By Samantha Ducloux Waltz
Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
~Robert Heinlein
How does a man show a woman he loves her? I used to think he bought her a dozen red roses and dinner at a cozy restaurant along the Willamette River. I've seriously revised my thinking.
My husband shows love, or at least a great deal of tolerance, by sharing our white-carpeted home with a large dog that gravitates toward mud puddles whenever outside, and sharing our bed with a cat that likes to hog all the covers. He gardens alone when I go to the barn to see my lovely Arabian mare.
I, in turn, show my love by partnering in household tasks, helping him manage his commercial properties, and opening my heart to his adult children and their families.
Generally our routines work well, and we've been moving quite happily toward our tenth anniversary. But there are times when he is convinced that I love Naomi the cat, Annie the dog, or Vida the horse more than I love him. Naomi, Annie, and Vida are getting older, right along with Ray and me. If Naomi, an eight-pound black kitty, starts losing too much weight, I obsess about every kibble she eats. If Annie, an eighty-pound Golden Retriever, starts limping too much from the arthritis in her right shoulder, I rush her to the vet. If Vida, my Arabian mare, flattens her ears when I put her into a trot, I postpone all household tasks and spend extra hours at the barn massaging knotted muscles. At those times my relationship with Ray gets a bit ragged.
I'd been in an obsessing-about-kitty phase, and Ray was already feeling unloved and unappreciated, when my horse suddenly got so ill I thought I might lose her. She spiked a fever, dropped liquid stools, and her heartbeat nearly double-timed with a worrisome "whoosh" added to the beat. She grew so weak within a matter of a few days that when the vet came out Vida literally fell over twice as he examined her.
I sobbed my worries to Ray while I waited for the results of the blood work. Ray isn't fond of horses. In seventh grade he rode a horse called Little Buck at a friend's birthday party. Though the horse never even crow-hopped, Ray expected with every lurching step that it would live up to its name, and the fear settled deep in his cells. He would rather eat glass than go to the barn with me. But he did care that I was upset, and listened to me babble about Vida for hours.
I could think of nothing else. Talk of nothing else. Vida is my dream come true. Growing up, I saved every dime I could find to ride the electric horse at the grocery store, and read every book about horses in the library. I handled turning forty by buying my own horse, and turning fifty by riding her on the beach. I couldn't lose her.
Blood work confirmed that Vida had a serious infection, probably staph. A daily intravenous injection of antibiotics seemed our best hope of saving her.
I considered giving Vida the shots myself to reduce vet bills, and set up a training session with the vet to learn to give them. My face must have been as white as Vida's blaze when he showed me a syringe as long as my forearm and explained the things to avoid so I didn't endanger my horse's life.
I went home to Ray, terrified and babbling even more.
He put his book and glass of wine aside, listened as I told him what I was feeling, then said, matter-of-factly, "I'll help you."
I dropped into a chair, speechless. When I found my voice I said, "We're talking every day. You'll help me?"
"I can do it."
"We're talking the barn a half hour away. A thousand-pound horse. Foot-long shots into a vein near her heart."
"I'll do it. I used to give myself shots every day."
Shots every day? He'd never told me that. I eyed him dubiously. Ray panicked when he had to wash gravel out of my shoulder after a cycling accident. "Why did you give yourself shots?" I asked.
"For my allergies."
He did have allergies, so I supposed he might actually have given himself shots. If so, maybe he could help me with Vida. I drew my chair closer to his. "How old were you?"
"Twelve."
A smile broke through my worry. He'd given himself shots more than fifty years before. He sounded supremely confident, and terribly earnest. "Let me make sure I have this right," I said. "You gave yourself shots every day."
"Well, my mother did it most of the time."
My chest hurt from holding in a burst of laughter. "You gave yourself shots every day except that your mother did it most of the time? How many shots do you think you actually gave yourself?"
"I don't know. At least one. They hurt."
Now I had to hold my sides not to double up. "How long did this shots thing go on?"
"A couple of weeks. They didn't work that well."
I got up from my chair, climbed into his lap, and gave him a huge hug. "You would have really done it for me, scary horses, scary needles and all, wouldn't you."
"I would have."
He wrapped his arms around me and I rested my head against his chest. Our conversation had helped me relax enough to see what I needed to do for myself and for Vida. Tough as it was for me to pull out my plastic, the vet accepted credit cards. I'd still need to go to the barn every day, but I'd worry about Vida a lot less and so be able to talk with Ray about something else, at least for a while.
Now I know how a man shows a woman he loves her. It's far more than red roses and dinners alongside the river. He surrenders his personal interests, packs up his courage, and goes wherever she needs him. That's true love.
Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
~Robert Heinlein
How does a man show a woman he loves her? I used to think he bought her a dozen red roses and dinner at a cozy restaurant along the Willamette River. I've seriously revised my thinking.
My husband shows love, or at least a great deal of tolerance, by sharing our white-carpeted home with a large dog that gravitates toward mud puddles whenever outside, and sharing our bed with a cat that likes to hog all the covers. He gardens alone when I go to the barn to see my lovely Arabian mare.
I, in turn, show my love by partnering in household tasks, helping him manage his commercial properties, and opening my heart to his adult children and their families.
Generally our routines work well, and we've been moving quite happily toward our tenth anniversary. But there are times when he is convinced that I love Naomi the cat, Annie the dog, or Vida the horse more than I love him. Naomi, Annie, and Vida are getting older, right along with Ray and me. If Naomi, an eight-pound black kitty, starts losing too much weight, I obsess about every kibble she eats. If Annie, an eighty-pound Golden Retriever, starts limping too much from the arthritis in her right shoulder, I rush her to the vet. If Vida, my Arabian mare, flattens her ears when I put her into a trot, I postpone all household tasks and spend extra hours at the barn massaging knotted muscles. At those times my relationship with Ray gets a bit ragged.
I'd been in an obsessing-about-kitty phase, and Ray was already feeling unloved and unappreciated, when my horse suddenly got so ill I thought I might lose her. She spiked a fever, dropped liquid stools, and her heartbeat nearly double-timed with a worrisome "whoosh" added to the beat. She grew so weak within a matter of a few days that when the vet came out Vida literally fell over twice as he examined her.
I sobbed my worries to Ray while I waited for the results of the blood work. Ray isn't fond of horses. In seventh grade he rode a horse called Little Buck at a friend's birthday party. Though the horse never even crow-hopped, Ray expected with every lurching step that it would live up to its name, and the fear settled deep in his cells. He would rather eat glass than go to the barn with me. But he did care that I was upset, and listened to me babble about Vida for hours.
I could think of nothing else. Talk of nothing else. Vida is my dream come true. Growing up, I saved every dime I could find to ride the electric horse at the grocery store, and read every book about horses in the library. I handled turning forty by buying my own horse, and turning fifty by riding her on the beach. I couldn't lose her.
Blood work confirmed that Vida had a serious infection, probably staph. A daily intravenous injection of antibiotics seemed our best hope of saving her.
I considered giving Vida the shots myself to reduce vet bills, and set up a training session with the vet to learn to give them. My face must have been as white as Vida's blaze when he showed me a syringe as long as my forearm and explained the things to avoid so I didn't endanger my horse's life.
I went home to Ray, terrified and babbling even more.
He put his book and glass of wine aside, listened as I told him what I was feeling, then said, matter-of-factly, "I'll help you."
I dropped into a chair, speechless. When I found my voice I said, "We're talking every day. You'll help me?"
"I can do it."
"We're talking the barn a half hour away. A thousand-pound horse. Foot-long shots into a vein near her heart."
"I'll do it. I used to give myself shots every day."
Shots every day? He'd never told me that. I eyed him dubiously. Ray panicked when he had to wash gravel out of my shoulder after a cycling accident. "Why did you give yourself shots?" I asked.
"For my allergies."
He did have allergies, so I supposed he might actually have given himself shots. If so, maybe he could help me with Vida. I drew my chair closer to his. "How old were you?"
"Twelve."
A smile broke through my worry. He'd given himself shots more than fifty years before. He sounded supremely confident, and terribly earnest. "Let me make sure I have this right," I said. "You gave yourself shots every day."
"Well, my mother did it most of the time."
My chest hurt from holding in a burst of laughter. "You gave yourself shots every day except that your mother did it most of the time? How many shots do you think you actually gave yourself?"
"I don't know. At least one. They hurt."
Now I had to hold my sides not to double up. "How long did this shots thing go on?"
"A couple of weeks. They didn't work that well."
I got up from my chair, climbed into his lap, and gave him a huge hug. "You would have really done it for me, scary horses, scary needles and all, wouldn't you."
"I would have."
He wrapped his arms around me and I rested my head against his chest. Our conversation had helped me relax enough to see what I needed to do for myself and for Vida. Tough as it was for me to pull out my plastic, the vet accepted credit cards. I'd still need to go to the barn every day, but I'd worry about Vida a lot less and so be able to talk with Ray about something else, at least for a while.
Now I know how a man shows a woman he loves her. It's far more than red roses and dinners alongside the river. He surrenders his personal interests, packs up his courage, and goes wherever she needs him. That's true love.
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