I was in a waiting room, well, waiting, when I overheard two women speaking. 

 

"Today is your anniversary, right?"

 

"Yes, our fifty-ninth. He looked it up and the symbol is an olive, so he bought me a tree! I have to figure out where to plant it." They laughed. 

 

Fifty-nine is impressive. In truth, she did not look old enough to have been married that long, but what do I know? They continued their conversation, and I went back to my book. 

 

Then her husband came in, steering an electric wheelchair. She reached over and gently adjusted his pillow. Clearly, his mobility had declined since they said their vows. They talked for a minute before heading out the door. She did not seem concerned about him navigating the room, nor the slightest bit self-conscious. He was her partner, whatever the status of his body. 

 

I pondered the promises that are woven into the marriage ceremony. For most people, wheelchairs and disease are nowhere in the equation of what it means to meld two lives. 

 

The other night I fell into bed, too tired to change the sheets as I had intended. They lay in a basket next to me. John came in and asked if he should change them. But I was too tired even to stand up while he did. 

 

"I can do it without you having to get up," he promised. Then, as I have seen nurses do for their feeble patients, he replaced the sheets on one side, and then I rolled over to that edge while he finished the job. I smiled quietly. Was this a foreshadowing of our life in fifteen years? 

 

I don't know. But in the meantime, I am grateful for his kindness.