May 2, 2018. Wood Creek Pond. That’s when I heard what might seem to be gibberish:
“I uv oo.”
Most of Cindy’s communication these days is done with sighs. Even then her sighs of lament sound much the same as her sighs of joy; I depend on the context to distinguish between the two. If she has been sitting for awhile her sigh likely means a full bladder. If I am giving her a hug her sigh likely means contentment, at least I would like to think so.
Cindy sighed often when our late arriving spring finally enabled us to go outdoors in the datemobile (wheelchair). From our pedicab jaunts I know these outdoor sighs could be good or bad as well. Her “the wind is blowing in my face” sigh sounds much like her “the sun is shining on my shoulders” sigh. When we first went out in the datemobile I made comments to test the nature of her sighs.
“It’s good to be outside again.”
“Yeah,” was the response, in a meditative tone.
“It’s nice out today.”
“Nice!” was her one word echo, emphatically delivered considering her condition.
Her sighs and responses suggest that the datemobile has worked well, perhaps better than the pedicab. We will continue with the datemobile at least until Memorial Day and our big race (unless it rains). We were at Wood Creek Pond in the datemobile on May 2, 2018. With Cindy facing the pond in the datemobile I wrapped my arms around her and said near her ear: “I love you.”
“I uv oo,” was her response. Those three syllables were so quiet and breathy that I may not have heard them, let alone interpret what she was trying to say, if my ear were not near her mouth.
I am more mountain man than romantic. I cannot tell you the first time I said “I love you” to Cindy, nor do I have the faintest idea when she first said those words to me. I know that over the course of our marriage we must have confessed our love a few times, but I cannot point out any specific moment. I cannot even recall a specific moment I’ve said those words recently, partly because I tell Cindy I love her multiple times a day now.
For months, probably for more than a year, Cindy has not said “I love you” to me, though I know her sighs in my arms often express that. That is why May 2, 2018 stands out now. I do not recall the first time, but that could be the last. Sometimes one memory is enough to cherish, particularly when that memory is as distinctive as the three syllables that might sound like gibberish to an untrained ear, but speaks volumes for a person in Cindy’s condition:
“I uv oo.”
thank you.