It’s a scene I’ve watched play out a number of times over my life. A large number, really.
Man walks into bathroom with paper towel wrapped around a finger. Blood spots the paper towel. The two human beings make eye contact as the woman finishes brushing her teeth or hair.
“I cut my finger,” says the man.
“Do you need stitches?” asks the woman.
“I think so,” says the man.
“Let’s go,” says the woman.
And the woman drives the man to the hospital. Or in this case, Urgent Care.
I’m thankful for Urgent Care in our first case of this scenario, because we walked in and before I could finish his paperwork as he cut his writing hand, a nurse showed us to a room. She flushed the cut on his finger with saline and laid out all the doctor’s tools before I could even snap a pic to send to my accident-prone dad.
They numbed his finger, stitched him up, and we paid a much lower copay than we do for a non-admittal emergency room visit, all in short order.
“I’m sorry I ruined your lunch plans.”
“This is marriage.”
This is marriage. Missing lunch plans with a friend to drive your bleeding spouse to get stitches. Remembering his social security number. Watching blood drip down his knuckles and managing not to vomit. Making jokes, because making jokes feels better than not making jokes. Pointing out how if he’d worn his work gloves, he would have ruined a perfectly good set of work gloves. Eating really bad fast food together to avoid Hangry Level.
For better or worse. In sickness and health and slicing your hand with a box cutter while trying to fix a tube on the hot tub you’re rebuilding. It’s not always fun or easy. But it’s together.
“Hey, now you have something to blog about.”
That’s love. That’s marriage.