Warning: this post may cross the line into “too much information”.
For more than twelve years now, whenever I get sick, Marcel has stood above me, often with his hand on my back, while I vomit violently into the toilet. It’s not a pretty sight – believe me. (Is it EVER pretty to watch someone vomit?) And yet, he stands there patiently, holding me up if he needs to, carressing my back to let me know I’m supported.
Why does he stand and watch me? Well, I have a strange tendency to pass out when I vomit. I’m not sure why. The doctors aren’t even sure why. I just do it, and then I wake up on the bathroom floor disoriented and often messy. My dad did it too. I guess it’s hereditary. I got a few traits from my dad – most of them I’m proud of – but this is one I could have done without.
This weekend was no exception. He heard me, late last night, and he ran up the stairs to take his place behind me. Twice. Fortunately, I didn’t end up on the floor.
Sometimes, we take each other for granted. Like every married couple, I suppose. Sometimes, we go for stretches where we forget to be nice to each other. Sometimes we focus so much energy on the kids that we forget to save any for each other. But then I get sick, or hit a bump in the road, and I remember why I love him.
I can’t take that for granted. I can’t just overlook the fact that he has had to watch this year after year, and he never complains.
He’s my man. He picks me up off the floor when I need it. He cleans me up when I get messy. He sticks by me. For that, and for all those other things he does for me, I wouldn’t trade him for the world.
Thanks, buddy.