But a couple of weeks ago (while sitting at home on my
birthday at 9:00 pm, alone, except for one adorable yet sobbing baby) I figured
out exactly why I hate his job so much.
It’s because we (women, I mean) always want to be the most important
thing in our husband’s lives. But
sometimes we’re not.
No, some wives can’t always be the most important thing to
their husbands. Whereas some wives can
yell, “Don’t I mean more to you than some stupid work at the office?” I can’t.
Because the simple truth is that Jeffrey’s job is more important than
me. In fact, it’s more important than
anything else that he does. Even though he knew I was waiting on him at home, his patient's blood pressure crashed and he needed to stay and take care of him. It’s
literally life and death.
And while that makes me immeasurably proud of him, at times
it makes me maddeningly frustrated. The
frustration is selfish, and mean, and ugly…and also quite real. Which is why I’m glad for reminders like
these of the weight that Jeffrey carries, just like many other doctors.
Text conversation Jeffrey and I had last week:
J: Just held my
patient’s hand for 20 minutes until he passed.
L: Good thing he had
you. You ok?
J: Ya, I guess. I feel sad now. But he saw Jesus. Started singing gospel songs. That makes me happy.
L: I’m sorry you have
to be that close to death, but I don’t know anyone better suited to care for
those patients than you.
I’m going to try to remember this the next time I feel that
familiar anger growing, that disgust for his long hours, distracted attention,
and lack of quantity of time with us. Because
as deep as my frustration is in those times, my love for this man who cares for
the physical and spiritual needs of patients who are facing a terrifying
transition should always be greater.
