The Next Nineteen Days

I promised in sickness and in health, now I realize the true measure of a marriage

We have just 19 days left. I am all too aware that these might be our last ones. If that's true, then what would we have left each other? I'm wondering. And hoping to answer well.

I remember like yesterday when he asked me to marry him. He started out by reminding me, "PKD [polycystic kidney disease] is a genetic disorder. When they tested me when I was 16, they said I didn't have it, but you just never know. It's only fair to warn you."

And I remember my answer: "I'd rather have 20 years of wonderful with you than to have never been your wife." I meant it then and I mean it now.

Small Bones of a Marriage

It's just that I'm so angry. This wasn't the deal, I rage to myself on occasion. But then, yes, it was. On my wedding day, a day filled with white dress, penguin tuxedos, the fragrance of flowers, friends, and fresh beginnings, it seemed a breezy thing to utter. For better or worse. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. For as long as we both shall live.

I just never considered that one of us might not live.

I wish I could say that such things overshadow all of marriage's burr-like irritations, but I'd be lying. But there is also that unbearable sticky sweetness in my soul, a heart that snaps pictures like crazy, wondering if any of this might be a last time.

Spooning just before drifting off to sleep. Holding hands and laughing while sitting together and watching an episode of M*A*S*H after the children are upstairs asleep.

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May 25

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