My husband and I have never done much for Valentines Day.
We met when he was in grad school in syracuse, New York, and I in New Haven,
Connecticut, and shortly afterward I was teaching in Michigan while he
continued in grad school. We saw each other weekends, Christmas break and
summers. The third year he came to visit me for Christmas-- and at the New Year
fell awfully ill with a kidney problem called minimal change disease. He stayed
with me because he needed continuing care.
Treatment involved bed rest, large doses of Prednisone, and because of the
Prednisone a diuretic and a high-calorie, high-protein, high-potassium, low
salt diet. I surrounded him with a wall of food before I went off to teach in
the mornings, and when we went to sleep at night, since he would wake ravenous.
Despite his illness and his concerns about the debt we needed to rack up for
his medical care-- he had no health insurance-- and his graduate work, we were
happy. It was so very good to be able to be together for months, to hear each
other breathe, to touch each other, to talk or just hang out.
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