TheBanyanTree: The Weenie and the Yuck Hero: A Tale of Amazing Love

[Maria Gibson]

The keeper of crap chores, the titan of terrible things, the master of
messes.  Randy is all of these and more.  In the nearly 24 years we have
been married he has done all of the worst and gross things that a family
comes up against in the event of living out a lifetime together.  He is
truly, truly my hero.

I have always had a pretty weak stomach.  We gave the cloth diaper a
year's trial with the first baby and Randy came home day after day for
that entire year to wash the day's diapers out in the toilet.  The
thought of fecal swill swilling about the bowl as I held one end of a
diaper made me retch so he willingly came home at night from defending
the country as a Marine to do that ugly chore.  In fact, on one of his
country defending absences from home I made beef stroganoff for RD and I
which turned out to either be poisoned or we just so happened to both
get sick at the very same time on that very same beef stroganoff night.
The toilet that we tried time after unsuccessful time to make it to as
we threw up what seemed like gallons and gallons of stroganoff was in a
bathroom containing a nightmare of indescrible proportions.  When it was
all said and done I closed the door on the entire, horrible cursed
mess.  Randy cleaned it all up...two weeks later when he returned home.

He has buried the bodies of beloved pets, cutting the rocky earth in the
cold or the wet or the heat as needed in order for a proper burial to be
had for the dearly departed.  He has wrapped their bodies in old towels
without fear of dead pet cooties and laid them in shoe boxes he hunted
the entire house for.  He has cleaned countless piles of poop, pee and
animal throwup.  To this day we have a cat who acts bulimic and
regularly tosses her cookies.  I am allowed the luxury of stepping over
a pile of vomit to get to the stairs in order to call Randy up the
stairs to clean it because my stomach rolls at the thought of having to
feel the warm, moistness seeping through the paper towel as I try to
make it through the task without adding to the mess.  My dear, sweet
husband is in sole charge of maintaining the litter boxes, of which
there are two.  He scoops them and if time won't allow for a proper
scooping, he has been known to cover a malodorous wafting pile for a
lazy cat who didn't.

When the vet who diagnosed the cat with diabetes asked who would be
giving the insulin shots, Randy stepped to the front as I took a step
back.  It wasn't spoken of or planned, it was a simultaneous ownership;
he of his bravery and me of my fear.  We have become synchronized in
this dance.  We don't need instructions anymore or to talk, we just go
to the place that is well worn with our shoe prints.  Without rancor,
without complaint, this man holds me up with his willingness to do what
is messy and ugly.  There is no truer definition of hero than he or of
hero worship, I hope, than my feelings for what he has done for my
life.  Somethinsg that he shields me from are funny, some are sad, some
have been desperate and he knew that it would be worse for him as he
withstood the brunt of what I could not handle.  He did them, he does
them, because he loves me.

For some reason, even things as simple as whenever there has been a
credit card declination, Randy would be the one standing at the register
to receive the news.  Almost as if he is some magical magnet, he is
there to absorb bad news for me.  Some force at hand watches out for me
and has afforded me with the monumental gift of this man who has become
my filter and my strainer.  Even if not by design he is there to answer
the phone for bad news, was the one on watch when RD got into trouble,
came to me at work to tell me it was worse than ever.  When the cat was
so desperately ill and taken to the vet for tests and then returned home
with us with the promise of a phone call in the morning with the
results, Randy was there.  I asked that she call him because if it was
bad, I had to hear it from him.  He can bear up under my tears and he
can calm me down and his voice, the timbre and tone, the soothing
familiar voice that will be with me even as I traverse the paths of
heaven is what I need when I need.  When the towers fell, I called him.
I had to hear his voice as if a physical compulsion drove me until I was
able to fall into that place of comfort and my tiny little corner of the
world made as much sense as was possible at the time.

The keeper of crap chores is a hero but not an unsung hero.  I am
acutely aware of his efforts and how he enriches me when he agrees to do
what I cannot.  I don't take his sacrifices for granted.  I love him
back to the best of my abilities and always give him the credit he is
due.  I am truly, truly blessed.

Maria