“Date of birth?”
“Seven, twelve, fifty-one.” I quoted this phrase so many times throughout the final five years of my husband’s life that sometimes I automatically started to say that instead of “Nine, sixteen, fifty-eight” when asked for my own date of birth. I would often be the “spokesperson” when we would be at his doctor’s appointments, or at chemo, or when he was in the hospital. Many times at the ER, when asked for his birthdate he would often just point at me, using the little strength he had, and I would respond accordingly. I also could recite all his medications, and the fact that I can still pronounce hydrochlorothiazide and even know what it is used for should attest to something. Outside of one hospital nurse who pointedly informed me, “That is your husband, not your child,” all the rest of the health care professionals appreciated how we “worked as a team”.
June 19 of this year would have been our twenty-ninth anniversary. I drew this to commemorate the time we spent together, as well as the time that has gone by since he passed away.
Today would have been his 70th birthday, so in honor of that, I would have posted a baby picture, but I didn’t have one. Above you can see the earliest school picture I had on my computer, taken a couple of years before I was born, and below are some of the two of us that I haven’t posted before. Just to remember the fun times.