Why?

Author and speaker Beth Moore says her husband gives her more material than anyone else. I can relate. My man holds more entertainment value than I can document. Although I guess “entertainment” might be misleading.  Have you ever wanted to cause bodily harm to someone who was entertaining?

This past weekend I threw him a surprise birthday party. He’s quite a guy and I wanted to bless his socks off. I think I succeeded. There is no one who holds my heart like this man. I love him with the intensity of a thousand suns. And it’s with that same intensity that I sometimes want to take him out and tell God I have no idea how it happened. I just came home and there was this mound of dirt in the back yard. Marked by a tombstone.

This emotion came over me most recently when he asked, “Why?”

At a most inconceivable moment.

I am prone to severe motion sickness. Cars, planes, trains, buses. A strong wind.  My husband knows this. And still, he’ll back out of the driveway at warp speed just to see what happens. And then laugh when I look at him with that 'wife' look that every husband recognizes to mean, “If the Bible said a woman can leave her husband for insensitivity and finding it funny, I’d be outta here.”

Not long ago we were on our way to get groceries and that awful, unmistakable feeling came over me. Sometimes it happens if I haven’t eaten. Sometimes it happens if I have. But it always happens in stop & go traffic, and while the driver is trying to do 34 things at once, as my beloved husband often does. So I assume the position (right elbow on the car door, hand over my forehead) and inform him that this particular trip to Target is not going well for me.  

“Ick. Carsick.”

He continues in his tasks, driving being maybe 3^rd on the list. He finally notices my posture and responds.

“Why?”

Um..surely I misunderstood. He must be on the phone and I didn’t know it. I peek out from under my hand with one eye. “What?”

I can see he isn’t on the phone. And yet, he says it again. To me. “Why?”

I have so many thoughts racing through my head, it starts to spin. And in my current state, a spinning head is not good. See, I have these amazing friends, and at some point during these flashes of thought, I remember how good they are to me. So precious and sympathetic. Whenever we’re all piling in someone’s SUV, they all holler, “Tamara’s in front!” because they know the front seat is much easier on me. And even if I’ve anticipated this SUV outing, taken my Dramamine and declare that I’m fine, fully medicated and ready for the back seat, they still check on me throughout our drive. And if I’m not doing well, they slow down and see what they can do. Someone reaches over and pats my leg with a wonderful motherly touch. Good friends. Sweet people. Understanding. They know me so well.

And then there’s this man who has promised to honor me until the end of time, in sickness and health. He knows me, too. But rather than sympathize, he thinks it’ll be fun to use this knowledge in such a way as to drive me mad. 

Now stay with me here. It wasn’t just what he said. It was the way he said it. Alabama/Texas drawl and all, mixed in with a tone which only he can create. One that implies I have just spoken the most ridiculous words in the English language and should never be allowed to declare anything, ever again.  As my mind is reeling, I literally see giant question marks swirling in front of me. What did he just say?! Wh….it….it doesn’t even make sense! I cannot fathom what has just happened.  Are you new here? It’s me, your wife of 18 years. We've done this a thousand times. Did I mention the friends who take such sweet care of me? Did I mention my children who love me so much that my youngest daughter starts to cry when I even intimate that I might possibly throw up in the near future for any reason? Who are you?

Then my thoughts begin to clear.

Well all right. Let’s illuminate.

Why WHAT?! Why am I telling you? You mean other than the fact that, at this present moment, you and you alone are in full control of whether or not I can keep my lunch down?! Or other than the fact that, I don’t know, you’re HERE?!? Or are you asking why I’m sick? You want a diagram explaining the digestive system? A note from my doctor? A Google search? What? What exactly do you need?! A reason? Cause here’s my reason. I DON’T HAVE A REASON!! What I have is the knowledge that I’m about to hurl, and since you are the sole individual who is likely to keep this from happening, it seems to me that it would not just be beneficial to you, but to everybody else within a 4 foot radius if you would simply stop what you’re doing and focus on the road, and I’ll even try to ignore the overwhelming sense that your question, while infuriating and absurd, is also, say it with me, completely CLUELESS!!

He must have seen the writing on the wall. Or, in this case, in the smoke coming from my nostrils.  We made it to Target without incident. But still, the question looms. Why, oh why, would you ask a woman why at a time like that?

I can only glean that he felt the need to pose this query because of his complete lack of ability to deal with nausea and all its ramifications. (This is much easier to accept than the idea that he honestly didn't know the answer). The first time our son threw up, he fled. I’m not kidding. We were giving him that pink medicine, he started to puke, and the father of my children ran away. So maybe this was some sort of deflection. An “I have no idea how to help you right now so I’m just gonna ask a really stupid question and buy myself some time” type thing. Maybe he’s thinking he can speed to Target before this goes down. “If I can just get to the parking lot, I can escape.” He is many, many wonderful things. But knight in shining armor when someone’s stomach contents are coming forth, he’s not. Here’s how he handles sickness that requires hanging over any sort of receptacle.

“You okay?”

These words must travel all the way from the farthest corner of the house, where he is holed up until it’s over, to me. If I hear him and can muster the strength to answer, great. If not, all the better for him.  Then he can say he checked on me and I never answered, so his obligation to do anything is gone. And now that we have children old enough to walk, even better. He can send them in and not inconvenience himself or hinder his intestinal fortitude in the slightest. “Go check on Mommy.”

“Mommy, are you OK? Daddy wants to know.”

Really?? “No. No I’m not.”

As footsteps fade, I hear them reporting back. “She says she’s not OK, Daddy.” They might even throw in some additional information, like “She’s shaking, and her face is really white.”  My blessed offspring. So concerned. And here it comes.

“Well…what does she want me to do?”

This is the moment. The moment when I remove my head from the place it has been buried, turn toward his voice, and leer. And then a plan begins to form.

I will need the girls to dial 911 at precisely the right moment for this to work. If they’re too early I won’t be able to act. If they’re too late, I’ll be hanging over a tin can in a jail cell. It has to be timed perfectly, so that when the police arrive, the paramedics will only be able to say, “We don’t know what happened. His body was implanted in the sheet rock when we got here.”

I mean, we use the phrase “violently throwing up” all the time, right? Well there ya go. “Maybe he was holding her hair back and as she was thrashing about…” (See, he’ll even end up looking like a hero) “It was some sort of horrible stomach virus homicide. It happens.”

 Or, maybe he just asked her “why?”