Lucky 13

September 6, 2023 on a trip to Wisconsin our RV was wrecked. Nine days later my left leg was amputated below the knee. My memory of the early weeks in the hospital is foggy, but I do remember Ben squeezing my hand when he said “happy anniversary, babe,” on September 10, our 12th anniversary. It’s been a year since the wreck and the amputation–and what a year it has been for Ben and me.

By now you’ve done the math and know this is our 13th anniversary. I’m not fearful of the number 13 on the level of triskadekaphobia, but 13 does have a home in my subconscious. In every job I had, some kind of weirdness was expected every Friday the 13th. Once I rented a kayak and was assigned boat #13; I joked about the probability of it sinking (it didn’t). In the scientific Google study I conducted, I found a few origin stories about how the number 13 came to bother the beejebus out of otherwise rational people. The trickster Norse god Loki, lord of chaos is the 13th god in the pantheon; there were 13 seated at the Last Supper (and we all know who guest number 13 is, right?). In numeracy 13 is considered undesirable because it’s not a whole number. Architects must be ultra suspicious because many high rise buildings (older ones) lack a 13th floor. People may carry a lucky charm with them on Friday the 13th to offset any bad karma they might encounter while out and about. (I just had a vision of someone heading to work toting a box of Lucky Charms cereal under their arm–did that happen to you too?) I thought about changing “lucky charm” to “amulet,” but I have no editor to bug me about parenthetical ideas, so it stays. OK, enough about cereal, back to the point I’m slowly getting to–13 years of wedded bliss, and the whole idea that 13 can be very lucky indeed.

By the time I met Ben, I was a hardened veteran of the “for better or worse, in sickness or in health” part of being married. My first husband was diagnosed with colon cancer and after two brutal years died at the age of 50. I was his caretaker. Ben, on the other hand, had never been married and led a free-wheeling life until he met me. He started hinting about making it permanent, and I wondered if I was up to taking on a life partner when I knew it was inevitable one of us would have to shepherd the other through something difficult. Consumed with doubt, I never mentioned it again. It turns out that Ben was the braver of the two of us. He asked me to marry him on Christmas morning in front of his whole family. Thirteen years later, on this September 10, 2024 here we are.

I’ve written lots about Ben’s gift of caring for others and his MacGyver superpowers, and it’s all true. This year, he proved himself beyond any expectations.

When I got home from a month in the hospital and rehab, I discovered that Ben had spent days having ramps made, getting the first floor office set up as a bedroom for us so that I didn’t have to go up the stairs. The weirdest thing happened when I got home. I became fearful. I was afraid to shower alone; actually I was afraid to be alone in general. He was always there for me, checking on me, making sure I had whatever I wanted. Getting me in and out of the house was work. I in turn worried about him. He looked tired and drawn many days. I recognized in his face that look caretakers get, a look that says you’re just about out of steam, patience and good humor. Still, he never wavered. Being a caretaker is no easy task, especially if the caretakee in question is obstinate. I am a fiercely independent person. I absolutely hate asking for help, which I had to do often. If he didn’t waver, man-oh-man, I wavered all over the place. I’d lose patience, and in frustration would try to do something one-legged persons shouldn’t out of foolish pride. I don’t know how many times I fell (I always lied to the doctors about falling) but he’d be there in seconds, hauling me off the floor, scolding me that I should have called him first. He made me eat when I didn’t want to, hugged me when I had bouts of self-pity and doubt. He was unflappable through all of it. “We’re a team,” he’d say. I’ve said it often throughout this 13th year; I chose well when I agreed to marry Ben.

A year later, we’ve come a long way. I’m back on two feet most of the time. We’re on the road to Wisconsin as I write this; taking the trip we’d planned last year to celebrate our 12th anniversary. When we arrive at our destination, good friends will be waiting for us. We’ll celebrate our 13th anniversary with them.

For me and Ben, 13 is a very lucky number. In the course of this Lucky 13th Year together, we’re lucky to be alive. Lucky to have legions of friends and acquaintances who had our backs during our darkest moments. Lucky to be back on the road doing what we love. Lucky to have been tested and come out stronger. We are a team.

Happy Lucky 13th Anniversary, Ben, my steadfast partner.

Onward!