An air of uneasiness hung about our home as I prepared for a trip to the hospital. Christmas was only a few days away, and it seemed important that family life be disrupted as little as possible. Every Christmas card had been written (with an extra pile on hand for "those we forgot"); the tree was up and decorated; every button had been sewed on, every sock mended, every bit of cleaning done; a substitute organist and choir director stood by for church services; surrogate mothers were scheduled; meals were planned ahead and in the freezer.
I lay in the hospital the night before a surgery that was to be both major and mutilating. My thoughts, almost idly, turned to the wedding vows I had spoken eighteen years earlier. Surrounded by friends, flowers, and soft music, I had spoken those words so fervently yet so easily: "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish."
To have and to hold. Well, we surely didn't start out with much "have," so we had to "hold." Everything we owned could be packed into the back of our car. We didn't feel deprived; quite the contrary. We thought we had the world by the tail. We couldn't have described the excitement and exhilaration we felt.
From this day forward. By present stand ards eighteen years must be considered "forward." We had our minor skirmishes, even a few small wars, but we learned to make our peace. We started out with glorious plans for the future. My minister husband and I delighted in church-related activity. We were going to wipe out sin together.
For better, for worse. There was lots of "better"—the first parish we served together, the birth of our two children, conceived in love and born in unspeakable joy, the lasting friendships made wherever we went. Not "good," not "better", but "best"!
There was some "worse," too. The uncertainty of a new parish, wondering whether a child would make the right decision, seeing an aged parent die. But we didn't just survive. Our marriage grew and flourished. Friends lost partners through accident or illness. Others lost children to drugs or strange religious cults. We were more than just lucky; we were blessed.
For richer, for poorer. We hadn't become rich in material things. We couldn't afford expensive vacations, the newest home, or the latest car. Yet we were richer by far than the childless singles we knew. We were infinitely richer than the boat people or the victims of aggression or the survivors of war and famine. We suffered an embarrassment of riches!
In sickness and in health. An abundance of good health flooded our path. A broken bone here, a cut lip there, but no devastating illnesses—until this.
Before leaving for the hospital, there had been no pillow talk, no hand holding, no subtle references to my possibly not coming home. We were very matter of fact. We chose to look ahead several months into the future when things would be back to normal. I wanted no company on the way to the operating room.
For my family, it was to be business as usual. Daddy having breakfast with the children, a get-everybody-off-to-school kind of day. Keep everything orderly and neat.
To love and to cherish. Love has many voices. I had been chosen because I had been loved. I had children because I had been loved. I had many gifts that said "I love you." But "cherish"? That was the one elusive quality missing in my marriage. But no union is perfect, and I had had so very much more than most that I would not complain.
Very late the next afternoon the cocoon spun by the anesthetic began to separate. I was returning. As the mist parted, I became aware of a heavenly scent—elegant, luxurious, penetrating, persistent. I tried vainly to identify the exquisite fragrance. It didn't go away; it followed every turn of my head. No perfume ever smelled like this. Back came memories of proms, parties, pretty girls, nervous young men bearing corsages, weddings, anniversaries, every golden moment forever remembered.
Then I knew. One of my favorite flowers—here in my hospital room! I slipped into a twilight sleep and dreamed pleasantly. I awakened once again to that exhilarating yet gentle scent. Pinned to my pillow lay a corsage of three magnificent gardenias, pure white and absolutely perfect. An invitation to smile and live again; to dance and sing again; to love and be loved again.
In that one, simple, loving gesture, my husband had shown me "cherish"!
