I long ago concluded that patience is a virtue I was not blessed with.  I don’t like waiting and I don’t like the unknown.  I watched the movie Secretary with James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhal and understood that if being a submissive meant sitting at a desk for hours in the exact same position, even while waiting for the promise of my lover to return, that was not the lifestyle for me.  I don’t even think I could pose for a portrait.  What a loss for the world, me unable to model.

But sometimes life springs things on us that we instinctively realize are larger than our control, and we surrender, for to do anything else would make the situation worse and drive us mad.

Pete and I met with a physical therapist today.  Turns out she’s a doctor, too.  We found that on the printed physical therapy schedule we received as we left: 8 appointments over the next month.  I am eventually going to write these folks a letter of gratitude.  They first scheduled Pete for March 14th, which would have been the day before what is now his last scheduled PT appointment.  I told them that wasn’t workable.  He was bedridden, unable to work and drive and do basically anything.  They put us on a cancellation list and got us in today.  That’s a gift.

So is the ability to figure out that the inner ear is connected to the eyeball, and a bunch of other stuff we learned today.  Pete has right-beating nystagmus in his eyes.  He told me this, but I couldn’t see it with my untrained eyes, although I could feel it when he closed his eyes and I touched his eyelids.  The PT doctor and a doctor the other night saw it, and the PT doctor put some goggles on and we watched on a screen while Pete’s eyes darted repeatedly back and forth.  They are moving to the right – which is the direction Pete said he felt like the world was moving – to compensate for Pete’s left inner ear (vestibular) nerve being damaged by what the doctors all have suspected is an infection, maybe a virus, that’s long gone now so we can’t even kick its mean little ass.  The communication has been broken down and Pete’s ear thinks he is turning right, so his eyes keep looking to the right.

Pete is in the acute stage right now, and this is day 5.  He has work to do at home, such as trying not to take it too easy while also understanding the limits of the vertigo.  Today, he helped me carry groceries inside, which was no small task up a flight of stairs 3 separate times.  He then slept for hours – as did I, probably because I made so many trips to Asheville this week.  He is using his eyes more, but still has double vision, so he can feel them straining.  The nystagmus should heal by Monday (please, God) and the damaged ear nerve should also heal itself.  There are exercises that will send signals to help heal, and part of that is physical therapy twice a week for a month.  Physical therapy for an ear!  Pete should be fully back to normal within 4 to 6 weeks, which sounds like about the time when we planned to retire.  If that joke didn’t translate: 4 to 6 weeks sounds like forever when you aren’t working, not to mention the cabin fever setting in.  But I think at this point, we’re just wondering if God is moving in beautiful mysterious ways or trying to render us both unemployed in 2019.

From my own perspective, I know that I could not be as present and dedicated to Pete if I hadn’t already quit my job.  I would be significantly more preoccupied with what was going on back at the office.  But I’ve let go, to an extent.  Asheville, and Pete, are where I was headed . . . and I keep thinking that God is just trying to drive that home to me.  “Quit wondering if this was the right choice.  I will bring you up here several times a week until you quit asking.”  Heck, maybe this hellacious adventure leads me to a job somehow.

Pete, to his credit, has been a very good patient.  I thought he would be more resistant like my dad, but he has accepted the situation and grown to enjoy me driving him around.

NEVER.

Pete and I hate riding with each other.  Imagine riding with someone whose driving you hate and having vertigo.  Maybe it’s just going better because his eyes are closed.

But seriously, he has scarcely been curt with me at all, nor I with him.  Health crises put things in perspective.  The little bullshit you used to bicker about doesn’t matter so much when your spouse is ill, or when your spouse is caring for you while you’re ill.  Your primary focus is recovery and getting back to independence and whatever parts of your old normal life you want to resume – like working, driving, watching TV, unloading the dishwasher without taking a break, showering without fear of falling.

As Pete said today, this is good practice for when we’re older.

And I thank God that he has a condition that will be healed – not a “brain issue”, which was the other option.  I thank God that I can be here.  I thank God that we are receiving treatment.

I thank God.

Apparently a crippling illness is what it takes for my husband and I to finally spend Valentine’s Day together . . . and a few unexpected days earlier in the week.

As I’ve previously written, Pete and I have lived apart since 2012.  This past weekend, he sweetly suggested we have dinner out for Valentine’s Day while we were together.  He left for Asheville on Sunday as usual and all was fine.

