We started with coffee and bagels with a shmear.
The usual chit-chat followed, but somehow it got around to this...
"Your husband must be a saint."
I stared straight at her and swallowed.
"You mean for staying married to me."
I wasn't asking a question. I knew what she meant. She was stating what she believed to be the obvious.
She continued, "I mean not every man could...You know what I mean...not all guys could..."
And then silence.
Yes, I knew.
This was too much.
A serious lump formed in my throat. I smiled anyway. I didn't think I could stop the tears, but somehow I did.
Yes.
Jane had just confronted and confirmed my deepest insecurities. She interrupted my thoughts and fears; the ones I had been turning over and over in my mind.
Admittedly, I think too much. I feared I had become less of a partner and more of a burden to him...Not so much of a friend and lover, but a patient for him to take care of, even though I knew how hard I was trying NOT to be.
"Your husband must be a saint."
A saint...Really?
For better. For worse. In sickness and in health....till death do us part.
I knew her words would resonate with me a long time. You know how I know that?
We had breakfast over a year ago, and here I am telling you about it today as if it just happened. Sometimes I think if people would just stop and listen to themselves through my ears before they say things, they would stop.
Now, Jane is fairly stoic.
She's not one to talk a lot about my battle with muscle disease, but on this crisp, sunny January morning in South Florida, she was asking me a few questions about it. So I obliged. I didn't elaborate, however, since I knew her tolerance was limited.
I painted a few scenarios for her with limited brushstrokes. In retrospect, it must've seemed like I spilled the paint and wallowed in it, unable to pull myself up, leaving hubby to clean the mess the best he could. My attempts at painting had left a pretty messy impression on my friend.
Suddenly, I didn't feel like talking about the recent cool front or parenting or shopping anymore. That word, 'saint' was stuck in my brain. So I sipped my coffee and waited for her to say something else.
I didn't care what she thought about my life from my husband's perspective at this moment. I had stressed over that one enough. I needed her to understand what life was becoming for me now. Pretty selfish, right?
The thing is, she didn't ask.
I love Jane. I always will. She is my friend and I hope she always will be.
But that breakfast provided a watershed moment for me. It was then that I realized that it doesn't matter what Jane or you or anyone else thinks about my husband or me, or our life together now. It is different than it used to be, but it's not terrible. And there isn't a saint between us.
xx
P.S Jane is still my dear friend. I have not used her real name. I would never hurt her. She doesn't know about this blog and she isn't on social media.
The usual chit-chat followed, but somehow it got around to this...
"Your husband must be a saint."
I stared straight at her and swallowed.
"You mean for staying married to me."
I wasn't asking a question. I knew what she meant. She was stating what she believed to be the obvious.
She continued, "I mean not every man could...You know what I mean...not all guys could..."
And then silence.
Yes, I knew.
This was too much.
A serious lump formed in my throat. I smiled anyway. I didn't think I could stop the tears, but somehow I did.
Yes.
Jane had just confronted and confirmed my deepest insecurities. She interrupted my thoughts and fears; the ones I had been turning over and over in my mind.
Admittedly, I think too much. I feared I had become less of a partner and more of a burden to him...Not so much of a friend and lover, but a patient for him to take care of, even though I knew how hard I was trying NOT to be.
"Your husband must be a saint."
A saint...Really?
For better. For worse. In sickness and in health....till death do us part.
I knew her words would resonate with me a long time. You know how I know that?
We had breakfast over a year ago, and here I am telling you about it today as if it just happened. Sometimes I think if people would just stop and listen to themselves through my ears before they say things, they would stop.
Now, Jane is fairly stoic.
She's not one to talk a lot about my battle with muscle disease, but on this crisp, sunny January morning in South Florida, she was asking me a few questions about it. So I obliged. I didn't elaborate, however, since I knew her tolerance was limited.
I painted a few scenarios for her with limited brushstrokes. In retrospect, it must've seemed like I spilled the paint and wallowed in it, unable to pull myself up, leaving hubby to clean the mess the best he could. My attempts at painting had left a pretty messy impression on my friend.
Suddenly, I didn't feel like talking about the recent cool front or parenting or shopping anymore. That word, 'saint' was stuck in my brain. So I sipped my coffee and waited for her to say something else.
I didn't care what she thought about my life from my husband's perspective at this moment. I had stressed over that one enough. I needed her to understand what life was becoming for me now. Pretty selfish, right?
The thing is, she didn't ask.
I love Jane. I always will. She is my friend and I hope she always will be.
But that breakfast provided a watershed moment for me. It was then that I realized that it doesn't matter what Jane or you or anyone else thinks about my husband or me, or our life together now. It is different than it used to be, but it's not terrible. And there isn't a saint between us.
xx
P.S Jane is still my dear friend. I have not used her real name. I would never hurt her. She doesn't know about this blog and she isn't on social media.
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