In Sickness and In Health

I have been thinking a lot recently about promises. Mostly I dwell on God's promises to me, that he can bring good from every circumstance, that he won't allow me to suffer more than he has equipped me to handle, and most importantly, that he will never leave me, not in my scariest or most desperate moment. Maybe especially not then.

But it's impossible not to notice another set of promises that are making themselves more real to me through this experience than I could ever have imagined. These are my wedding vows, more specifically Steve's vows to me. It's hard to know when standing at the altar exactly what it means, what it might one day cost to recite "in sickness and in health" and mean it. How easy it was to say those words; how difficult to live them.

Here are just a few of the many ways Steve has been a man of his word, a man who keeps promises, over the last few months:

• When I first told him about my tumor, after asking a lot of questions and letting some of the answers sink in, his first remark was, "motherf#%ker." Others had tried to be kind and reassuring, suggesting that this was a solvable problem. I wasn't buying it. Only Steve, with this one word, mirrored my thoughts of, "wow, this is really scary and I have no idea how to handle this." Not since that first day has anyone else expressed quite as well the depth of fear and panic and lack of control I was feeling at the time, and still feel quite often. Steve is the most real person I know, and his honesty continues to be a comfort to me because I know we are partners on this journey and that he will always tell me the truth, even when he can't offer an answer or solution.
• When I was in the hospital and Steve couldn't be with me, he spent most of his away from me time on the phone, talking to me, saying all the things I needed most to hear, which was often simply his voice. More often, however, he sat by my side, taking all my phone calls, talking to the nurses and doctors, relaying messages to friends, family, coworkers, bosses, department chairs, students, yearbook reps. Holding my hand, rubbing my back, cleaning up my vomit. It was never pretty, and he never wavered.
• He left my hospital room at night to drive the thirty miles back home so that he could see my kids safely into bed, the dog walked, the coffee made, the laundry done, the house locked up. He continued to drive my daughter to school every day, keep in touch with his own kids, be a good son to his father, all the while caring for me. I know his face time with his own children was skinny during this week, but he never complained. I knew every minute of that week that I was his first priority.
• I wish you could have seen with what heart he undertook his responsibilities for my care once I came home. Three times a day--early morning, mid day, and late at night--Steve would carefully lay out all the tools needed for an infusion of my antibiotics. And three hours later, he would come in and undo it all, with the same care for my wellbeing and comfort. Meanwhile, he was also back to work, at what probably seemed during those two weeks like his second full-time job.
• Steve has been to every doctor's appointment, every lab visit, every scary surgeon's meeting. He listens carefully, asks wise questions, and afterwards discusses with me all of his impressions. I sit through most of these appointments in a panicky haze, so thank goodness for his attention. Only because of his involvement have I been able to make a single decision with any assurance at all. I trust his opinions completely because all I have seen for weeks and weeks is his dedication to my health and wellbeing.

It's one thing to say to someone, "I love you." We hear this in our society a lot. But love isn't a sound you can hear. It's an act you can see. So thank you, hunny, for loving me with a love I can see.