A Bonded Pair

I woke up mad at Mark. We went to bed last night, no problems, no arguments. But I was as mad as a wet hen. Although I don’t know anything about poultry, I imagine it would be very anger-inducing to be a wet one.

I had a bad dream. He was mean to me! I dreamed he was a spy and was about to blackmail me.

Last I checked he doesn’t hold a dress shoe to his face to make phone calls. And he doesn’t own a tuxedo, although he would look very dashing racing around in a Ferrari on curvy roads in some exotic country. He doesn’t even have a decoder ring from a Cracker Jack box.

All I knew was I was very angry with him.

Mark hops out of bed each day like Mr. Sunshine himself. He is one of those fortunate people who wakes up happy and usually stays very even keel unless he is driving on the Interstate or at Wally World, anytime, any day.

My moods are more emotional, and in a few seconds, I can go from happy to what Mark calls “The Black Eyes”. I blame it on hormones, but I realize everyone would straighten up when Billy Graham entered the room. (Pre his Heavenly journey, of course, although I imagine folks would be even more holy-acting if he showed up now.) I tell Mark at least I know I’m about to act crazy, so I go into another room to think about my actions before I act stupid. Awareness is the key, amirite? But I digress.

It was Saturday, and I smelled bacon. I dragged out of bed, and shuffled into the kitchen with bed head, four doggos, and two cats in tow.

I normally slink up to him for a hug, lay my head against his chest, and try to wake up while he strokes my wayward hair away from his chin.

Today, not so much. I glared in his direction, made a cup of coffee, and went into the den to stew a little.

I knew it was stupid. I knew I was being stupid. I knew it would be stupid (and embarrassing) to act mad.

Fortunately, and by the grace of God, Mark, aka Jethro Bodine, was more focused on eggs and bacon than his half-asleep, mad for no reason wife.

I made a choice to sip my coffee and then go hug my husband.

Love is a choice.

A white goose named Blossom lived alone in a cemetery in Iowa. She had recently lost her mate and wasn’t doing well. The workers noticed she would spend hours each day looking at her reflection in the glass doors of their building.

A veterinarian told them she was grieving so hard for her mate that she took comfort in seeing another goose, even if just a reflection.

The workers sent a “looking for love” email to the local animal and farm community. A match was found! A male goose whose mate had also died! They brought him over for a blind date, and love bloomed again.

Mark and I married at age 60, two years ago.

We won’t live through what most married couples live through. We won’t have the stresses (or love) of children together (unfortunately), financial conflicts (hopefully), or temptations of working alongside fresh-faced co-workers while going through marital rough patches (thankfully).

I had a friend a few years back who wouldn’t adopt a kitten because she said it might outlive her. Cats can live 20 years or more. She was younger than me! Yipes.

Twenty years from now, Mark and I will be in our 80’s. The math ain’t mathing how I would like.

Back in January of this year we stayed sick for about 2 months. Mark had Covid, fortunately a mild case, and I had a massive cold with a cough that wouldn’t go away. Every night, we would sit on the couch coughing, downing vitamins, and miracle cures that didn’t work. Each day, we would promise, “Tomorrow, we will feel better!”

Eventually we did, but…

I coughed so much and for so long that I developed a “problem”. You might want to skip over the next few sentences if you are squeamish.

I couldn’t control my TT. (Go ahead and say, “Dang, Girl, I wouldn’t tell nobody that!”)

And I was too embarrassed to tell my husband. I’m still learning about this whole marriage thing, especially about this big ol’ man o’mine. I didn’t know or expect him to be anything but horrified or grossed out.

I tried to hide it. But I saw him looking at me quizzically when I ran to the bathroom for the millionth time. He heard the washing machine running all day and saw me changing clothes a whole lot while I went around honking and sneezing…and coughing. With my legs crossed.

He asked me what was wrong. I hemmed and hawed and finally told him. I couldn’t look at him.

