Love Is Constant
In good times and bad times
I noticed the text as I started for bed on Monday night. It was from Kim’s middle daughter; she and her husband were headed to the hospital. After complaining about a headache, Kim had collapsed while talking to neighbors. EMTs were on scene very quickly.
The phone call came from Kim’s sister, after I’d been in bed for fifteen minutes or so. Not long enough to fall asleep. Then again two hours wouldn’t have been enough time either.
Kim’s sister didn’t have much to add. All indications pointed to a stroke.
I changed my Friday flight to Tuesday morning. I packed my bag. I set my alarm.
The night passed slowly. The morning arrived quickly.
Kim’s sister called again. Hemorrhagic stroke. Meeting with the doctors at nine.
I was leaving for the airport at nine. The doctor recommended immediate surgery to address the clot that formed from the bleed. She’ll likely have permanent physical deficit on her left side, but cognitively she has a good chance for complete recovery. My flight was scheduled to arrive when she was in theater.
I know Kim.
The physical deficit will hurt her. A lot. Physical activity is a central pillar to her identity. She loves tennis and gardening. Nature grounds her. She loves hiking. She was walking the dogs when she suffered her stroke. She also loves knitting. And cooking, especially baking. She will need to incorporate these new limitations, whatever they may be, into her identity. If she accepts them.
She’ll also worry if I will accept them.
Our last exchange when we spoke Monday night ended with me reassuring her that I wasn’t bothered by her constant motion and attention to many details. If she wondered about my feelings for her when she was at her most vital, she will certainly doubt them when she feels compromised.
She shouldn’t.
I have faults. Too many to enumerate. But I am steadfast. I am confident that I will hold the edge without resentment, helping her with whatever she needs from me while appreciating what she does for me. Mostly she makes me feel special, which has been rare in my life, and I expect that she’ll always do that for me. So I’m not going anywhere. Not even if she asks.
It feels selfish to consider my emotional condition when Kim lays in a hospital bed about to undergo neurosurgery. I struggle to connect with my emotions in the best of times, and these are not the best of times. And to be honest I’m all over the emotional map. Whenever I speak with someone I’m just a single word away from all the fears and grief and anxiety gushing forth in a torrent of sobs.
I’m terrified that Kim will die. That I’ll never feel her generous and playful smile again.
I’m mortified by my lack of emotional control.
I’m overwhelmed by the love and support coming in waves from family and friends. Kim’s youngest daughter called me to see how I was coping, and I could barely speak through the swelling of my heart at that kindness.
I’m apprehensive about navigating interactions with her family, lacking history and therefore standing, which, combined with my natural reluctance to influence others, makes me feel very much the outsider.
But throughout our relationship Kim has opened me to be my best self. I don’t think that will change despite our changed circumstance. And I know with every certainty that if I were the one in that bed she would hold my hand and support my daughters and my parents and the rest of my family with intensity. So I will be my best self for her again.
I have different strengths than Kim — I won’t hound the insurance company or demand from the doctors exceptions to standard care, so instead I will do the daily work, the grind behind the scenes, to make sure that Kim is where she needs to be, that she feels valued and supported and heard, that she knows my commitment to her and my love for her are both unconditional.
This is my promise.
To Kim.
And to myself.
