal. Tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches. Dole fruit cups. Ummm, okay, so I see that doesn't really sound like a whole lot of cooking, per se. But it really has felt like a lot of work!
When I was twenty-one and standing starry eyed at the altar, I couldn't really comprehend the magnitude of "in sickness and in health". But now that I am living out that solemn vow, I am just more in love than ever with my precious husband. Difficult as it may be for now, I feel so blessed to be able to take care of Darren as he recuperates from what, really, is considered minor surgery (although I really hate that term "minor surgery", because it in no way conveys the depth of emotion experienced by the affected patient and family. How can any surgery be "minor" when it involves a loved one?)
Okay, enough meanness, now. I'm off to refresh an ice pack and check a temperature and love a little more on my poor sweet husband. Thank you all for your prayers and well wishes during this stressful time. They are very much appreciated!