Doing the Dishes

My husband had his 11th chemotherapy treatment yesterday. He has more to do yet, but the worst is over.  He has to carry around a little pack that has a pump in it that pumps more chemo into him for 42 more hours, until the nurse comes and takes out the needle and takes the pump away. This does not stop him from doing the dishes for us. We have settled into a satisfactory domestic routine: I cook, he cleans up. I work outside the home, he takes care of the house. We both get tired and sometimes cranky, both get scared and sometimes teary. We both get up everyday and do our chores, because that is what there is to do, and neither of us wants the other one to have to do more. Or less. The routine keeps life normal, even when it isn't normal. Even when you have to watch out for the plastic tubing snaking under your shirt, or the needle poking into your chest. My husband does the dishes for us because he is brave and doesn't complain about those things. He takes care of us this way and one day he won't have to fiddle with pumps and pouches and needles and tubing. He will feel good again, with his thick hair regrown. He is giving me a tremendous gift, the gift of normal, in an abnormal time. He is doing the dishes.