“What are you, his mother?” the paramedic asked my wife. I was in a stretcher in the back of an ambulance outside Boston on a frigid night. It had taken a lifetime for them to maneuver me down the steep and tight back steps of my parents’ colonial, circa 1740. I felt horrible. Really spent. And scared because I’m never sure the path my disease may take. And I felt a little bit sorry for the paramedics who got lost, got stuck in the snow, and got rattled by the prospect of rescuing me. Leslie barked a sharp correction after a misread of my Medical Alert bracelet. “It’s adrenal insufficiency, not renal insufficiency. Big difference.” She rattled off my medical history, list of medications, current symptoms, date of birth. “He’s 36. Do I look old enough to have a 36 year-old son?” It had been a tough winter, and it was after midnight. But even in the eerie light of the ambulance, I could see that she didn’t look that haggard. Silence can be the best response. I was relieved the paramedic chose that route.

Fast forward ten years. I’m about to be discharged from the hospital in Seattle. I’d gone through menu planning with the dietician, daily exercises with the physical therapist, transfer advice from the occupational therapist, and new medications (and potential side effects) with the pharmacist. It was a lot to process. And I still had some questions. My father and Leslie were by my side. We heard one nurse confer with another in the hall. “I think the mother understands things pretty well. She can explain it to him.” We all exchanged a glance. Then a smile. “What are you, my mother?” I asked, trying to imitate a thick Boston accent. Leslie laughed, “I’ll take it. As long as they think I’m Skip’s trophy wife.” During this bout, Leslie spent multiple days in the hospital. Her  personal grooming had taken a hit. And I am a bit of a baby-face. But, no, she still didn’t look old enough to be my mother.

I wish these were isolated incidents, the result of extreme fatigue or fading eye sight. But Leslie is often mistaken as my nurse or my home health aide or my mother. She is efficient. She offers support. She’s slightly older than me. Just slightly. But those things cannot account for the oft-made assumption. She rarely wears sensible shoes. She doesn’t dress in hospital scrubs. Why not assume partnership? Does my wheelchair disqualify me from being the romantic lead?

Please don’t say caretaker. Don’t call her my caretaker. Unless you call me hers, too. Because our relationship is predicated on partnership. I work hard on equity. We have a reciprocal agreement on care and concern. It’s impossible for each of us to demonstrate that love in the exact same way at the exact same time. She makes a mean 911 call. I make a mean chicken stock. She’ll coach you through a writing project. I’ll coach you through a baseball game, on or off the couch. From each according to his ability, right, Karl Marx? And then there’s the need bit.

At this point in our marriage, I owe her my life. She saves me. She believes in me. She loves me.

Crisis after crisis, I can count on her. I know how lucky I am. She’s a woman you want on your side, in your corner, on your team, in your kitchen. She will show up. She will represent your best interests. She will correct your grammar. She will question your facts. If you’re funny, and I like to think that I am, she’ll laugh at your jokes. A big, full-bodied laugh. She will find you the perfect outfit and the perfect comeback. She will order meals for you, things you didn’t know you wanted but discover that you love. You should thank her. I should thank her.

And I do.