Sunday, I realized there are many definitions of good.
Understand as I write this, my sense of days and time have become exceedingly skewed. The point of the story isn’t strictly the details or even the chain of events. The point of the story is the people. The point of the story is love.
This weekend the Viking and I were supposed to be celebrating our third anniversary. It was going to be an adult sized, grown up affair with good meals and affection. It is sort of exactly what happened but not in any way we had planned.
A couple of Saturdays ago, my father tripped on some loose tile I had never gotten around to pulling up. He got x-rays, bad bruises, lots of missing skin, but the all clear on anything more serious.
The next weekend, he collapsed. He had torn his spleen and was bleeding internally. The doctors told us they were giving him some medicine, but they could not do any type of surgery. He would either stop bleeding and have a chance or not. A few days later, we found out he decided to stop bleeding. I didn’t know it that day, though, and as soon I was alone enough to drop brave face, I called my Viking and lost it. He came to me the moment he could, got nutritious food in my body, and bought food for my mom. He helped me take care of my momma.
Days passed. Some where good. Some where not so good. I got to spend one really good night with Dad. Saturday things looked not so good. I got the call to come in. My dad told me he was worried he was going to die without seeing me again. I felt too tired to stay long and spent the entire drive home trying not to completely lose it. I got home to my Viking. My heart wanted to be with dad, but I couldn’t do it alone. My Viking got dressed, drove me up there to be with my family. I didn’t have to worry about driving, and I had a hand to squeeze when I needed to chin up, brave face, handle it.
Sunday, we arrived at the hospital in time to find my dad’s room filled with nurses and doctors hurriedly taking tests, making phone calls, and saying things I couldn’t quite hear in the tones reserved for serious business. I stood in the hallway and watched my father as they swarmed and scurried while he trembled uncontrollably and wretched. I heard the doctor put a pad over his heart to get it beating in sync again. My Viking sat quietly in the hallway while tears poured down my face, touching me when he sensed I needed it but never trying to pull me away. That was my daddy, and I was going to watch and listen for any scrap of information I could hear.
Later, after the swarm dissipated and my dad was stable, I realized my parents were too tired for us to be there. My Viking took me keyboard shopping, and, again, he drove me to my parents’ house to check on things and pick things up even though it was about an hour more of his life spent in his car round trip. It meant it was 40 minutes I could ride safe and able to think. I picked up my big computer. He offered to let me bring home my dog. He just desperately wanted me to be okay.
Later that night, he stood in the middle of the kitchen after an ambush hug and said something in a sad tone about it being a bad anniversary for me. I thought for a second.
With my hands on the sides of his face, I explained it was a good anniversary. Nice meals and fun alone time is easy for relationships. I knew we could do those. It’s when the shit gets real, the times you really need your mate, that the love a couple shares is truly explored. I learned, I mean really learn, the depths of our connection. To be trite, our bond got tested by fire. There is no doubt, he is my mate, and he is exactly what I need.
By that definition, our anniversary was good. When things go tits up in life, we are a team. I’ll take that over a fancy dinner any time.