38 Years of Love

He gave it to her. And a few months later, we shamefully regretted it. When my mom battled brain cancer a few years ago, she couldn't get out of bed, nor could she do anything on her own. Because of the ravaging side-effects of chemotherapy, she depended on her family for everything. Everything. I just moved home from leaving law school and the adjustment was painful at times, but, then, so was life. Due to my mother's condition, my dad bought her a monitor system and with the simple click of a button, her voice rang out through a speaker kept in the living room.

Initially we praised our dad for this system. It made us feel good, safe, and trusted we'd be at her beckon call for whatever she needed. Except something happened. We forgot mom wasn't mom anymore. She was a vessel of what once was. My mom no longer spoke in soothing tones or complete sentences. She couldn't. She hurt too bad. In light of this, the speaker that barked in the living room was merely: Water!…Morphine!…Bathroom!…

One day, my my sister and I sat our dad down and said he needed to talk to her. Needed to ask if she could at least try to soften her voice, her demands. My dad–his wrinkles set much deeper since the news of her fragile health set in–said he'd try. Moments later, we heard his whisper coming from outside the bedroom door. Still to this day, I don't know what he said. Perhaps it's better this way.

I think about this moment all the time. Every week. My father–though pained, scared, and scarred–spoke to my mother in a way no one else could. Though death loomed, he lovingly admonished her. I still can barely wrap my mind around this type of love.

Mom and Dad, as you celebrate your 38th wedding anniversary, I just want to say thanks. Thank you for showing again–and again–that love doesn't come in the shape of cards, chocolate, and roses. It comes in the form of monitor systems, whispers, and deep consideration for each other. I love you and Happy Anniversary.