Harvey and I married in 1985, the summer after our first year of medical school. We had attended the same small liberal arts college, and started dating my senior year. When we both got accepted into the same medical school in the same year, that clinched it for us as a couple.
After medical school, we completed our residencies together in family medicine. We had been together through all of our training, supporting each other as only two people living through the same challenging experiences can, so it was only fitting that we established a medical practice together.
The model for our practice mirrored our shared life. One of us would be in the office while the other was at home with our two daughters, swapping days. As the girls grew, so did our practice, so that by the time they were in elementary school, the practice could support both of us being there until it was time for one of us to leave for carpool duty.
This beautifully balanced life plan of ours came crashing down when Harvey was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of fifty. In that instant I became a full-time solo practitioner at our medical clinic, primary parent to our two teenager daughters, and care partner to my beloved husband.
Our time together as a couple was fairly unchanged at first, only now I was at the office and Harvey was home all day. Over time, life outside of these two spaces became simpler—fewer parties and evenings out, and easier vacations.
In the middle stage of his disease, one of our favorite evening activities was watching television. The Hallmark Channel had become Harvey’s favorite channel, and I suspect that it was because the story lines were easy to follow and were so predictable. One night, as we were watching a light romance unfold, Harvey looked over at me, and with a grin and a slight gleam in his eye, said, “Do you think we should be together?”
“We are together, ” I replied. “I love watching TV with you.”
“No, I mean get together,” he repeated, as he intertwined his fingers and nodded his head.
“Oh, do you mean we should get married?” I asked.
“Yes!”
“Well,” I answered, returning his grin and lifting an eyebrow, “We are married! We’ve been married for twenty-eight years and we still love each other very much.”
“Oh, good!” he said with a surprised smile. “I knew I liked you, but I didn’t know we were married!”
Now, let me tell you, someone else may have been saddened to know their spouse didn’t remember that they were married. I, however, found it delightful that he knew that he loved me enough to want to get married. Again!
And had I been creative enough to think of it at the time, I would have loved to have had a ceremony and married him all over again. He would have loved that! Me, too.