Happy birthday to the man who went to Walgreen's yesterday and bought the last wheelchair in stock so I wouldn't be in so much pain. (Not a wheelchair, actually — a transport chair. I can't steer it myself, except by putting my feet on the ground or groping along the walls.) Happy birthday to the man who spent his lunch hour taking me and my transport chair to the doctor and wheeled me to get an x-ray, who left work again early to take me to get a CT scan when the x-ray proved inconclusive. Happy birthday to the father who takes time to have fun with his sons. Happy birthday to my sweet, supportive, wonderful, patient husband. Happy birthday to my best friend and my deepest love.
There were things I wanted to do for him this year, things I would have done if I hadn't ended up in so much pain and unable to walk. Bake him a cake. Wrap his present all the way. Bring him breakfast in bed. Instead, we took two separate trips to the doctor and hospital, and he practiced the art of getting me from car to wheelchair. "That's not what's important," he said, when I told him I wished I could have done more. It's true. And I hope I'll be here next year to do those things for him.
We both are the proud, kooky owners of new glasses, and both of us think our spouses look damn sexy in them. Our bespectacled selves went out to eat tonight and sat in the corner of the restaurant laughing and singing along with the 80s music on the loudspeaker and staring at each other. And that's the most important thing. Happy 40th birthday to the man who always manages to make me laugh, even when I'm in deep pain.