Clean phlegm and pee, it's a dream, it's real, it's real cool. Marty has been clean on both accounts for roughly two months now, for two months she has been antibiotic free, she has been infection free. It’s a world record for Marty. But, please remember the drill, you must now find wood and knock, three times and spit if it suits you.
Marty is fine, Marty's Husband is equally fine, maybe more so. When Marty is good, Great and Wise, UberNurse, and other associated folks are finer than frog hair. It's a fine time to be in Marty's house. I gave her injections of Rochephin for an upper respiratory thing in May; last spring (makes it sound longer). We are drug free for the longest period of time since 2006. These are good things that deserve celebration.
We are still checking, we are still watchful, we are still appropriately paranoid, but we are enjoying not worrying, we are reveling in the relative good health which most of us take for granted. The old saw of "at least I've got my health" is more than an old saw, its truth.
Marty's health, when it's good, makes me feel good. Every morning when I first swing my legs out of bed the first thing to enter my groggy, bed head is Marty. When we have extended periods of feeling good I don't start with a rush of adrenalin every day, I don't dread going to her room to check her vitals, I don't wake worried that the worst is upon us. The sense of relief is physical and real.
Marty is clearly more of herself than ever, every day through her comments, her requests, her one-word orders and directives I see more and more of my wife.
Me, probing for short term memory, "Marty, do you remember what we had for lunch?"
Marty, recognizing the folly in my probing, "Yes."
Me, "Well, what was it?"
Marty, looking at her caregiver and companion, mulling over her smart-ass answer, and then turning to me, smiling, "It's a secret."
You see, she didn't remember, she knows she didn't remember, she doesn't care she didn't remember and her effort was not in remembering it was in zinging me. It's like home, it’s like old times, it’s the best part of nostalgia.
Erica, companion and caregiver and promoter of culinary sin, "I know, I shouldn't have brought the chips but I was in a hurry and thought you guys would like them."
Me, the generous, carb addicted boss, walking out of Marty's room leaving Marty and Erica alone, "It's okay, it's a test for me to leave them alone."
Marty, quietly to Erica, "I want some of the chips, would you get me some please?"
Me, of the hard of hearing, except when people are whispering behind my back, "What, what was that, what did she say?” I asked looking at Erica.
Erica smiles, looks at Marty, Marty looks at her then over at me, thinks for just a tick of the clock and says, "I told her I didn't need any of those chips, so please don't bring me any."
Liar, Marty, my wife, liar, liar, pants on fire.
How could one ever miss the little white lies, the little arrows we all shoot at our loved ones? I don't know, but I do, and the glory of these last two months is on occasion I get to remember and feel those little stings, those little stings that remind me of who I married. Its okay, they keep you awake, aware and in love.
Knock on that wood people.