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 my superman…

 

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.

His unfailing 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 encouragement, 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.

His openness 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.”

 

His forgiveness 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.