So I'm on Facebook this evening, viewing the steady stream of photos of my friends who are at the beach, the lake, and excellent restaurants. The highlight of my day? My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer approached me as I sat in the den and shoved his right foot into my face. He then uttered these tender words, made all the more romantic by his Jeff Foxworthy Southern accent : "Hey baby, I need you to rub my feet."Yes, he is a charmer.
His request was not unreasonable. After all, the chemotherapy zaps all moisture molecules from his body, making him appear a lot like The English Patient. And though he could rub himself down with the wheelbarrow full of moisturizers and ointments prescribed to help his skin, he prefers that the little woman take charge of the daily smearing of greasy substances.
Yes, I'm one lucky waaaafe (Again, think Jeff Foxworthy pronouncing W-I-F-E).
Me loves me husband and I'm here for the long haul, folks. We just celebrated our 23rd anniversary (Friendly exchange of cheap cards and a peck on the cheek. Read all about it by clicking here). And our cancer journey since October 2011 has brought us closer than chiggers from a blackberry patch. But golly-to-Gomer, we could both use a change of scenery.
My good friend Mary just posted the greatest thing on Facebook: "And God promised men that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world. Then He made the world round...and laughed and laughed and laughed." Ain't it the truth?
I suppose I've been a good wife, overall. But it serves no purpose now to ponder my past performance. All I can do is strive to be the most loving, supportive partner at this time in which my husband most needs me.
Nevertheless, Dear Lord, do I have to rub his feet?
I have a couple of pet peeves. Well, more than a couple, but two that I'm willing to share at this time.
One pet peeve is that I detest making sandwiches for my family members. Don't ask me why, but I'll cook a standing rib roast or boil live lobsters before I'll make a sandwich for my son or husband. Perhaps it's because I am aware that one does not have to know how to cook in order to spread a dang sandwich and it's insulting that the males in my family feel comfortable raising their heads up from the couch and Golf Channel to yell "Hey, make me a samich, will ya?"
I'll cook delectable dinners and I'll keep the kitchen stocked with breakfast foods, snacks, and lunch items. But I'll sell my soul to Satan before slapping together turkey and cheese on the disgusting, pasty white bread my males prefer.
The other pet peeve? Feet. I don't like touching other people's feet. I barely handle touching my own. No one knows the roots of this quirk, not even me. But it is truly a labor of love when I medicate and bandage the bleeding cracks on my husband's feet. I know he could do this for himself. Yet I also know that my attention makes him feel loved and valued. He needs to feel loved and valued to fight the cancer monster. And he is loved and valued beyond measure.
Having said all this, I now shout loudly: We still need a break!
If I don't see a beach soon, I may melt into something pasty and unrecognizable. I crave, for the first time in my life, a foo-foo drink laced with an orange slice and paper umbrella. Or at least a dry, slightly dirty martini with three olives and background jazz.
At this point, I'd settle for a bonfire and a six-pack of PBR with friends at a trailer park somewhere.
All I ask is that everyone wear shoes and bring their own sandwiches. I'll bring the fried pork skins.
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