Starting many years ago, Gar would come home from work rubbing his right shoulder. I’d ask what was wrong and he’d say he didn’t know, but his shoulder hurt. I’d say maybe he should go get it looked at and he’d say it would be better in the morning.

This was a nightly conversation, and did the shoulder worsen? Why, yes, it did. Did Gar go get it looked at? Why, no, he didn’t. Instead, he’d take ibuprofen and suffer. I’d like to add again, just for clarification and in case there’s a cross-examination, I knew for a fact he should have had someone look at his shoulder.

One night in December, I picked him up at the airport, and upon arriving home, as he took his suitcase out of the truck, it twisted as it dropped. It hurt him but he stayed mum, probably for fear I’d start an inquisition.

Five days later we flew to our daughter’s to help her move, and I’m fairly sure toting overstuffed chairs, mattresses, bed frames, boxsprings, bags, boxes and bundles was just the ticket for success with a bad arm. On the second night he mentioned his bicep hurt and it did look odd. That’s when he told me the suitcase story.

Upon returning home, he had an MRI and a doctor visit. The nurse handed him paperwork to fill out, which he straightaway handed over to me, mostly because his handwriting appears to be hieroglyphics.

Gar read over my shoulder dictating what I should write. When we came upon, “Do you feel discouraged? Do you feel life has no purpose? Do you have marital problems?” I looked at him and we both raised our eyebrows. Of course he’s discouraged. Of course he feels life has no purpose. It’s because of his marital problems.

I wrote in the margin, “My wife is watching.”

Over the years, of the four rotator cuff tendons, Gar had managed to tear two partially in half and one completely in half. The bicep had gotten tired of doing all the work and tore completely in two (with help from a suitcase).

The injuries had gone on so long, the muscle had atrophied so nothing could be repaired. Instead, he had to have a total reverse shoulder replacement, where they change the ball to the shoulder and the socket to the arm (the opposite of how we come into the world). It sounded a bit like science fiction.

When the doctor asked Gar how many years he’d had his pain, Gar looked at me and I could read his mind. He wanted to say, “Oh, she’s been with me for a long time,” but he didn’t quite have the courage since I was lurking beside him reading his thoughts.

He said he realized something wasn’t right a decade ago when he couldn’t lift chains up on the trucks’ headache racks without his left arm’s help. Since this was the first I’d heard that, I considered going for his jugular.

The doctor looked at me. I squinted and enunciated, “I told him to have it looked at.”

Nodding, the doctor murmured, “These men are stubborn.”

I couldn’t help myself, “Or dumb.”

The surgery was set and as we left the surgeon’s office, we were handed orders with the following in red letters at the top of the form.

1. A responsible adult must be available to receive instructions.

2. A responsible adult will have to drive you home.

3. A responsible adult will need to stay with you for 24 hours after surgery.

Before starting the truck, I read the information out loud, then turned to Gar, “We’re gonna need to be praying for you. Where in the world are you gonna find that?” He shrugged, “Maybe I can announce it at church, and someone will offer to help.”

Two weeks later, he had surgery, and I drove him home the next day. Settling him in the recliner, I checked his oxygen, which had been low due to the nerve block in his neck, then I got a quilt, gave meds, beat ice cubes into submission as I hooked up to the polar cube, and packed in multiple parcels from the truck.

I texted friends and family, “I haven’t slept for two days so am slightly irritable, mostly because I was just informed what I’m being paid for this job. It’s not great, but plan to stick with it. Will definitely eat all his chocolate. Might eat his donuts.”