We had only been dating since September, and long-distance at that, yet there was no hesitation in either of our minds, no possibility that this wasn’t the ‘rightest’ thing. We just fit, in so many ways, in all the important ways. It wasn’t simply that we had a shared system of belief, nor a similar commitment to our practice — although we both agreed, and still do, that this is definitely a cornerstone to our compatibility. It also wasn’t our mutual likes: a preference for bedrooms on second storeys, enjoyment of taking long walks, afternoons spent reading. It wasn’t our mutual dislikes either: owning a television, dishes left too long in the sink, the cold harshness of glass furniture.
It was, we agreed, as we do on so much, something unnameable, ineffable, and yet entirely solid and reliable. Willingness to see, to understand, to recognise the other as a full human-being, totally separate from ourselves and yet entirely interconnected.
But of course we are neurotic, because we are human, and in my head there was nothing worse than the woman I love being exposed to something so revolting, so unattractive, as a bout of food poisoning. I rushed to the ensuite, the shining glory of the room I was renting in London, pulling the door shut behind me and hoping my retching wasn’t too off-putting. I heaved as I do when ill, until there was nothing left, until even the bile had vacated my stomach, until my throat and stomach and chest ached from the muscle spasms. It was appalling, the sort of ‘being sick’ where you wish you had never eaten food ever in your life and can’t imagine ever eating it again.
I emerged from the loo only after I had applied toilet cleaner to the soiled bowl, scrubbed and wiped the rim, washed my hands, rinsed my mouth, and spritzed the room with a bit of body spray I had to hand. I emerged and she sat there on the bed, a stitch of worry in her brow. She moved to one side, making space for me to lie down.
No sooner had my head hit the mattress than another wave of nausea swept through me, making my skin tingle, my cheeks feel as though I’d bitten into something sour. I fled once more, pulling the door shut, still focused on somehow disguising this element of my humanity, this fallible state, from her.
We were not yet married, not as we are now, but marriage was inevitable, a point of discussion, something we both wanted and intended to do as soon as we were able. As I knelt before the cool porcelain, the fresh scent of bleach offering mild comfort as my stomach managed, somehow, to expel even more dregs, I thought of vows, of ‘in sickness and in health’.
Standing was causing vertigo, and my limbs ached with weakness. For the sake of comfort she helped me pull one of the two mattresses that lay stacked on my daybed onto the floor.
Attempts to rehydrate were thwarted, my stomach spasming within moments of taking a sip of water, sending what I’d swallowed right back up. But still I insisted on dragging my worn and weary body to the loo, insisted on shutting the door, so she might not see.
With each new wave of nausea, each session of retching lasting for what felt like ten minutes at a time, I grew weaker. I lay, twisted half upon my side, half on my back, on the mattress on the floor. I panted, feverish with the effort my body was putting in to get the bug consumed with a raw oyster to leave.
I was spent, the very thought of going to the toilet too much to bear, when the last sip of water I was trying to keep down made it clear it was not welcome. I scrambled, pointing, and from where she knelt beside me she understood to empty the bin next to my desk. She held it steady, next to my own clutching hands, as I heaved watery foam into the plastic receptacle.
I raised my head, looking her in the eye, a weak smile upon my lips. I imagined my face was pale, eyes rimmed with red — they were watering from so much effort. It was as though my stomach wished to leave my body too, along with any contents.
I looked at her and saw, despite my state and regardless of the smell, she loved me. In her eyes was the same tenderness that had been there since the day we met, since the moment we both started to fall in love. It was a tenderness touched with concern but in no way repulsed, put off or disgusted.
“Wow,” I croaked.
“What?” She asked.
“You really, really love me.”
“Of course I do.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Of course I will.”
~
Originally published on Medium