You are not alone.

“I don’t want you to be in pain.” So my husband said last night to me, after a long evening of a clinic visit, prescription pick-up, and a messy conversation, where we didn’t exactly fight, but we certainly weren’t talking normally. What prompted this confession was another infection, and more medicine. The clinic visit took a little longer than expected, I’m going to have to return for bloodwork (I have Gilbert’s disease, which means my bilirubin levels are naturally elevated; taking so many antibiotics could have affected this), and the pharmacy was short-staffed enough that the floor manager was taking the register as she was needed. She told me at the counter they didn’t have some of the medicine the doctor had prescribed, the kind that would certainly help alleviate the pain – when she saw my face fall, she observed to the pharmacist - “How about we look for the generic? You look like you need it.” (That didn’t make me feel any better, but she wasn’t wrong. Permanent bags underneath my eyes, strained smile, and exhaustion…my face is a canvas for I’m not doing well.) As we waited for the generic meds to be filled, I glanced at my husband. Messy communication aside, and however indignant I felt…well, he didn’t look great, either. Tiredness and strain too painted his face in weary patience. We resolved – more or less – the overflowing cup of miscommunication as he haltingly told me that he doesn’t like seeing me so unwell, and cuddled before bed. Yet as I slept, I dreamt of my husband fighting a battle against faceless foes, while I watched helplessly from a distance. Here’s what I am learning about illness: in a marriage, you are not alone. Comforting in some ways, but it also means that your partner has to witness your journey. Your partner watches as you curl up, again, underneath a corn sack or heated blanket in desperate attempts to mitigate pain. Your partner waits literal hours with you in varying doctors’ offices; they rush to you as you vomit over the toilet, holding your hair back as your stomach twists painfully, as if your insides are a wet cloth to be wrung. I am not alone in struggling. As much as this journey is hard on me, as much as I struggle to understand what my body is telling me, I have to remember, because I am married, it affects my husband as well. He deserves as much compassion for waking up in the middle of the night to find me sobbing on the bathroom floor in pain, as I do from feeling the pain in the first place. To ferrying me to and from my appointments at the cost of his workday. To never knowing what version of me he will come home to: happier-me for feeling better, exhausted-me asleep on the couch or in bed (that’s today’s version), or cranky-me as my body gives way to fatigue and more pain. And most recently, discovering a way with the blender to make shaved ice for my uneasy stomach. (Actually this pleases both of us – it potentially means summer treats!) Lesson learned. I am not the only one fighting this battle. Thank you, Mister, for being my fellow warrior. Thank you for all that you do for me, even while you wonder if it will be enough. Thank you for advocating and questioning the doctors at my side: to have a person in my corner does wonders when we have to wade our way forward through red tape and errors. And to all the partners of Spoonies out there – we need you, in ways that are hard. There is no glory or romance in sitting up all night in a hospital room, wondering. There doesn’t seem to be enough space in the vow “in sickness or health” to cover all that can or does happen, yet you said the vow (or want to). It will never not be a challenge to fight health crisis after health crisis, or the long, never-ending battle of chronic illness. Thank you for fighting it with us. You are more appreciated and loved than you know.