Forty-nine
Sarah
Ispread a fresh sheet and blanket over my massage table at the sport’s center, my muscles twitching with exertion.
More than anything I just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for hours on end, but I had one more client before I could go home.
My eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and my nose was stuffy.
Unable to outrun my feelings, they had visited ad nauseam, and I was sick of crying.
All week my clients asked if I was sick.
And I had to blame allergies.
As I tucked the blanket under the corners of the table, my back zipped tight and my muscles protested. I braced my hand against the wall as my head swam. Jeez, maybe I was getting sick.
Working stupid hours, I’d kind of asked for it.
Waking at five most mornings, finishing with Instacart around nine most nights.
It was a schedule destined to give me the flu or something.
Satisfied the room was ready, I peered down at my phone.
Friday, November 3. 4:14 p.m.
A few notifications rolled over my screen.
Some emails.
And another text from Lynn.
I sighed. After Peter got served divorce papers yesterday, the grapevine likely exploded and the Thompsons probably figured out why I’d been avoiding them.
It was awkward talking to his family, and I didn’t want anyone to tell me how he was doing.
Over the weekend, I dropped off Peter’s stuff at the Thompson’s house.
Lynn was there, and I couldn’t make eye contact with her.
Lynn
Hi sweetheart. Do you want some spaghetti and meatballs? I’m in the neighborhood this evening and can drop them by. I know you’re working a lot so I thought a quick dinner might be helpful.
I blinked heat away from my eyes. Why was she being nice? She didn’t have to do that. I didn’t want her to do that. How could she even offer such a thing when I was divorcing her son? She’d faithfully reached out to me a couple times a week over the last month…surely it would taper off soon…
Unsure what to say, I didn’t text her back.
Jackie and I hadn’t talked since yesterday. Would she be mad at me? I quickly dismissed the thought because I didn’t want to consider how much that question worried me. Or how much it would hurt if I lost her friendship forever.
Fifteen minutes later, soft music from my bluetooth speaker filled the room and my new client, Martha, laid facedown on my table.
She was in her early seventies and this was her first-ever massage, given to her as a birthday gift from her best friend—a long time client of mine, Tammy.
Martha seemed a little nervous, so we made some small talk.
I’d learned to lean into the level of conversation the client wanted.
Some liked silence or nap time, and others, like Martha, needed to talk in order to let their muscles relax into the table.
“Your intake form said you’re on your feet a lot. Do you work?” I applied pressure with my thumbs into her arm, dragging them in a circular motion down to her triceps tendon.
“Well,” she said, her voice prim, “I’m actually retired, but my husband needs a full time caretaker.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I lifted her forearm off the table, continuing my path all the way down to her knotted fingers, careful not to pull her loose skin.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s just life as we know it at this point.”
“Is he sick?”
“He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s almost…” She clicked her tongue in thought. “Let’s see…almost ten years ago. He has dementia among some other health complications, so”—she gave a soft laugh—“it’s a lot of time on my feet keeping him happy and clean and healthy.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. “You don’t hire anyone to help?”
“For some things, yes. But, I’ve never wanted anyone else to take care of him.”
“Does he remember you?”
“Only sometimes.”
“That has to be hard.”
Her response came easily, and there was no note of self-pity in her tone. “After being together for almost fifty years, watching him decline has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But caring for him is easy.”
A soft frown pulled my brow, I placed her arm back on the table and rolled the sheet down, moving to the other side. “It doesn’t sound easy.”
“Well, maybe easy isn’t the right word. Sometimes the work itself is draining. But, Kenny has blessed me in many ways…so…” She shrugged, drawing a canvas of lines between her shoulder blades. “Loving him as he passes into a new life is just a small way I can say thank you.”
Sudden tears pricked my eyes. My words nearly caught in my throat. “That’s beautiful, Martha.”
She hummed softly in agreement as she smiled, her cheeks bunching where they were squished against the table. “It’s what I promised to do.”
We went on to chat about her grandkids and other things, but my brain snagged on those words: It’s what I promised to do.
