He’s not the same man I married who would grab my hand and run up and down steps with me, camera in hand as he stopped to shoot the best possible angle or photograph a memory. Now he sits in his chair, and I do the running—get the shoes, get a glass of water, get a snack, bring the mail, get clean clothes—again. It must be love.
He’s not the same man I married who wrote five books in the first five years of our marriage. Now he asks me five times a day what day it is, and I attempt to respond patiently and gently five times a day—plus answer the same number of questions about what we are having for lunch, for dinner, and what the names are of family members across the water. It must be love.
He’s not the same man I married who used to walk along the firth with me collecting firewood to collect and take home to cut up for the fireplace. Who used to walk our dog while I fixed meals. Who took the trash and recycle out to the bin and drove into town to get groceries. He hasn’t driven in two years now and he can’t walk. I take out the trash and recycle, walk the dog several times a day, drive into town to pick up groceries and prescriptions. It must be love.
He’s not the same man I married who helped vacuum, dust, and even washed dishes occasionally. Now I do all the vacuuming, cooking, cleaning, dog-walking, shopping—plus all the new things that need to be done for a spouse who is unable to walk or do anything for himself. It must be love.
He’s not the same man I married who took me to visit hidden gems around Scotland, looked for the Loch Ness Monster with me, planned to take me to Rome, looked forward to vacations, decorated for Christmas. Now we can’t decorate for Christmas because there is not enough room to add decorations with the mobility equipment he needs. Now we stay at home and I plan and schedule doctor visits for him and make sure he gets his pills on time every time—five times a day. It must be love.
He’s not the man I married who enjoyed the intimacy of marriage. Now his body is bent over like a capital ‘C,’ and his knees have folded into frog legs and kissing him is a challenge because he can’t straighten up his head. It must be love.
Doctors call it Parkinson’s Disease. They call it myeloma—blood cancer. But I say—it must be love.
Love is not a mushy, gushy feeling with heart pounding, hands sweating, eyes sparkling. Love is being there. Love is putting the other person first.
Love is what the Bible says it is in 1 Corinthians 13: “Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
That is love.
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And that, my dear sweet friend, Stephanie Parker McKean, is absolutely beautiful.
One thing is for sure… if Alan could get up or even think well enough to do any of those things, he still would. Love is a two way street when it’s real. Anyone who loves the way you do had to have been loved that much in return, and deep down still loves. Praise God for you, and for Alan.
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Thanks, Sharon. You are a blessing from God. And a wonderful friend. May God continue to bless you abundantly in all things.
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Oh Steph, this made me cry. You are wonderful and yes, it must be love. Putting the other person first and cherishing them for what they used to be is the most loving thing you can do. My heart bleeds for you, my friend. I know a little of what you experience, but not even half as much. Sending hugs and love.
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Thanks, Val. Your comment means the world to me. You are a treasure and a treasured friend. We all have sacrifices we make – or have made – for love. In the end, love is everything. God bless.
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Hi Stephanie, it’s Paul – I was in hospital with Alan almost 2 years ago, when I was diagnosed with Myeloma. I’d lost your email address, wondered how Alan was doing and Googled my way to this blog. I was really happy to see this picture of Alan with your dog (I forget her name!). We talked about our dogs in hospital and how we couldn’t wait to get home to see them again. I’m still here, still fighting and still got my dog beside me.
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Praise the Lord, Paul! Alan and I talk about you frequently and are delighted to hear you are still in the fight! Thank you again for the help and encouragement you were to Alan. I emailed you a couple of times and the emails didn’t go through – so I am delighted to hear from you now. Your email doesn’t seem to be here, but my email is authorstephanieparkermckean@yahoo.com. Please drop an email when you have time and I will answer. Alan can’t walk and his chemo has been changed, but he’s still in the fight also. God bless.
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