Why I CAN Believe We’ve Been Married for Two Years

Monday, we celebrated two years of marriage.

 

I got you socks for your new job (which I’m super proud of), and you got me a beautiful hotel room at that new job and treated me like a princess all day.

 

I’ll do better next year. You were disproportionately excited about the socks, anyway.

 

Most people, on their anniversaries, say things like, “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been X number of years!”

 

In our church, when a couple celebrates an anniversary, the man is liable to get called on to tell how many years he and his wife have been married. This results in answers like, “Not nearly long enough!” (You should get ready for that when we get moved back up there.)

 

But not me. Not us. We both remember every day of these past two years.

 

I remember the day, almost exactly two months after our wedding day, when you took me to my first appointment with a rheumatologist, and she confirmed the internist’s diagnosis of lupus. After the appointment, you took me back to campus for my Shakespeare class, and I called my mom as I walked to the elevator. We covered A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

I remember thinking that was so strange, because the first night I noticed my symptoms was nearly ten years prior to that day, when I had just finished a ballet performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

We laughed about that, that kind of spooky laugh that you do when you say something funny but it’s about a dead person.

 

I remember my next surgery after the diagnosis, my second shoulder impingement repair. You had been a part of so many surgeries before, but this time, you had to deal with all the real stuff that goes along with surgery. You had to lift everything, move everything, cook everything, clean everything. Of course, you were doing most of that, anyway.

 

I remember my college graduation a few months later, and all of us crossing our fingers that I would make it through the ceremony without any sort of medical crisis.

 

I did, and I walked across the stage with the most honor cords I saw on anyone that day. Between you, my family, my extended family and friends, and my sorority, I also had one of the loudest cheering sections. You can see that cheering section in the form of a rare, huge smile on my face in the photo you framed of me shaking the university President’s hand.

 

I remember the ER trip that summer, when I couldn’t breathe and felt like passing out, yet for some reason, I drove myself to the hospital. You came from work, I think, and we made notes on how we felt about the overall ER experience for future reference.

 

I remember buying a house just after celebrating our one-year anniversary, and hosting Thanksgiving in it barely two months later. It may be one of the dumbest things we’ve done so far, but everyone enjoyed it—and my candle arrangement on the bookshelves was BEAUTIFUL.

 

We stayed up all night, watching movies, and then went Black Friday shopping. Our two biggest hauls came from Home Depot and Victoria’s Secret, so, you know, take that as you will.

 

It took me almost a week to recover from those two days.

 

I remember deciding to build a house next to my parents’ so that you would have some help taking care of me, and so that we might be able to either have or adopt a child someday…soon.

 

I definitely remember my major, MAJOR, reconstructive knee surgery two months ago, and how we had to stay at my parents’ house until this weekend.

 

I remember you watching with patience and pride, every time I show you the progress I’ve made in physical therapy.

 

I remember finding out that, in addition to lupus, I also have fibromyalgia, Hashimoto’s, and a primary immunodeficiency—on top of the heart problems we already knew about and the congenital orthopedic conditions that continue to surprise us.

 

But more importantly, I remember—no, I still feel—all the days and hours and moments in between.

 

The days you’ve had to give up things you wanted to do or had planned to do because I was sick.

 

The nights I spent crouched over the toilet in a kitchen chair, wishing to throw up but having nothing in my stomach, passing out when I stood up and you having to drag me to the bed.

 

The 16 days I spent in the hospital because the above incidents turned out to be caused by severely low blood pressure, as in 60/30, as a result of the infusion medication my rheumatologist had put me on earlier that year. You spent every moment you didn’t have to work right beside my bed, and all the nurses told me how lucky I was.

 

The evenings I’ve tried to enjoy a glass or two of wine and my body rebelled, rendering me barely able to remain upright because I was so exhausted.

 

The meals I’ve started cooking but couldn’t finish, with the complicated recipes I so love to make my own, which you had to finish preparing, with me squeaking out instructions from the bed you’ve made for me on our couch.

 

The quiet tears I’ve cried as we’re going to sleep, but you always hear. Explaining, again, unnecessarily, while the tears turned to weeping, that sometimes the pain just gets to be too much. You, dashing to the freezer for every ice pack we have and asking if I’ve taken my pain medication, my anti-inflammatory, my muscle relaxers, and the laundry list of other medicines that keep me from losing my mind in pain.

 

I remember all the days I’ve waited for you to come home from work, craving your presence here with me, knowing the house won’t feel right until you’re here.

 

Sometimes most of all, I remember having to say “no” to you on so many things. Things that break a wife’s heart and make her wonder if she’s worth it.