He jumped up from the sofa and asked me if I wanted him to go buy me some diapers.

Diapers. I thought I would fall through the floor. I was so embarrassed. How could this man ever be attracted to me again?

He sat next to me (after I came back from the bathroom again) and told me he had to wear diapers a few years ago while in the hospital very sick from Covid. He said it was OK and there were pink flowery ones for women that pulled on like underwear.

I remembered those from when my little Mama was sick.

I was still embarrassed. But relieved. He understood. He didn’t make fun of me or act grossed out. I kept my head down but nodded my head, yes…

That sweet man was still getting over his illness (no longer contagious) but headed out at 9:30 at night in January to the CVS, right before they closed, to buy his wife some pretty pink…diapers.

He came home and suggested we watch a movie to get our minds off of our sickiness. I told him to pick one and I would join him…after I changed into my new Victoria’s Secret pull-ups.

I looked up at the tv screen and there was “Austin Powers”. Oh mercy. If you have ever experienced incontinence (fancy word for can’t hold your TT), laughing is a strict no no.

Mark sat me down on a pile of old towels, resplendent in my pink diapers, and we laughed for the next couple of hours.

I love that man.

In our past two short years of marriage, I have had three dental implants, and one root canal. He has seen me toothless (thankfully not in the front), grouchy from pain and bloated from months of antibiotics.

We are a bonded pair.

I knew a woman who told me she used to wake up at night and check to see if her husband was breathing. She was terrified he would die during the night. He wasn’t ill. And she knew it wasn’t rational. She stopped just short of putting a mirror under his nose, but…she still woke up and she checked.

I briefly wondered about her sanity.

I don’t sleep well at night. Judging by the activity on Facebook, I think many women get the same 3 am wake-up call. Maybe it’s yet another gift from menopause; maybe it’s the glass of wine (or two) before bed, maybe it’s…well, it’s probably both of those. We should start a club.

I should get up and do some chore I have been putting off. Laws knows plenty needs doing with four hairy doggos and a couple of cats, a husband with big shoes that attract every leaf in the yard, and my own pile of semi-clean clothes blocking our closet door.

But there is not a whole lot of logic in the middle of the night. Usually, I lay in bed reliving past embarrassing moments or thoughtless things I said. Over and over.

Or I order things on Amazon that I am surprised to receive a few days later. I once ordered a fireplace heater. I had no recollection whatsoever until the UPS guy wheeled it down my driveway. Surprise!

Sometimes, I wake up imagining future worst-case scenarios. I know it is my overactive imagination with a little insecurity sprinkled in. But like my friend, I wake up. And worry about the big man beside me that I have grown so fond of.

Mark is a Starman. At least he looks like one because of the CPAP he wears to sleep. He has worn his for 20-plus years and likely hasn’t cleaned or updated parts in that many years. It slips and slides, and I hear all sorts of weird sounds from his side of the bed.

I put my hand on his back and hold my breath, waiting for two or three breaths. I watch his chest rise and fall.

Am I crazy too?

I obsess over our ages and the absolute fact that one of us will die first.

I know we will be together again in Heaven. I quote Bible verses in my mind about worry, and love and Heaven. I imagine putting my worries in a box or two and laying it all at the foot of the cross.

Then I keep snatching them back. Back and forth until I finally fall asleep. Jesus must have a lot of patience. He probably rolls his eyes a lot too.

My Mama and Poppy were a bonded pair. They were married for 58 years.

A few weeks before Poppy died, they sat on the couch together watching TV. Mama said they held hands tightly and she mentioned that they wouldn’t have too many more nights like this together. He told her that wasn’t true; they had all the time in the world.

Mama never stopped grieving. Dementia eventually took most memories away, but she would cry in her sleep often, especially near the end of her life. We would ask her why she was crying, and she would say, “Jack let go of my hand.”

The day she died I believe he came back for her. He took her hand and never let go.

And he was right: they did and do have all the time in the world.

And we do too.