Martyr for our Times

(This was written a few months ago. Roscoe has sinced passed. We miss him. )

Roscoe, my lovely dog,  has become messy in his dotage. When he eats, he doesn't lick everything clean anymore. In fact, there is usually a mess around his bowl.

I had surgery a week and a half ago. Recovery has been a bit harder than I thought it would be but it's happening in spite of my whining .

Why am I telling you these two random facts?

Because it is my anniversary. Seven years ago today I married a man. And now Roscoe is messy and I had surgery. And they are all connected.

So here is the story of messy Roscoe, my surgery and primarily,  why my husband deserves honor on our anniversary.

This is a story of a hero for our times.

I walked gingerly into the kitchen, sore and nauseas, as  I had surgery a few days before and was definitely not in top form.  I was looking for my husband. He was not in there, but Roscoe's mess was.

I knew I was supposed to take it easy and not bend or lift. While  I did think this small  job of cleaning up around the dog bowl was manageable for me,  I also knew my husband would not be happy if I was the one who performed it. He would be concerned. Sometimes I like people to be concerned. It makes me feel loved. Be quiet, haters.

I could see  him out the window, walking towards the door to come in. On impulse, almost like old muscle memory, I made a decision. I decided to wait until he opened the door and then begin sweeping. I also decided I would add some "involuntary" grunting, the kind that says you are using a heroic amount of effort. I chose to  time it with him coming in so he could "catch me". (Hey, I was heavily drugged. That is my only excuse.)

And then I realized what I was doing. I laughed to myself. I had actually really considered faking martyrdom so my husband would be concerned with but also impressed with  me.

I had to tell him. It was too funny, the idea of me playing the suffering heroine. He knows me too well.

As he approached,  I opened my mouth to tell him the story of how I almost pretended to be working hard and suffering just so he would notice and be concerned. What I heard leave my mouth instead of words  was a grunt. Simultaneously,  my hands, seemingly without volition, picked up the broom and my face became drawn and long-suffering. 

And it went as you might expect. A loving husband sees lovely, tragic wife still giving and doing, in spite of her pain. He is moved by love to send her to bed and bring her hot good things to eat and drink. His concern is palpable. 

Happy Anniversary, Babe! You are the hero of many of my stories.