You’ve never met me, but you’ve been present for so many big moments in my life.
You were there when I sat alone in my tiny apartment on Christmas morning my first year as a married woman. You were there at every wedding I went to stag, every time I had to apologize for backing out of plans at the last minute. And you were there when I told the nurse in labor and delivery that, no, I wasn’t expecting my husband for at least a few more hours, if he’d be able to come at all.
Yes, you’ve always been there, but you’re someone new every time.

Sometimes you’re a six-year-old who was too excited to see a “puppy” he thought looked friendly. Other times you’re an inmate who got involved in a violent prison fight. You’ve been a UPS driver whose truck hit ice and couldn’t stop, a woman with a secret too ugly to hide with concealer, and a motorcyclist who really should’ve been wearing a helmet.
You’ve been hundreds of people, but to me, you’ve always seemed like just one: the one who takes my husband away from me. From us. From our family.
And I’ve resented you, been angry at you, thrown dishes dramatically into the sink because of you. You and your terrible timing. You and your ability to have the worst moments of your life at the exact moments I was hoping to have some of the best of mine.
Does it sound ugly? I know it does. Because it is. It’s not something I ever went around broadcasting or bragging about, but it was something that grabbed a hold of my heart, wrapped around it like an untamable weed. All that bitterness was an invasive species, something I didn’t know how to kill, no matter how much I wanted it gone.
Until the day my husband became suddenly and dramatically ill.
When I got the first call that my husband was going to the emergency room at around 3pm, I didn’t panic. He was experiencing some symptoms that could’ve been serious, but were most likely just related to stress and anxiety. Then came the second call: tests came back with some concerning results. And then the third: it was getting worse. And before I knew it, I was rushing to the ICU as fast as I could and calling family members to fly in from out of state. He was in trouble.
My husband was attached to a thousand wires by the time I got to him. In the room next to us, there was a college-aged girl who was unlikely, I heard from chatter in the hall, to ever leave. The man to the right was elderly, and, from what I could surmise, actively dying.
I would spend much of my next week talking to doctors and nurses. Sometimes it was during business hours, but much more often it was at two in the morning, or eleven at night, or at dinnertime. I had so many questions, so many worries, so many needs that only they could meet. I desperately listened to every word they said, wrote down their instructions, conveyed their updates to family members, and waited nervously for news during two separate surgical procedures.
Eventually, after the fog had lifted enough for me to think straight, it occurred to me that these men and women who were at my husband’s side when we so desperately needed them, were missing other things. Warm dinners turned cold as my husband’s medications were administered. Ballet recitals were missed and kids were disappointed as he was prepped for surgery. Plans were changed, rescheduled, or cancelled entirely as his vitals were monitored. Spouses were left to fend for themselves. Date nights were cut short.
But my husband? He was alive.
So, even though we’ve never met, and even though you don’t know me, I owe you an apology. You matter. Your family matters. No matter the time, no matter the plans broken, no matter what: you matter.
I wish I could say the perspective permeates every minute of every day, but it doesn’t. I’m human and imperfect in my graciousness. But now, when it’s 8:30pm and surgery runs long, and I’m packing up an uneaten dinner, I remember you. When it’s 2am and a shrill ring wakes me from my sleep, and I feel the weight from my husband’s side of the bed lift, I remember your family. They’re getting a call, too, and it’s much, much worse.
I’ve never met you, but you were there when my husband was sick. And you’re there now that he’s better, always in my mind, reminding me of what matters.
You matter.