Tomorrow hopefully marks the end of what I am calling the Toe Experience; my stitches should come off, and I can wear shoes, walk, wear pants, shower, lift, and get a new brace again.

Maria and I have been thrown together more intensely and continuously than expected, the closest since our early days of struggling to rebuild our broken lives. We were hardly apart those first weeks, day or night. I was that needy.

Even though I am sadly human, I have to be honest; we both agreed that these past few weeks were the most intensive and unsettling time we can remember going through. They were also the most meaningful.

When I saw my wounds for the first time, it just struck me deeply, even as I began to heal.

We have been through a lot and come through it all, as many humans do, with patience, love, and courage. Every trouble – pain in life is inevitable – has made us stronger and our love deeper. This one was no exception; now that it is ending,  I can look back on it, and she can also.

We were together day and night.

The first nights were shockingly tricky; I couldn’t stand, dress, clean myself, or get to the bathroom. I had to keep my foot elevated for days and try to sleep with a clumsy and heavy surgical boot on my foot. I couldn’t eat at a dining table, and the anesthesia wreaked havoc on my digestion.

I couldn’t shop, drive or cook.

Maria was with me every step of the way.

We sometimes got irritated with each other, but we never got angry and stopped laughing, talking, and loving each other. That lifted me and gave me solid ground. It told me just how much we have come to trust one another.

I can’t recall experiencing that level of helplessness, kindness, empathy, and understanding. I must acknowledge it before life moves us back to the ordinary. I learned again what real love means and how it can affect everything.

We also surprised one another by saying this was a wonderful and affirming time for us. We could easily have driven the other crazy and pushed her apart. We just ended up closer, as usual, when there was trouble.

Today, Maria and I were separated for more than half the day for the first time since the surgery.

We were both happy about it but felt a pang or two. Something was missing. It will take us some time to get comfortable with that. But that is where we belong, with our independent lives that we love.

It was a way of saying goodbye and ending this remarkable experience together. We were always in sync, always together, always pointed in the same direction. We each called the other once or twice to check-in. We weren’t used to being apart.

As the trouble eased, we both began to grasp the power and beauty of ourselves.

I never stopped loving her for one second, and I never felt her stop loving me. In my life, that is truly astounding. I was not at my best. At times, there was a darkness of the soul.

It was emotionally challenging to lose my toe. I wanted to cry but never did. Some day, I will.

I have only seen the stump of my two twice, and I can barely look at it; each time I see it, it is a trigger that takes me back to another time. And place, a dark one.

I never tell people that someone else is going through something worse than they are, even though it is almost always true. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, and it is patronizing in many ways.

I shouldn’t do it to myself.

Maria does not wish to be anyone’s caretaker; she is happy and grounded when doing her art, and being pulled from it is an assault on her identity and peace of mind.

Art is who she is, and when she is not making it, she is sometimes uncertain of who she is and slips back to a darker place.

But she turned herself over to me without complaint or resentment (maybe once or twice :)). I could not have dealt with all of this by myself or with someone put off by me for needing it or who could not bear to look at my foot.

I never once needed help that I didn’t get it instantly. I lost count of the bandages she changed, the anti-biotics she applied, or the times she pulled my sweatpants and socks over those dreadful boots.

On her way to Belly Dancing class today, she called me to say she found the experience draining and painful, yet she had the same feeling I had about it. It felt good. We did it together.

It is beautiful for two people to come together like that and come through it with even more love and respect for each other than before.

I needed intimate help for the first time (maybe the second, (Open Heart Surgery, which was less intrusive for me, and less disturbing), and I was uncomfortable asking for it. She never once complained or made me feel guilty.

It was a far more emotional experience than I expected or owned up to at first, even to myself.

I told myself to stop hiding behind the notion that so many people have it worse than I do, so I have no right to feel bad. Of course, they do.

But I needed to acknowledge the pain and sadness to heal and move beyond it. I needed to stop playing stoic and hero.

I am neither. I needed to acknowledge the hurt, let go, and return to my wonderful life.

I have been in therapy almost all my adult life and have learned a lot. I have never been happier or more content with my life. This hard work has paid off.

Maria is, of course, a powerful part of that. Our love is genuine, and our relationship is intense.

The pain must be acknowledged to go away, something men are almost always slow to understand and accept.

We all want to be brave, challenging, and invulnerable.

Looking back on these three unnerving weeks, I feel strong. I feel relieved. I feel fortunate.

Trouble is what I learned from, built on, and learned about grace and its meaning.

And I feel grateful.

It was, in a way, my toe’s final gift after a lifetime of service.