Many, many suns ago I started dating a freakishly tall man named Brad… summer of 2008, to be exact. He began med school a few months later. That was 8.5 years and a full head of non-grey hairs ago. Also the days of wearing a push up bra and stilettos on a Tuesday.
While he was in medical school I remember months where I didn’t see him at all. There were also months he spent sleeping in my parents basement. There were also months where I simply saw him for dinner once a week to make sure he didn’t forget what I looked like.
And then 3.5 years ago we got married and started a new chapter in our lives. We packed up our entire life to head to Illinois for residency. I drove myself and I remember crying like a baby for the first 2 hours. I didn’t want to move away. I didn’t want to leave my life. I liked my life. I had friends… and family… and adorable little nieces I got to see almost every day.
But as a good woman would, I followed my man. I’m kinda joking here but mostly not… sometimes being married to a resident has been similar to what I imagine being married in the 1950’s was like. Due to his ungodly schedule I am forced to be the cook, cleaner, shopper (and not the fun kind)… all while not having a domestic bone in my body. Poor Brad stuck eating frozen dinners like there’s no tomorrow.
Bless that man though, he’s never complained. Never about my cooking. Never about the way I always am wearing sweatpants and over sized sweatshirts when he gets home. Never about the fact that he has just finished working a 90 hour week and hasn’t seen the baby in 4 days… never complains, ever.
And you won’t hear anymore complaining from me (no promises for the next 8 days though) because we only have 8 days left of residency left! 8 days. 8 DAYS.
This is the time we’ve both been dreaming about for years! So why am I kind of… sad?
I’m reflecting on this chapter of our lives that is coming to a close. The chapter that talks about the sacrifice, the getting creative to pay our bills, the o on each other, the infertility, the birth of our son, and the raising our first baby until he was 7 months old… all of this is over. You could even throw in that I learned to cook a meal or two #LikeAGoodWomanWould #AndItWasntFrozen
When I look back all I can think of is that I am so proud of him. Of us. I am proud to tell Kent one day how the first few years of his parents marriage started with not a dollar to our name, a plea to my parents to help with rent until I found a job, and eventually a stranger in our guest room to pay for my fertility drugs. I can’t wait to tell Kent how him and I celebrated Thanksgiving by going to Old Navy for the 50% off sale because we had nothing else to do while his dad was at work. I can’t wait to tell Kent how his dad sacrificed vacations, weddings, holidays, weekends and oh, so many hours of sleep, to be a good role model and provider for him. And most of all I can’t wait to tell Kent how his parents spent the first few years learning how to rely on each other (and my mom #PersonalThearpist) for comfort and support.
I am really proud to tell him these things. We have worked really hard (and I say we because although I wasn’t putting in the 80 hour work weeks on the regular it was really hard complaining about it all the time…) and now, with 8 days to go, we are stronger than ever, poorer than ever, happier than ever, and with our entire lives ahead.
Congratulations, Brad. You have a few early grey hairs. A couple years off your life. And a family that is so proud. Now let’s get the F outta here!