My husband and I are working on getting fit. We read recently in READER'S DIGEST that you have to injure your muscles to make them stronger, which means that you have to at least break a sweat, so that has been our goal with our nightly walks in the mall.
Tonight we left after a healthy meal of cream of vegetable soup, soup made with skim milk, not half and half like the recipe called for. He was going slower than usual, and finally he said he wanted to sit and I should do the second lap by myself. That is unlike him, so I waited. Finally he said that for some reason the soup had gone down wrong and he was afraid he was going to be sick.
I did go on, but I worried the whole way around. You see, yesterday one of my husband's men called to say his wife had been rushed by ambulance to Fort Wayne because of chest pains. She had a quadruple bypass two years ago at the age of forty-five. Now she is coming home, but she has had three stents inserted. Needless to say, her husband is taking the rest of the week off.
We have reached the age where losing your spouse is not a very distant possibility but becomes ever more possible with each passing day. As I walked, I tried to take comfort in the fact that he had not been sweating. I didn't think he was pale, but he wears hats and was wearing a red one, so it is hard to tell. Certainly if it were anything serious, I would have known. I wouldn't come back to his bench to find someone giving him CPR, would I?
I know. I worry too much. And it isn't just me. Not very long ago a supervisor with whom my husband works got a call in the middle of the day that his wife, also named Becky and about my age, had had a stroke. My husband, who has called me at work three times in the four years I have had this job, called me at work. To hear my voice. To make sure his Becky was OK, at least for now.
I don't know if I like knowing that I will not live forever on this earth. I mean, I have always known it, but the fact is somehow more real now. One of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle, wrote in one of her books that you should love your spouse enough to let them die first. When my mother died, I grabbed my husband and point blank told him that I DIDN'T love him that much. But as I have watched my father suffer through the loneliness of being a widower, I know that I would do anything to spare my husband that. It isn't up to me anyway. I just hope I remember making that mental decision if the time comes when I have to face losing him.
Tonight we left after a healthy meal of cream of vegetable soup, soup made with skim milk, not half and half like the recipe called for. He was going slower than usual, and finally he said he wanted to sit and I should do the second lap by myself. That is unlike him, so I waited. Finally he said that for some reason the soup had gone down wrong and he was afraid he was going to be sick.
I did go on, but I worried the whole way around. You see, yesterday one of my husband's men called to say his wife had been rushed by ambulance to Fort Wayne because of chest pains. She had a quadruple bypass two years ago at the age of forty-five. Now she is coming home, but she has had three stents inserted. Needless to say, her husband is taking the rest of the week off.
We have reached the age where losing your spouse is not a very distant possibility but becomes ever more possible with each passing day. As I walked, I tried to take comfort in the fact that he had not been sweating. I didn't think he was pale, but he wears hats and was wearing a red one, so it is hard to tell. Certainly if it were anything serious, I would have known. I wouldn't come back to his bench to find someone giving him CPR, would I?
I know. I worry too much. And it isn't just me. Not very long ago a supervisor with whom my husband works got a call in the middle of the day that his wife, also named Becky and about my age, had had a stroke. My husband, who has called me at work three times in the four years I have had this job, called me at work. To hear my voice. To make sure his Becky was OK, at least for now.
I don't know if I like knowing that I will not live forever on this earth. I mean, I have always known it, but the fact is somehow more real now. One of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle, wrote in one of her books that you should love your spouse enough to let them die first. When my mother died, I grabbed my husband and point blank told him that I DIDN'T love him that much. But as I have watched my father suffer through the loneliness of being a widower, I know that I would do anything to spare my husband that. It isn't up to me anyway. I just hope I remember making that mental decision if the time comes when I have to face losing him.
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