Guest Voice: Acknowledging the silent love of a caregiver and partner
In life with chronic illness, love doesn't mean pretending things are easy
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I’m sitting in the family room while my wife, Robin, stands in the kitchen. The dirty dishes are overflowing in the sink. If she leaves them, I’ll notice — and not be happy. If she cleans them, I’ll notice nothing, and life will go on. So she washes the dishes, and I watch as she cleans the sink.
Later, we watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” again. (I previously wrote a guest column about it.) The main character, George, jumps into the river, and his angel, Clarence, earns his wings. The house fills with neighbors, music, and warmth. And no one really notices George’s wife, Mary.
But I do.
Mary doesn’t get to have a breakdown. Or a revelation. Or an angel to guide her through what might have been. She gets a husband in crisis, children to shelter, a town to rally — and somehow manages it all, gracefully and invisibly.
George gets to yell, doubt, and fall apart in the snow. Mary stays steady so he can. And this caused me to wonder: What if Mary told the story?
If she did, perhaps we would talk about what it feels like for people like my wife to love someone who is disappearing by degrees — not all at once, but slowly enough that even the furniture forgets where things used to be — because of multiple sclerosis. Perhaps we would notice the quiet calculations she performs every day — angles, inches, seconds — guiding a wheelchair through a narrow bathroom. Or deciding whether to say “I’m fine” again.
My wife did not marry a man in a wheelchair. She married someone who opened jars and car doors and who always walked beside her. Now she often walks ahead to scan curbs, unlock doors, and lift more than either of us ever imagined.
She knows how many seconds it takes to buckle a seatbelt from the passenger side. She has memorized every crack in our driveway. She has folded my chair in parking lots while strangers politely look away.
She has smiled when she wanted to scream. She has told jokes simply to hear me laugh — because that sound reassures both of us that we are still us.
Sometimes I see her pause in the hallway. I know she is gathering herself before turning back toward me. Illness has taught me something I never understood when I was healthy: Love does not mean pretending this is easy. It means staying.
Robin does not need an angel to show her what life would look like without me. We both already know.
When the movie ends, she walks back into the kitchen to turn off the lights. The silverware rests in its tray, salad forks curled together, glowing softly in the moonlight. I roll in behind her.
“I figured out how to put the detergent in,” I say. She kisses me on the cheek. Then comes the quiet choreography of bedtime with pajamas, teeth brushing, and the transfer into bed.
I am not the man she married. She is not the woman she was. But we are still us. And like Mary, my wife does not ask for the spotlight. She simply wants to be seen. Because sometimes the person who saves the day does not jump into a river. Sometimes she is the one who stays.
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Note: Multiple Sclerosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Multiple Sclerosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to multiple sclerosis.
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