I have a roommate. It’s a man. He is only around every other night. Which is kind of nice because I get a lot done that I have been putting off for a while. But it’s also lonely after a while too. When he is around, he is either sleeping or looks like he is sleep walking. I see his wardrobe closet go untouched for days unless I do laundry and put things away for him. The beer in the fridge doesn’t diminish because he is barely around to drink the alcohol a preggo girl can’t. The food in the pantry stays in tact until the occasional peanut butter & jelly sandwich is made before he passes out upon arriving home every couple of days. His phone charger sits in the corner of the room untouched, as does his contact solution in the bathroom.
I leave our tidy living space in the morning looking bright and clean, and I come home from work and it looks the same as it did when I left. The next morning I wake up, and I am still the only one who has resided in our little space. Our home is eerily clean. No scrubs or shoes occupying random areas of the floor, no empty cups in the sink and no weird folded papers with chicken scratch on them sitting on the table.
Most people would enjoy having a low maintenance roommate like mine. But when it’s your husband, you feel a little different.
Yes, my roommate is my husband. The occasional body next to me in bed, the occasional company I have some evenings on the couch, the occasional dining partner a few days a week. He has been working so much I really do feel like he is just a roommate I occasionally see in passing. The last two weeks have been especially bad and the next couple weeks will be better but this latest stretch has reminded me again why it’s so important to have good friends and family around to be the companions you need when medicine takes over. I am lucky to have that. And I guess I am lucky to still have some cuddling every other night to reassure me that my roommate is also my loving husband.