The success of our marriage lies within the boundaries of two hours and 25 minutes every weekday. That’s when Karen and I chat, organise, debrief, think, plan and have breakfast together before I spend another day home alone, disabled in body, not mind. I won’t see her again until I wake from a later afternoon sleep to welcome her home or later that night, when the spasms come.
2 hours and 25 minutes is the time between when I wake her at 5:15am with a tea, a hug and kiss, and she drives out of the carport to work.
The tea is perfect, well mostly. Dilmah, her favourite. We’re on the greyer side of 55 and you get good at these things over the years.
I have an alarm set to remind me to enter the room and turn a dim desk light on. Funny though, I never need an alarm. I’m already awake. Hours awake. Like since about 10 or 11 the night before, up to spend half an hour in the toilet or deal with a nerve spasm.
She opens her eyes a little and turns her head as I take my morning meds. The drugs are heavy duty pain killers and I don’t have a good track record getting them right each day.
I take a swallow and her eyes drift back as I turn around and head out for a few more minutes.
Sometimes her dressing gown is on a chair or near the end of the bed, and I lift it a little so that it’s lying next to her arm or over the slight bulge in the bed where her legs cross.
I’ve never tired of seeing her sleep, or wake, or a bit of both. It started in 1986 as uni students in love and in Bathurst. This year, our 36th of marriage, feels somehow stronger than that, more meaningful for some reason.
Almost exactly 15 minutes later, I call back to see she’s rousing, and tell her the news from overnight.
‘There’s a submarine gone missing,’ I said one recent week.
‘Where?’ was her first, smart instinctive question. Other spouses might retort with ‘what?’ or ‘ugh?’ or ‘leave me alone’. Not us. Both journalists from our uni days. The facts mean something. Knowing news means something.
‘Over the Titanic wreck,’ I answer. ‘A submersible. 5 people.’
‘They won’t save them,’ she said after a pause.
‘No,’ I answer as I check that her new iPhone handset — my old one actually — did charge overnight on the bedside wireless mat I rigged up a while ago. ‘No they probably won’t.’
‘I’ll just move the car,’ I say, every morning, at the same time. She doesn’t need to know, but I have these habits. It’s something I can still do.
The things I can still do are growing smaller.
Multiple Sclerosis has that effect, especially when it’s in the not-getting-any-better version like mine.
I like to position the car so it’s ready to exit easily when she is. I think it’s something to do with wanting every minute to matter each morning. Stay a bit more, I suppose I’m thinking.
5:45. Time for Karen to get in her walking gear for a quick, cold, brave bit of morning exercise.
Breakfast is first, always a bowl of cereal and a chat. I know she has an ear peeled for any hint of rain that may affect the walk, but the time talking is our best of all.
‘You know, the grandkids may come over on the weekend,’ she tells me between sips from her spoon. I’ve noticed over the years that Karen likes to eat cereal standing, not moving, just upright with the bowl about chest high to minimise spill. ‘Beth told me on the phone last night after dinner.’
These mornings are often like that — a catchup for the meals or times missed together, or phone calls had without me on speaker. It’s not something to lament and be saddened by. God knows, literally, we have enough circumstances to feel melancholic about. But we don’t. And certainly not in this 20 minute time of breakfast and regrouping.
My iPad is normally nearby, and I sometimes have an interesting video to show her, something I heard or saw during the night. Most mornings, I keep it to myself only because I prefer hearing something she wants to say. It’s typically more interesting.
‘I’ve got four clients to speak with today,’ she adds. ‘I know what I need to cover, but I could do with some prayer,’ she says as she puts down the bowl and picks up a pair of cutoff gloves and a beanie, ready for the brisk Winter morning trek through local streets.
She walks out. I put a quick load of washing on. 30 minutes.
When she comes through the door, I sit down for a perfect coffee at her hands. We have a nice enough coffee machine. Karen is the real reason it’s not bad, all her years of managing cafes in Melbourne give me a front-of-the-queue feeling at a busy Barista’s workplace.
This is where MS needs to be managed again. It’s the sound of the machine really — loud grinding or nearly-as-loud milk heating makes it painful for me to hear so close. Often, I put some earphones or headphones on that cancel the sound. I love this technology! And yes, I’m still a sucker for gadgets despite the declining body.
From 7:20 to 8:15, I usually sit on our bed while Karen gets ready. I like to clean her glasses and phone screen while she talks between lipstick and foundation. It hasn’t really changed much since we met in Bathurst back in the 80s.
We were students then, soon enough married and spending most waking and sleeping hours together. Somehow, Karen and I became best friends almost as quickly as we were landed into the same dormitory.
Three adult daughters later, two grandchildren, one continuing marriage that defies the odds.
Getting in the car, Karen pulls out the CarPlay cord and finds something inspiring to play.
She puts her hand out on the door as the window slips down to the sound of a little motor inside. I hold it with one hand, steady myself with a metal walking stick in the other and kiss.
Karen smiles, says ‘I love you’ and moves forward out of the garage. ‘Love you,’ I say as her window winds back up.
I reach up and close the garage door, then slowly make my way up the three steps to our front door. Turning, I can see her car nearing a roundabout, and I watch as she goes out of sight.
On a good day, I will be back at this door, smiling as she drives back into the garage. This week, there were two such days.
I always enjoy your writing Paul. Your resilience is inspiring. Keep it up.