But this is not my body. This is Bob 's body. "We can find a surgeon who is human," he assured me. "Those side effects aren't going to happen to me ."
After a pause he added, "We don't need to spend the savings on something like this."
Was that it? Was it about the money?
"This is your body! This is your health and happiness! This is our friggen livelihood . What else should the money be spent on?"
He didn't answer. I encouraged him to call the surgical center in Florida. He didn't refuse. But he didn't pick up the phone, either.
Unable to keep my nose out of it, I made the call. I brought him the information about what it would cost, including transportation, food, lodging, medications. Then I reminded him that he needed to make a decision soon, because he would need the time to heal before the growing season started again.
He did nothing. I presented him with more research. He only said, "That's a lot of money."
I grew more and more anxious. Was he dithering? Was he procrastinating?
I woke up in the predawn hours the following morning, lit the fire, sat in the dark, and tried to think it through. If it were me in need of a surgery, would Bob make it about money? Never. He would pay everything he had to get me the best care possible. He would interfere with doctors, confound the nurses, pull in the help of every holistic caregiver he could find. But this wasn't about me. It was about him.
And that's just the way Bob is. I am his first and truest love. Right or wrong, he loves me more than he loves himself. If we share a piece of cake, he will always leave me the last bite, with the most frosting. When we sit down to dinner, he insists on washing up, demanding that I have time to rest or play. When I am writing, he keeps the kids away from my door. When we are working on the farm, he will strain his own injured body before he will allow me to risk harming myself. If I had given him the chance at the hardware store, he'd have carried the charwood. And then I saw the issue more clearly. In his mind, it was still about me. The money happens to be coming from my personal savings. It is money we have locked away as part of a plan to assure my security if I have to be alone someday. In Bob's mind, my security tomorrow is more important to him than his own health today.
This choice we face isn't about the preferred treatment option. It isn't even about money. It is about love. In the clarity of that dark room, I saw where Bob's decision would lie. It would be with whatever choice would best guarantee my well-being. And his healing will be most dependent on my settled and peaceful mind.
I don't want to be a controlling wife. I don't want to tell my husband what to do with his body. But the simple truth is that I am at the heart of every decision he makes.
I walked over to the computer and booked the flight to Florida.
A few hours later, when he joined me for a morning coffee break, everything had been arranged, from the surgery date to hotel and meal accommodations. He looked at me.
"You're sure about this?"
"I won't be at peace knowing you have something artificial inserted in your body," I said. "I will always be worried about the side effects. This is what I want."
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