foodfoodbodybody

It is no exaggeration when I say that there is no way I could have survived this past month without my Mr. McBody. He has been my advocate, my companion, my comfort, my nurse. He has cleaned up my messes and held my hand. He has woken up every 4 hours with me at night (sometimes more than that) and helped me keep track of the myriad of medications I’ve needed for all the things that have gone awry in my body. He brings me food and water. Extra blankets and socks for my feet.

He sits next to me and reads me the New Yorker. Including finding me cartoons he thinks I will find amusing.

Nothing has given greater meaning to the words “for better for worse, in sickness  and in health” than this past month.

He has seen me through a lot before – but other than high-risk pregnancies, this is probably the longest lasting and most intense and enduring conditions he has ever had to see me through.

He takes care of me in every way imaginable but mostly he is my friend. He stays by my side.  He has taken a leave from work so that he could be with me. This means more to me than words could ever say.  It is the most precious 25th anniversary gift ever, more than any diamond in the world, more than the trip we were supposed to take. He holds my hand in the waiting room. He is with me. For better and for worse.