I’ve been sick for a week, and my husband has spent what feels like most of it getting up again. Every little thing I needed, there he was. Twenty trips, easily. Apparently, caring for me came with a substantial amount of walking.
No one has ever taken care of me quite like this. I knew I loved him before I got sick, of course. But being on the receiving end of so much patient attention made me see him differently.
I haven’t always been as appreciative as I could have been. I’m good at noticing what’s missing or what isn’t quite right. Those things can take up a surprising amount of space, even when there’s plenty of good sitting right beside them.
This week, I kept watching him respond to one small need after another. He didn’t treat each request as a major undertaking. He just got up and helped me. Then, when I needed something else, he did it again.
Somewhere in all that repetition, I started feeling like I’d won the lottery. Here was my husband, taking such good care of me while I had very little to offer back.
I told him. I wanted him to hear how much it meant and how lucky I felt to have him. I told him I loved him.
He shrugged it off and said it was nothing. After a whole week of being cared for like that, I couldn’t have disagreed more.
