My hero doesn’t
wear a red cape. He can’t fly or outrun a locomotive or leap tall buildings in a single bound. Definitely no tights!
No red “S” on his chest either.
His heroics may tend
toward the mundane to most folks. No feats of great strength. No battles with criminal masterminds. No unraveling of evil
plots to conquer the world. No supernatural powers to be traced to his extraterrestrial roots. (And I certainly hope there
are no dalliances with a lovely, intrepid reporter!)
His deeds are mostly
small gestures, done without fanfare or even the expectation of a “thanks.” Like the way he opens and carefully
counts out my meds every night, relieving me of the frustration of opening so many child-proof caps and, more significantly, the
emotional distress of amassing my pile of pills.
He often works behind
the scenes, in quiet anticipation of my next big challenge or our family’s next unmet need. He does piles and piles
of laundry without complaint, even treating me to the scrumptious “warm pajama therapy.” He runs countless errands
to the grocery store, the pharmacy, the gas station, the craft store, the shoe store, the fabric store—allowing
me to conserve energy and avoid stress.
He works tirelessly, depriving himself of sleep, relaxation, recreation, comfort—all in an effort
to provide those very opportunities to me. He makes constant adjustments to accommodate my new limitations.
So many characteristics define
His willingness to
adapt to a life we never planned. His eagerness to reduce my load even though it means increasing his own. His commitment
to me and to our family in spite of the staggering burden that intensifies with each passing day.
ability to forgive any outburst of anger, to overlook misdirected frustration or impatience. His capacity for understanding
the incredible toll this disease is taking on me, and his tolerance for the pent-up emotions that inevitably bubble over from
time to time.
his way of bolstering me when I feel frustrated at my lack of productivity or purpose. His repeated reassurances during my
moments of self-doubt and self-loathing. His countless words of encouragement, his glowing compliments, his ability to see
past my disabilities and see me.
to learning a new set of communication rules that don’t come easily. His skillful maneuvers through conversational minefields.
His ability to dance the fine line between saving me words and risking my wrath for not letting me finish. His recognition
of the awkward pauses that have infiltrated my speech patterns and his careful avoidance of interrupting an unfinished thought.
His acceptance of the fact that my silence isn’t necessarily the “silent treatment.”
of my frequent snubs. His ability to continue to offer his assistance, knowing that my stubborn insistence on doing things
myself is just me testing and pushing my limits—not a rejection of him.
understanding, his compassion, his patience, his support, his encouragement, his humor, his sensitivity, his unwavering
strength that knows no bounds. All of these define my superman.
these and for so much more, he has my undying love.