Is It Really Love?

 This thought has been in my head for almost 20 years.

I believe that people think love will always feel like the "first time". Maybe for some people it is like that. The butterflies in the stomach, the heart eyes, the high-pro glow, the tingles and shivers and all that jazz. The breathless anticipation, the long conversations and fun getting-to-know-you phase. Then comes the wedding and purported "happily ever after". However, it's hard to imagine that feeling lasting for 30 or 40 years. 

Maybe it's because of this, people enter into their relationships or marriages without actually thinking of the future spread out before them. The hardships that may come. The ennui that can settle in over time. The frustrations that can occur from money problems, child problems, or differing viewpoints on life. OR the fact that one of you wants to leave because your partner no longer looks like they did when you met in your 20's; although that shouldn't matter because you are both in your 50's or 60's now. And doesn't marriage seem like it's disposable? Unhappy: just get a divorce and try again! Where's the love then?

Marie and my father were married for about 46 years before he died in 2004. I had a ringside seat for most of their marriage, except for my "lost" years in Long Island. Like any married couple though, they still had ups and downs, but I never doubted that they loved each other. He had a heart attack when he was in his 50's, and after he came home from the hospital she took excellent care of him. Love!

But one evening he got into a huge argument with one of my siblings, and I saw Marie come between them. That night I had some doubts, but they stayed together. Sometimes they would argue after that, and sometimes it was bitter. I asked her once, "Why don't you and dad get divorced if things are so bad between you?" She gave me a look like I'd grown another head. "I love your father. I would never divorce him." Okay then... 

My father eventually started having more health problems, and Marie was right there by his side. If he was in the hospital, I took her there every day to see him. When he was in the VA hospital 45 miles away, I drove her there to see him every day: except one when there was a snow storm. When he was in a rehab facility 100 miles round trip: I took her to see him every day. Doctor's appointments, eye appointments, whatever: she was always there.

His condition worsened in February 2004. My mother finally decided that he had had enough: and brought him home for the final time. He had wanted to be home and she honored that wish. He was pretty much bedridden by this time. Although home care nurses would come to help: Marie did the lion's share of the work when it came to taking care of him. She fed him, cut his nails, bathed him, changed him, cleaned him up and never uttered a complaint. And when she wasn't in his room with him, she would be in the living room in the chair closest to the room, listening to him breathe. When he died in October 2004 that man knew he had been loved.

So what is love, really? I learned from that example Marie set. And it's how I judge men today. If something were to happen to you, and you became incapacitated, would I clean your butt for you? And if you puked: would I clean that up for you, and cut your toenails, and do all that you couldn't do for yourself anymore? No joke. If I don't love you enough to do that, then it isn't really love. To me: that's the true test of real love. It isn't pretty, but it certainly puts your feelings into perspective and gives you some food for thought.

I know this isn't the most graceful of blog posts, but to me the message is clear. As always: thanks for reading.