Dear Husband,
Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.
If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.
But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.
And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.
So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.
Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife
Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.
If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.
But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.
And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.
So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.
Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife
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