Within 24 hours of saying “I do”, my husband added a whole new dimension of anxiety to my life. It started with him almost being shot and/or arrested by a Louisiana cop on the way to our honeymoon (tip: if you get pulled over for speeding in LA, be sure you’re not carrying a concealed weapon). After the honeymoon, he developed a “trick shoulder”, managing to dislocate it about six times in 3 years. Luckily only one of those times was without health insurance.
Then, there was the traffic accident right before Thanksgiving. That phone conversation started with him telling me innocently enough that he would be late coming home from work and ended with me asking which hospital they were taking him to. He’s still picking glass out of his head from that one (tip: wear your seat belt).
He quit one job for a better one, and instead of keeping his stock from the old job or rolling over any profit from selling it into an interest bearing account, he just cashes it out. We owed the IRS over $5,000 in taxes that year.
We buy a house and all is grand until the day I come home to find he was fired from his job. His boss may have been a prick, but he was still the boss.
Then, I get a call at work from a nice lady informing me that my husband had set himself on fire while refueling a hot lawn mower and at this moment he was in an ambulance on his way to some hospital I’d never heard of (tip: stop, drop and roll works, people).
But, then there was the time we got our first dog, and he held her in his lap and stroked her to try to stop her shaking even though she was beyond filthy. Or the time he drove all the way to Kansas City to help is sister move. Then all the times when pipes burst or seals leaked or cars wouldn’t run and he was there with wrench or hammer or fuse ready to make it better. And then the day almost thirteen years ago when he took a chance and asked me to marry him without the aid of any prior discussion to gage what my answer might be.
There hasn’t been a trip to the hospital, lost job or wrecked car that has made me regret my decision. For each of these stressful incidents, I can count hundreds of times when I never had to worry about staying out too late with the girls, how short I cut my hair, what I was wearing, who I was talking to or asking permission for anything. I also never had to worry about where my husband was, who he was talking to, if he was coming home, if he still thought I was pretty or if he would rather spend time with me than anyone else. No insurance company or even the IRS can put a price on that kind of security.