Just like Johnny and June

I sat in a room with a bunch of old fogies (of which I am not one) at the Senior Citizens' Centre for an hour this morning, stuck all over with acupuncture needles (trying to pretend I wasn't), listening to an eclectic mix of music on my shiny blue MP3 player, with my eyes shut and my mind unfettered. I tried to forget all of the ailments that brought me to that place and concentrate on the music.

The man next to me is almost always there at the same time as I am. He has a prosthetic leg and the skin on his other leg is tight and looks uncomfortable. I wonder if he has lost his leg to diabetes, like so many others, and if he worries about his remaining leg. I think how much more difficult life would be for him if he did.

After the acupuncturist takes the needles out of his leg, the man sits and talks to the other patients in the room but I can't hear what they are saying because music fills my head. His wife has been waiting patiently, having conversations of her own. They have a friendship of sorts, the people in this room who sit here, week after week, looking at each other's bare legs and feet and talking about everything in their lives.

The wife takes out a compression stocking and turns it inside out, rolls it up between her fingers the way our mothers used to roll their stockings to put them on their legs, and eases it onto his foot. I watch her as she lovingly pulls it up her husband's leg and then  manoeuvres his shoe onto his foot, smiling and talking to him all the while.

The Oakridge Boys start singing "Absence of Love". I adore The Oakridge Boys. They are not subtle but they sing with devotion unfeigned. 

As the man heaves himself out of his chair and, using a walker, slowly wends his way out of the room with his wife by his side, I think of some other examples of selfless devotion that I have witnessed recently.

One of my frequent joys is facilitating music therapy sessions with Alzheimer's groups. In one care home there was a woman in the late stages of Alzheimer's whom I shall call Sadie. She had been diagnosed over ten years ago and her husband, Charlie, came to the home every morning at 9 o'clock to sit with her and make sure she ate.  At lunchtime, he would go home. He was a lovely man and we often talked a little as I set up or packed up my instruments. His wife didn't know he was there and was unresponsive even to me, but still he showed up every day of the year. She has been absent for a few months and I haven't seen Charlie, but I think about him often.

In my group this morning, a man wheeled in behind everyone else, riding on an electric scooter, and insisted on sitting next to K. I didn't know the man, but K. has been in the group several times before. I want to sit next to my wife, he said, when I suggested he sit in a chair that was vacant. I apologized to him for not knowing they were together. As the hour progressed, he was attentive to his wife and held her hand. I noticed that he got teary during several songs, especially as K. responded to the music. His devotion to her was visibly apparent and very sweet. I don't know their situation, but, although he is physically ailing, he seems to be fully cognizant and may only have been visiting the facility to be with her.

I often ponder love. And the absence of love. What makes some couple stick together like glue and others fall apart on a whim? I don't have any profound answers, other than noticing that commitment and unselfishness play a big part in a long-term love affair. We have several friends that are going through tough times together right now, some of them terminal and others long-term. I have examples of unconditional love everywhere I turn.

I love to see my younger friends proclaiming their anniversaries of nine or ten or more years.
I think back on our thirty-two years and remember the times that I was ready to walk out of the door and never look back.
And Jeff threw things around a few times, but he never gave up on "us".
So here we are today, better than ever.
I really, really, hope that when things get tough, I can be the wife that is patient and kind, instead of sassy and independent, as I usually am.

When I look at this photo, I ask myself Why did Jeff not take his wallet out of his pocket?

And Why is my face so round?

But I know the answer to both questions.

Jeff is a creature of habit.

And I never saw a chocolate that didn't end up in my mouth!

We had time for some quick family photos when everyone was here.

Here they are, our pride and joy. 

They are a little rag-tag.

Just like us.