I love my husband so much it makes me throw up in my mouth.

No, regardless of the ‘love’ mixed with ‘throw up’ bit in the title, this post is not about gag reflex related to oral sex. I have a bit of the former, but it does not relate to the latter. And the closest I’ve come to performing oral sex recently was when I’d just eaten hot salsa and wanted to test whether the post-eating hot tingles in my mouth would transfer to his skin. So I said – as you do – “Hon, I need to borrow your penis for a minute.” And he obliged. And then, 30 seconds later, I popped my lips off his tip and was like, “Did you feel the hotness?” And he was like, “Drfffgh…,” which translates to “No, I couldn’t tell you had eaten anything spicy but your mouth was hot and you’re welcome to put it on that part of my anatomy any time you like.”

But no, this post is not about any of that.

It’s about the things we do for love.

And, FAIR WARNING: This post is not sexy. And for some of you, this content might be a bit manky. I mean, it makes me throw up. What’s it gonna do to you? You might want to consider that before you read on.

We (assume ‘we’ to mean ‘my spouse and I’ from this point forward) are what you might call Very Married. There is not much in the way of privacy in our household, there are not ‘secrets’ nor much in the way of mystery in our relationship. Part of it is our individual personalities and part of it is the level of comfort we’ve long felt with/around one another, but it’s also much to do with the sheer human-ness that comes out when someone is ill. And for the entirety of our relationship, my spouse has been ill.

The Mister’s kidney disease was something we dealt with in stride. Your normal is whatever your normal is, and for us that meant going with flow. Even when that ‘flow’ involved medical equipment and unforeseen disasters involving bodily fluids. (One day perhaps I will go into our Adventures In Dialysis here on the blog.)

BUT

(And this is a big BUT)

Regardless of all the changes we adjusted to… Regardless of all the medical appointments and hospital visits and surgeries… Really, just REGARDLESS: My husband always ALWAYS did ‘his’ household chores. (‘My’ chore list is much shorter than his, partly because he’s my Chore Whore, and partly because – due to his illness – I’m the one who works full time and he, by default, has more time at home.)

Except, after his kidney transplant, there’s one chore that the medical team has forbidden him to do.

And as much as I *wish* that forbidden chore was something simple (like: loading the dishwasher) or even something slightly awful but manageable (read: laundry), that is not the case. 

No. 

The chore he can no longer do – the chore that fell to me as soon as he was sewn up and has remained mine ever since – is of the This Is What Hell Must Be Like variety, subcategory Horribly Disgusting, genus Horrendously Hideous.

I am now – after 15 years of not ever having to do it – responsible for cleaning out the cat box.

The first time I did it, my hubby was still in the hospital. The “come to the hospital RIGHT NOW” call came with very little notice, so the morning after his surgery, I drove home (which is hella far, by the way) to pick up the cat and take him to boarding for the duration of our hospital stay. Arriving home to the rancid stench of cat waste wafting from his box had me curling up my nostrils. So I said to myself, Self (I often talk to myself thus), Best you put on your big girl panties and just Deal With It.

So ‘deal with it’ I did.

But dealing with it had me dealing with an unexpected response to ‘it’.

I threw up.

I, who have changed a gazillion and twelve baby diapers, mucked out dog pens, breathed in the ‘nitrogen’ that gets added to field soil, and managed any number of shitty tasks in my life… That I… ME!… *I* threw up from changing the cat litter. 

I have, since that first exercise in undignified regurgitation, found work-arounds. The type of cat litter we use now is the kind I can just throw away, for instance. (Which means it’s the ‘bad’ kind. Sorry, not sorry — I’m mostly an environmentalist but not with this!) I use gloves. Medi-masks are my friend. I use garbage bags as pan liners. I turn on the overhead exhaust fan and hold my breath.

Mostly, I do okay.

But today…

Oy.

Let’s just say…

Up came the chuck. Again.

Which – as if throwing up wasn’t bad enough – triggers all sorts of uncomfortable somatic reflexes in me, like nausea and blurred vision and hyperventilating (try that little breathing trick with a medical mask on and puke in your mouth!) and – possibly worst of all – CRYING.

But, anyway.

Back to the puke-y bit.

Basically I said to myself, Self, why are you torturing yourself like this? I mean… PUKE? Really? Why?

The answer?

I do it for love.

So yeah. Basically I love my husband so much it makes me throw up in my mouth.

What kinds of things do YOU do for love, hmmm?