spring comfort

After five years of trying to convince my husband to be content with our little home in the woods he has finally settled.  Set back from the country highway our house is blocked by a few rows of tall pines, and if one slowly drives by and looks down our driveway they will really only see our pole barn and two solar panels.  It’s a mostly quiet neck of the woods.  Logging trucks go by in the late morning, but the bird feeders are tucked back alongside the house and aren’t bothered by traffic passing by.  In the spring the birds are noisy; the red breasted grosbeak doing his mating dance while a gang of bluebirds looks on wth what I imagine is a look that says “little idiot.”  The chicken coop sits on the opposite end of our large yard, but the hens can be heard squawking as they run around looking for small snakes and pink little worms.  With the recent addition of an Ikea windchime on our porch the area has gotten a bit more nosey as the hallow wood pieces knock together.  But apart from these spring time sounds, the place is quiet.

We don’t have neighbors, which is the main point my husband brings up when he unexpectedly states that we will not be moving anywhere else any time soon.  On either side of our 40 acres are multiple other 40’s owned by people who only make a visit to their land a couple of times a year. Some of the properites have small, rough looking cabins tucked back into the woods.  In the summer time we hear the occasional gun shot, but other than that we sit undisturbed.  The lack of peeping toms and snooping neighbors gives my husband elaborate liberty to pee off the side of our porch into the patch of dirt that lacked grass long before we ever moved in.  He does this with pride as if he were a dog marking his territory.  And it makes me happy to know he finally sees this quiet place as his own.

As the ironic fate that follows me would have it, three months after purchasing my cabin of solitude as a single, independent woman, I met my now husband.  He was more than content with his centrally located apartment in town.  Cooley riding his bike to school and work it was beyond his mental capacity how someone could enjoy living 40 minutes outside of town, away from the action. While I was in my weed filled garden tilling until the mosquitoes ate me alive he was sitting in a restaurant’s outdoor patio with friends, his bike parked casually on the sidewalk.

How we made it to this point is hazy to me.  My social husband spends only a day a week with friends, and on weekends when I get all my outdoor chores done we go out to eat in town, sitting inside the dimly lit, modern restaurants while our vehicle sits casually parked outside.  Nonetheless, despite the five years of compromise, I am still a bit shocked he has grown so comfortable in our little home so far away from the hustle and bustle.  Three weeks ago I was finding us apartments to move into in downtown Chicago (a good 5 1/2 hour drive from our current rural existence).  When I told my husband I had found us just the right one on the river I am not sure what reaction I was hoping for.  I was ready to take my turn in the compromise and move to the land of opportunity and public transportation.  It turns out somewhere between the sound of chirping spring peepers and the grouses’ non stop thumping he found the peace to settle in.  So here we’ll stay, at least for a little bit longer.

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spring comfort

nursing ailments

When my husband was in nursing school I heard it said that when you are a nurse people come to you with all of their health questions.  Around his last semester of school my mother and sister would ask my husband’s opinions on things such as absurd health news they read on social media or diet fads that were preached on blogs.  He would cooley give his opinion, a mix of amateur knowledge and level headed sensibility.  When my nephews got  a boo-boo I would send them to their Uncle and watch as he gave them their prognosis and then send them on their way wearing a cartoon decorated bandaid.  This would only be the beginning of his off hours nursing.

Each semester of nursing school armed my husband with more knowledge, meaning each semester of school I was diagnosed with another ailment.  When complaining of a headache I was quickly assessed for a heart attack.  When my daily stomach ache flared up my mother asked my husband if I could be suffering “leaky gut” to which he declared I was missing three symptoms and therefore fine.  When he learned about labor and delivery and the complications that can occur our decision to not have children was solidified. When he told me that if I got pregnant at this late of an age that I would be considered an “at risk pregnancy” I stopped initiating sex.  By the time graduation rolled around I was regularly suffering from “heart attacks,” and  my husband had moved on to diagnosing our dogs.

With diploma in hand, and the dogs being cleared of epilepsy, our acquaintances were dropping like flies with my husband’s new favorite – borderline personality disorder.  When the heart attack diagnoses had all but ceased I couldn’t help but wonder if I too was now recieiving his secret psychological labels.  When my stomach aches got worse and the shooting pain in my arm lasted more than a day I was branded a hypochondriac, and he turned to ignoring my daily complaints.

In the beginning I was nervous to ask him about my female issues – periods, cramps, infections.  Just saying any of those words out loud made me wonder if I had crossed a marital line that one should never go near.  In my first marriage we never so much as mentioned the word “fart”, and I had preferred it that way.  My second marriage being different on many levels (and my digestive issues worsening) we openly passed gas in front of each other, and I prayed this openness was the key to marital bliss that my first marriage lacked.  So when I asked my first question about my menstrual cycle the awkwardness only lasted but a minute and the hypochondriac in me relaxed knowing this was a union that would last.

Every now and then I have an ailment that even I cannot ball up the nerve to have him assess.  I’ll be standing in the bathroom, naked, post shower, sweating from the anxiety that I may have just found something and hoping that he will accidentally walk in and find me.  He will give me one of his matter-of-fact responses: “you’re fine,” “stop being a hypochondriac,” or “well call your doctor if it’s bothering you.”  But his interruptions are never that timely, and I am left to my own anxiety. Maybe I should push him towards becoming a doctor.

nursing ailments