An open letter to my husband, love of my life, light of my days

Dear Nick,

You know that I love and adore you with my whole heart, and that I cannot imagine being married to anyone else, and that my sincere hope is that we spent our lives together forever and ever till death do us part amen.

I can't actually remember our vows, and I know you can't either, but quite sure we didn't include the sickness and health and richer poorer, etc, but of course it was all implied and neither of us are one to run from a difficult situation.

Naturally, you're probably going to die before me, because one, you're a man, and two, you're overweight and sedentary and have high cholesterol and a bad temper.

But I of course hope that by then I am very old and grey and feeble and not far behind you.

My darling, I love your mind, and your quick wit, and the fact that you are both funnily sarcastic and very punny. Even though it irritates me that you always have to drive when we do the Sunday crossword, and you always write on the fucking numbers, I enjoy how our minds and skills compliment each other.

You are extremely smart, and I'm constantly surprised and impressed by your breadth and depth of knowledge on topics I couldn't begin to talk about.

Physically, you truly are strong as an ox. I respect how hard you work - both in your firm for your clients and colleagues, and at home. You almost never stop on the weekends, and you can do everything from electricity to plumbing to tarring the roof. It shocks me when you pick up a sofa all by yourself and carry it up a flight of stairs.

You are the big, strong man with the power tools that I dreamed of all those years.

Also, I absolutely love that you swam competitively and played water polo and college lacrosse and you were just insanely fit, like, 20-something years ago.

Which brings us to the present. 20-something years later.

You've been sick - really sick - for two solid weeks.  You've been hacking and coughing day and night. For two weeks. Coughing so much your head hurts. Coughing and coughing and snoring.

Every goddam night. For two solid weeks.

I know your job is incredibly busy, and you have a trial next week, during which you will work 24/7. I also know that your doctor, who is now mine, is thorough but has terrible time-management, and it is not unusual to sit for two hours in his waiting room.

Yes, I realize you do not have this kind of time to waste.

And thus, even though you agreed and perhaps even promised that you would call the doctor, the odds are that you will not.

I do know that in most situations, your strength and stubbornness win out. And if you do not have pneumonia or something else requiring antibiotics, then I hope your constitutions gets you through.

However.

Much as I love you and do hope that we grow old as the hills together, don't think I won't smother you in your sleep if you don't die of consumption and this motherfucking all night coughing keeps up much longer.

Love,

Lisa