So apart from that quick blog post about the great discount Amazon is running on FOUR of my books (see yesterday’s post, and that price cut should be effective as of 10am this morning), I haven’t been writing much here lately. I had a wonderful, mushy, gushy post written about Wes that I intended to post on our ten year anniversary last week, but when the time came, I wasn’t posting anything.
We came home from Hawaii on Tuesday night a week ago, and I woke up in the middle of the night in some pain, quickly deducing from the symptoms that I had a kidney infection of some type. By the time everyone else woke up, it had progressed from my excellent deduction to my insistence that I would rather die than continue on living such a wretched existence in this horrible world of pain, pain, pain. (And I’m not exaggerating the pain. I’ve been through a pitocin-induced labor without the aid of an epidural or even a stinking Tylenol, y’all, so I’m intimately aquainted with the essence of HURT. Get that? HURT.)
My parents were still in town, so they took the girls to school for me while Wes found a doctor to take me to. I don’t have (or didn’t have) a doctor since I never get sick enough to actually need one, so it took some doing to find one as we find ourselves in the middle of flu season. But he did, as I was chugging water like it would save my life, and he took me there a couple of hours later. The doctor confirmed my diagnosis and congratulated me on having a particularly awful infection, telling me that the antibiotic she would have to prescribe to kill it would eventually work, but that the infection was to my kidneys and would get worse before it got better. (Yay!)
And she was right. I woke up on Thursday, which was our anniversary, in so much pain that I was certain I would soon be featured on an episode of “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.” You know that show? The one where the women wake up in the middle of the night feeling like their bodies are ripping in half, and the next thing you know, there’s an infant on the ground and they’re saying, “But I wasn’t pregnant!”? THAT was what this felt like! Labor! I was having all kinds of flashbacks to Okinawa. Wes was, too, when he reached over to sweetly kiss me and I hissed, in an almost possessed voice, “Don’t TOUCH me.” It was like Emma’s birthday all over again, y’all.
Wes brought me pain medicine, stayed up with me, then reluctantly left me to take the girls to school. And when he came back to find me mercifully asleep, he made sure everything else was taken care of so that I could sleep half the day and get better.
Why am I telling you all of this? Because I could go ahead and publish that post that I’d originally written, about all the ways he’d been sweet, loving, wonderful, and amazing, but it was and is truly in the undignified, glamorous moments of sickness and not health that Wes has shown himself to be even more sweet, loving, wonderful, and amazing. Every word I had written about him was true… times about ten thousand as he took care of me.
So, thank you, Wes, for ten years. And for last week especially. I love you.