Something I Don't Worry About

 I was having an afternoon coffee today, outside on my back deck, reading a book.  

Feeling calm.

And I realized that there is something that I haven't done for 2 1/2 years now, that I used to do a lot:  Worry about Bob.

Bob was The Rock.  The one that everyone depended on, could count on.  The Big Strong One.  I was the one that worried about him.

Early in our marriage, before our third anniversary, we were living in Tennessee but he was out in Texas on training maneuvers.  He was climbing into the back of a truck when he slipped and hit his shin on the foothold - pretty hard.  Later, he asked the medic if he could clean it and put a bandaid on in.  The medic (God bless him) said "Sir - you may have fractured your shin."  Bob was taken to the hospital where they found that he hadn't.  It would have been better if he had - his bones were so thick and strong that they hadn't given way, and instead he had crushed the nerves and blood vessels against the bone.  He had emergency surgery to relieve the pressure, but the nerve damage was permanent.  I found out about all this two days later when he was finally able to get to a phone.

He always had leg problems.  It's a problem with people who are bigger than normal - there's just a lot of strain.  He had hurt a knee (needing surgery) as a teenager in the Philippians,  exploring the jungle when he stepped in some quicksand and he went one way and his leg went the other.   When we lived in the two-story townhouse, there were occasions that I would hear the loud crashing and thumping because his leg gave way when he was coming down the stairs.

It got worse as time went by (not as bad as expected - the doctors doing that early emergency surgery predicted that he might lose the leg before he was 40).  He got bone spurs in his knees.  Developed gout. Had a few surgeries. We sometimes talked about putting in a ramp instead of steps to the front deck.

When he went on a vacation with a military history study group back to the Philippians, he came home a few days early -  in a wheelchair.  A fellow traveler, as they were traipsing through the jungle, had put a hand on a tree for balance, not realizing that it was covered with huge ants.  When he jumped, he lost his balance.  Bob grabbed him - and his knee gave way. 

When Gill got married (6-7 years ago - I can't remember) she had her reception at the Museum.  A lot of us were carrying the food from the cars to the venue inside.  And, of course, Bob got loaded up, because he was the Big Strong One.  I had trotted ahead and dropped off my load and when I came back, I saw that Bob was walking too carefully, pain on his face, really hoping that his leg wouldn't give out.  I grabbed most of his stuff and walked with him the rest of the way.

I worried about other things, too - maybe because of the above.  We'd be sitting around the house in the evening and decide that maybe we wanted some ice cream.  He'd go get it (because if I went with him there was that female thing of Having To Put On A Bra).  The Dollar General is only three miles away.  But waiting, sometimes I would think - what if one of the Highway 20 crazy ass drivers hit him on the way?  What if he got hurt because I wanted some cookie dough ice cream?

I always knew that, barring accidents, I would outlive him.  There's a reason you hear about *little* old men and women; outsized people don't live as long.  And there were genetics - and heart issues in his family.  An uncle who died at 63,  a grandmother in her 60s.  His mother at 78, his father at 82.  Me - my family background had a bunch of people lasting into their 90s.  I always thought that those last 10 years or so would be pretty lonely.  I just thought that I would have him longer than I did (which is why he had to eat vegetables, and go canoeing , and we went swimming on a regular basis).

And, of course, after he got diagnosed.  I hovered over him the first six months, even though he handled the treatments so very well and felt OK.  Then the intense fear the three months in Gainesville, especially the gut-wrenching terror in the two weeks that he was out of the hospital and I was his sole caregiver as he got weaker and sicker, knowing that because of his lack of platelets a fall could kill him, and being all too aware that I was half his size.

And that's over now.  For the last 2 1/2 years I've had problems, and concerns, and having to deal with things that have gone wrong - from decks rotting and ceilings falling in to pets and friends dying - but there hasn't been that constant, underlying worry.  It was so much a part of me, of my everyday life, that I didn't even really notice it until it was gone.  Because wherever he is, whatever he is now - he is safe.