He texted me Monday morning: “I think I’m sick.  Staying home.  Swimmy head.  Headache last night.  Kinda nauseous.  In waves.”  Sounded like the flu, which has attacked so many people we know lately.  I’d had a headache Saturday night, and we both mentioned being really tired, so I waited to see if I came down with it, too.

Monday afternoon, Pete actually called out his vertigo symptom and had a low fever.  He was afraid to drive with the vertigo, and I was regretful that I couldn’t take him, being down in Charlotte.

Tuesday, there was no change, and I had looked up Pete’s symptoms online and concluded he could have a brain tumor, among other things.  Of course the brain tumor option stood out to me because it killed my dad.  I said, “I can come up and take you to a doctor.”  Pete and I are both stubborn and independent.  I awaited the text reply where he would turn me down.  I think I was telling my friend at work that he would tell me no when Pete replied, “OK.”

I had a work call scheduled at noon.  Pete’s acceptance of my offer came at 10:27am.  That was a long couple of hours until I could get on the road.  When I entered our Asheville apartment, it was dark and Pete was in bed, a ceiling fan on to alleviate nausea side effects such as sweating.  Pete’s doctor couldn’t see him that day, so we went to a partnering clinic that mercifully accepted walk-ins.  Pete walked with his eyes closed down the stairs out of our apartment.  He lay the seat back in my car.  He didn’t enter the clinic until he had to.  He lay down as much as he could, eyes closed every possible minute.  They made him stand, sit, walk, do this, do that, and the doctor finally said that he has “true vertigo”, suspected to be peripheral (as opposed to central), cause undetermined.

Going through this, we have found several people who have had vertigo or known people who have had it.  Apparently, around 40% of people get it.  Pete’s description is that it’s like the drunk spins.  The world, the room, are moving.  His eyes feel like they’re moving, but they are perfectly still.  We could feel them pulsing at one point through his eyelids, but to look at them, they weren’t darting around like they felt they were to him.  Today is day three, and only tonight is he able to open his eyes for more than seconds at a time, following a visit to his primary doctor, a steroid injection, and two doses of an anti-nausea prescription he received yesterday at the walk-in clinic.

We haven’t held hands this much in 14 years.  Because he can’t open his eyes without the world moving, he walks unsteady and almost entirely unsighted.  I guide him when we go to doctors.  Inside the apartment, he holds onto walls, counters, etc.

Some of you have been through his with people you love.  I have, with my parents.  It’s different this time, because I believe the expectation is that Pete will recover.  And it’s different because he’s my spouse.  And it’s different because I’m not with him.  I’m so grateful I’ve been able to leave work and go be with him, and I’m so grateful we’ve already chosen to close the CLT-AVL gap in a few months so this won’t be an issue . . . and maybe God is using this to make that decision crystal clear for me, since I spend a portion of every day reciting my reasons why.

The fact is, nothing is guaranteed.  Pete, who is not known to miss work, will miss this entire week.  And while we hope that’s all, he’s 2 days into a 10-day medication that cancels the effects of the vertigo by somewhat knocking him out.  Another medication has a 30-day run.  We see a new doctor Friday (Blue Car, don’t fail me now!  I am burning up the roads this week.), and that establishment mentioned follow-up appointments.  How many?  How often?  When can he drive again?  How much work will he miss?  How much work will I miss to be there for him and take him where he needs to be?

I told Pete today: I am stressed, but I am not worried.  I’m stressed because I don’t have answers and I don’t like spontaneously missing work even if I have already given notice and tried to get my replacement in there well before this.  I’m not worried because I do believe Pete will recover, and because I know I am doing what I need to do.  When Mom got sick, I relied on Dad to accompany her to doctors’ visits.  When Dad got sick, I relied on my sister to be his caretaker.  It’s my turn now.  Pete is my spouse and my responsibility – not in a burdensome way, but in a way that I understand that with him is where I need to be.

Something like this knocks a lot of unimportant stuff out of the way.  I think I needed that.

But I also need Pete to get better.  Because we aren’t done doing things yet.

He posted on his own blog today.  I haven’t seen it show up yet, but if you are aware of his blog on his website, keep checking over there and I trust it will appear eventually.

I think I should sleep now.

Thanks for reading.