My. Hubba. Hubba. Hubby.

So I'm feeling incredibly sorry for myself today.

Like, gorge myself on a bowl (or two) of carbs kind of sorry.

Since my lung tests came back looking good, and my airway tests came back looking good, my doctor has decided a "no go for launch" on any potential surgery to open up my airway a bit more.

Which means this heavy breathing that I am consistently prone to? This Darth Vader-like sound that people hear when I come down the hallway?

Yeah, it's here to stay.

And I'm feeling pretty fucking sorry for myself.

My breathing is getting worse and worse, and I can't for the life of me understand why. And no one with a medical degree seems interested in finding out the reason, either.

The last ENT I saw basically told me I should consider myself lucky because most Wegener's patients have even more limited space to breathe through.

But when I'm standing at the front of a classroom, gasping for air as I attempt to talk about test-taking strategies and different learning styles, it gets a little hard to truly consider myself lucky.

 

But I will say one thing.

In the midst of this Wegener's-induced hell I have found myself in lately, God has still managed to bless me with two incredibly wonderful people.

One? Thaddeus.

Duh.

But the second one? The one I should be giving more credit to, but rarely do?

My husband.

I could not have been given a better advocate in my time of need. You could not find a stronger rock. You could not find a more solid support system.

Tom will spend an entire day with Thaddeus while I am in school, or at work, or just generally putzing around, and then still encourage me to take a nap when I get home. 

He refuses to let me do the heavy lifting, but he'll back off when he sees that fire in my eyes that says, "I will do this because I won't let this disease overcome me."

He understands when my motivation for life in general dips into the negative numbers and he picks up the slack.

He drops whatever he's doing in the midst of Thaddeus yelling, "Mommy! Play basketball with me!" to play basketball with Thaddeus because he knows it's just too much for me.

He complains about all the bills, but he never complains about the medical bills.

He still tells me I'm beautiful a hundred times a day, even though my super-duper-now-Halle-Barry-like haircut and the extra weight in my mid-section makes me think otherwise.

He will cross the street to get into a fight if he even thinks, for just a second, that someone may have disrespected me.

He loves me.

He holds my hand.

He rubs my legs when my medication makes them scream in pain.

He's a wonderful man.

A wonderful, wonderful man.

And I love him.

And I thank God for him every single day.