It popped into my head earlier just how lucky I am to havr such a ridiculously supportive husband. When my relapse hit earlier this year, he was there for just about whatever I needed – he even washed my hair for me – but he didn’t let me get away with silly shit.
When I had some parestheis (sp?) after taking a hot shower and lost the ability to pick up or carry our son, it terrified me so bad that I called him sobbing, in hopes he could settle me down. He took off and came home for me in 20 minutes. He held me close and told me I was okay, until I settled down enough to go to sleep.
He gives me my injections regularly, without flinching. I know many husbands who can’t.
He supports my transition to gluten-free with only a few eye-rolls, and I didn’t even get that when I told him I want to be strong enough to be on American Ninja Warrior in two years. He supports my every move – provided it’s not influenced too heavily by a brain that isn’t firing right – and encourages me to meet my goals.
I can only hope all people have the kind of marriage I do, with all its ups and downs. I wouldn’t be half as strong without him by me every step of the way.