Next Time, Just Trust Me

I went to bed early last night, so when I awoke to use the bathroom, my husband was still up.

"You're up late," I said.

"Yeah, I was looking at Canon stuff." This wasn't a surprise. He often stays up late to check out camera equipment, fantasize about buying it, and then decide against the purchase in case something better comes out soon.

I tell a lot of bad jokes when I'm tired and told one now. But he didn't hear me. I repeated the joke, which wasn't funny enough to have really said even once, and once again, he asked me what I'd said.

"Never mind," I said. "It's not funny enough to say three times."

I should mention, this happens all the time. He says I mumble, and I say he doesn't listen. I'm not sure which one of us is correct, but no one else ever asks me to repeat myself three times. In any case, at this point, exasperated, he asked me again to tell him what I'd said.

"I was wondering if you were going to be a Civil War re-enactor!" I yelled. "You said you were looking at cannon stuff!"

Pause.

"Now, was that really worth waiting for?" I asked. Correct answer: no.

He shrugged. "I laughed."

In Sickness...

Tonight, I went to visit a friend who broke her back in a freak accident a few months ago. She's been in a nursing facility almost since it happened, doing physical therapy every day and awaiting word on her prognosis, wondering when she will be allowed to go home.

I haven't known Rebecca long -- she was a fellow cast member in Tommy this summer -- but she's one of those rare people who just emanates goodness. One conversation with her, and you know she is a caring, nurturing person who cherishes every day as a gift. Even in her current condition, she has maintained a positive attitude, allowing herself only occasional slips into depression. As a natural complainer, I am humbled by this strong woman, who has every right to complain but rarely does.

Rebecca has befriended many of the folks at the nursing facility, and, as one of the younger patients, has become somewhat of a caretaker for some. She's heard all their stories, and I hope she won't mind me sharing one she told me.

There's a 91-year-old man at the facility whose wife (of a comparable age) resides in the assisted living apartments next door. His window faces her building, and her window faces theirs. So every night at a designated time, they grab their flashlights and flash "I love you" to each other's windows.

In the next breath, Rebecca told me about her own husband, who drives out to see her every night after work before heading home. None of these places are all that close to one another, so it's a considerable amount of driving. It must be a burden on him. But every night, he's there. While she and I were talking, her husband walked in, carrying some clothes and a sandwich for her.

I can't imagine what it's like to have to live apart from one's spouse; I find it difficult to spend even a few nights away from my husband. And while I hope we never have to learn what it's like, I take comfort in knowing if one of us was in that nursing facility, the other would be there every night to share a sandwich. Or at least to shine a light through the window.