I was sure she meant her wedding vows. Because didn’t we all promise some version of sickness and health?
Richer or poorer? Better or worse? I rolled her sheet to her waist and oiled my hands to work on her back.
In the light of Martha’s saint-like love, the words I said to Peter came rushing back to my brain with sickening forcefulness.
“I didn’t sign up to have a handicapped husband.”
I shook my head, hating the blur in my vision and the growing tremble in my hands.
Why did I say that?
Not only did it insinuate that I didn’t want him anymore, but it was so mean and degrading. They were the type of words that take root in a heart and stay for a long, long time.
Of course I wouldn’t have chosen Peter’s accident, but I still loved him. I still wanted to be his wife and grow old together. I still wanted to take care of him, but only to the degree that I didn’t lose my entire self in the process. Because I knew what loving someone too much looked like.
It looked like Mom.
And I had to protect myself from that…right?
Could I do what Martha was doing? Love Peter even if he couldn’t remember my name?
I never got personal with my clients due to legal reasons, but I wanted to talk to her. Maybe if I weren’t so lonely and desperate, I would’ve held it all in. “Can I tell you about my friend’s husband? She could use some advice.”
For a long time, I told Martha all about my “friend’s” blind husband.
About my friend’s enabling mom and alcoholic dad.
About how she separated from him. About how she realized every dream she had for her life was wrapped into her love for her husband.
About how terrified she was that she’d become her mother—addicted to a man who wouldn’t love her back.
About how all of life seemed meaningless without him.
About how guilty she felt for walking away.
Almost finished with the massage, I said, “Does she love him too much, Martha?”
Martha was quiet for a long time—so long that I wondered if I’d put her to sleep with my story. Finally, she said, “I’m not sure I’m one to give advice without knowing the depths of the situation, but…from everything you’ve said, he seems like a good man in a bad place. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And he seems like the type who loves her—maybe adores her—but he’s stuck. Is that correct, too?”
“Correct.”
“Has she been impatient with him?”
I slapped Peter for insinuating that I wasn’t patient.
True, we’d spent years in limbo, waiting for the next stages of our lives.
During those tumultuous times, I gave him a lot of grace.
But after the accident, my patience vanished.
I wanted him to get better and get better now so we could go about living the life we’d planned to live.
Pieces of memory surfaced in my heart. My irritation with his grief process and with his learning process.
My irritation as he floundered in his passion, his work, and his hope for the future.
I’d always considered my willingness to go to rehab and learn alongside him as a sign that I was being patient and gracious, but now I wondered about my true motives.
Did I go as the cattle driver, to make sure we got to my intended destination?
To make sure my grieving husband put in the work?
I couldn’t stop the tears that welled in my eyes.
“Yes.” My voice wavered as I answered her question. “She’s been impatient many, many times.”
She took a deep breath through her nose. “Then I’d say your friend doesn’t love him enough.”
My hands froze.
“Love is patient and kind and selfless. I understand why your friend would want to protect her dreams, but love puts the needs of others first. So, it sounds to me like she has plenty of room to grow.”
“But what about her mom?” I objected. “She loved her husband more than anyone and she’s a mess.”
Martha gave a thoughtful hum. “It sounds to me like her mom loved herself more than anyone. Love is not an unhealthy obsession. It is very brave and willing to do the hard things for the sake of another. If her mom truly loved her husband, she would’ve gotten him help.
She wouldn’t have let her children grow up in a violent home. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, it does.”
“If love is healthy, I don’t think it’s possible to love too much. If he’s a good man, he won’t let her hopes and dreams disappear.”
Unable to stop myself, I sniffled.
She added, “It’s a beautiful way to spend a life—loving a good man with your whole entire heart.”
A beautiful way to spend a life.
I thought about my blank Google Sheet list at home. My two pathetic list items.
I shook my head in disbelief. That’s why my Live List had instantly lost meaning when we separated—it had always been about Peter. He made it all worth doing. Without our love, there was nothing left to treasure. And my stupid hair cut just proved I’d totally forgotten the point.