 

I remember the fights—we’ve had some good ones, that’s for sure. We don’t truly fight often, but when we do, it shakes the earth.

 

But I also remember the great moments.

 

I remember riding as many rides as I could with you at Dollywood, some of them over and over. I remember the hotel suite we got, with the heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub.

 

I remember having stupid conversations that turned into laughing matches that far outdo our screaming matches.

 

I remember the times you’ve surprised me with my favorite wine, with hot and sour soup from my favorite Chinese restaurant, or with a clean house when I woke up from a nap.

 

I remember the time Bailey, Sandy, and Mickey all peed in the middle of the night, just as we were going to bed because we’d been up, talking. We were exhausted, and we tried so hard to be mad, but we couldn’t stop laughing as we grabbed towel after towel to clean up the mess and went to Home Depot to rent a Rug Doctor as soon as they opened.

 

I remember having philosophical conversations while you painted my toenails, and you then promptly covering me up with a blanket and ruining the paint.

 

I remember you tucking me into bed, me telling you to go hang out with your friends while I took a nap or went to bed super early. And I remember hearing you talk to them, hearing you give advice that reminds me I married someone who isn’t perfect but who tries to be a better man every day.

 

I remember hearing you say things about me, so casually—wonderful things—that most men would never even think to say about their wives. Things you may not even always say to me, but I know you say them to others.

 

I know because I also remember all the times your coworkers and friends already thought I was this incredible person by the time I even met them.

 

I remember all the funny or interesting articles I’ve sent you in Facebook messages from my phone—and I remember them because I sent them to you on Facebook, even though you chuckled at that when I started doing it.

 

I feel like I remember every moment of the past two years, and I’m glad.

 

A nurse recently told us we’d had a rough first two years of marriage, and, although it makes perfect sense to see it that way, we looked at each other like she was from Mars.

 

We didn’t expect it to be easy.

 

We sat in the parking lot of the wedding chapel in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, figuring out whether or not we could afford to be on our own, and it was close.

 

We didn’t know what I had, but we knew I was sick, and I asked if you’d be willing to take care of me, no matter how rough it got. That one wasn’t close.

 

This, of course, was after we decided to get married there upon arriving for your mother’s birthday celebration.

 

We passed all those billboards for wedding chapels, and I joked with my mom about it when I called her to check in. As I drove that stupid Volvo down the main strip, I chuckled and asked her what she’d do if we went ahead and got married.

 

She thought about it for a second. I could hear the wheels turning, because we were engaged and she was planning our wedding, which was only eight months away.

 

Then, after asking my dad, she said, “We wouldn’t hate it. Oh, wait, Daddy’s saying something…he says as long as you can wait until we can drive up there.”

 

We told them we’d decide when we got to the hotel and we’d let them know.

 

We sat at the hotel, pondering all the wedding chapel billboards we had passed, both coolly pretending we weren’t Googling to see which ones were open on Saturdays.

 

Once we settled on one, we realized we’d need a marriage license, and we didn’t know if we could get one on a Saturday. The desk clerk said there was a place that was open until 5pm, and it was 4:35. They told us we’d never make it through the traffic in time, and we almost didn’t, because once we got in the parking lot, we couldn’t find the door!

 

But, we walked into the dingy, low-ceilinged building at 4:58 and got our marriage certificate, which still lives in the green folder they handed to us that night at the chapel.

 

My parents went to the bathroom, threw on a nicer set of clothes, and drove like the wind up to Pigeon Forge, metaphorically throwing wedding-planning lists out the windows the whole way.

 

We met them in the parking lot at just past 11pm. We almost got married on the 16^th instead of the 15^th!

 

Do you remember how scared I was, walking down those rickety stairs? Being married on the rocks in front of a waterfall was so worth it. You and Daddy held me the whole way down so I wouldn’t fall.

 

We read our vows from our phones. I, the writer, had written mine months before and tweaked them that day, but yours were infinitely more beautiful, somehow, even though you’d written them only hours before.

 

I can’t wait for you to have them tattooed on your chest along with the tattoo you have, in Roman numerals, of the date we fell in love.

 

Our wedding date, September 15, 2012, is tattooed on my left lower leg in purple ink. It’s purple because there’s an undeniable intertwinement of our marriage and my illnesses. It’s not that they couldn’t exist without one another, but that they haven’t yet and they never will.

 

Soon, we’ll have new tattoos of a lyric: “Nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

 

I think that about sums us up, because even though it’s a massive struggle every day, my fragility makes you a stronger person.

 

I thank you for that, and for all the memories.

 

I can believe it’s been two years. I’ve felt every moment of those two years, mentally and physically, with incredible intensity, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

On our second anniversary, 9.15.14.