At night we would hold hands, a familiar comfort in a life that had become foreign to us. Lauren’s fingers, intertwined in mine, were an anchor keeping me from drifting off into the world of my illness. In those moments I would forget about the pain and limitations and catch myself smiling, lost in the halcyon days before everything changed.
But long Covid is, well, long. Months, maybe years. Or possibly forever (again, no one really knows). The Groundhog Day of it all — managing the same symptoms day after tedious day — breaks you mentally. Then it breaks your heart.
Over time, my thoughts began to darken. When Lauren felt unsafe leaving me at home while she left on work trips, we knew we had to move in with my family in Northern California. Lauren’s parents helped by flying from Colorado Springs to L.A. the next week to pack our life into boxes and drive them north.
And so, just after my 38th birthday, I found myself sobbing into my parents’ couch in Marin County.
The first thing you see when you enter the house is our wedding photo. Lauren’s arms are wrapped around my shoulders. She’s looking at me with joyful tears, telling me this is the best day of her life. I’m smiling at her, about to say the same.
There I was — the healthy, promising man she had married. The guy who, during one of our early dates at a piano bar, watched her sing “La Vie en Rose” in perfect French, and fell madly in love.
At 20, Lauren was like a mystic to me. She was so secure in her skin, preferred reading a book to going out, and fell asleep the minute her tight, glossy curls touched her pillow. I was neurotic, prone to insomnia, and liked to party. It was a perfect mismatch.
#Love #Find
