When I was sixty-one…I had a small stroke.
My apparently not-so-devoted husband and I parted ways. It happens I guess…some people can’t handle the strain of a major health crisis in a marriage.
To be fair…the marriage had lost its snap years ago. Russell just didn’t want to grow up…and so he didn’t.
I had recovered from the stroke almost completely…aside from a slight weakness in my left leg that forced me to use a cane most of the time.
I also had some crummy vision problems which I was sort of handling.
But, poor husband Russ…couldn’t handle the “cane”. He could not deal with the small disability that was now part of me…so…he could not deal with me.
“You know, Samantha. You look so old when you use that cane.” he had said one day..
We had been grocery shopping together. It was shortly after the stroke and I needed help since I could not easily bend down…not to mention getting back up. Awkward…
“When I’m with you, I feel so old. And I don’t want to feel old. I wish you were young again, Samantha.”
“Do you remember how beautiful you were…when you were young?”
“I wish you were that way again…do you really need that cane?”
Even though I was not overly surprised by his comment…I was nonetheless flattened.
There is no other way to describe it. I imagine this is how you would feel if you stepped off a curb and were hit by a cement truck.
But then…I got up.
“Yes,” I answered him thoughtfully. “Yes…I believe I do need this cane…and will probably always need this cane.”
“But you know, Russell…I actually believe it’s you I don’t need.”
And I didn’t.
I filed for divorce on Christmas Eve…three days after being hit by that cement truck.