Do You Care?

This morning, killing a few minutes while I work up my nerve to exit my warm bed, I was reading an old Carolyn Hax column in the WaPo. A reader had written to her about an inappropriate Christmas gift from a thoughtless spouse. Hax then posed the question? "What's the worst gift you ever received?"

One respondent talked about a husband's poor choice of actions surrounding a life-or-death situation. Having had so many husbands, this one started my mind wandering.

A thousand years ago, nine months into marriage number three, I spent four days in Columbia Hospital for Women in downtown Washington following a full hysterectomy. My husband and I lived in his home sixty miles west of the city. He took me to the hospital for the procedure and—I assume—stayed until I was out of recovery and back in my room. (On second thought, maybe he dropped and ran. When I picture sitting in the pre-op room, he's not in the picture. Hmmm.) He came back to visit a couple of days later, and then returned on the fourth day to take me home.

We had been married nine months, I was 43 years old, and I had just given up/lost/forfeited all my female innards (a big deal to any woman). And he could only come to the hospital once in four days to spend time with me. Hmmm.

I excused it away, saying it was too much driving for him. But, in reality, this was a man who had commuted 55 miles each way every weekday for over 15 years from his Virginia home to his Maryland office. There was no such thing as too much driving for him! (And yes, Longtime Readers, this is the man who said I was overreacting and refused to lock up the guns when his son threatened to shoot me. I repeat: Hmmm.)

All poorly-chosen gifts from loved ones pale in comparison to this egregious example of poorly-chosen actions. (Another husband's boxful of polyester clothing from K-Mart screeches to a halt in my memory.)

So, yes, your gift to your loved one says something about how much you care, but your treatment of him or her in times of need says far more.

Did I tell you the one about how I was lying on the floor with my feet on the chair, at doctor's orders, and he stepped over me to go to the refrigerator for a Coke? And couldn't be bothered to ask me if I wanted anything?

I guess I should be grateful he didn't insist I get up and go get him the Coke!

(And no, he didn't send flowers to my hospital room.)