Let me know just what you need

Tell me what you see

I’ll be waitin’ right here just for you

I’ll be thinkin’ only of you

Thinkin’ about the look in your eyes

— “I Knew From the Start,” Faye Wong

Her recovery was faster than the doctors or I expected. I don’t know what was in that drug they used to blow out the clot, but boy, it got her up and going like one of those pit teams at a NASCAR race. It was serious, of course, but She’s a French Catholic who goes to a Lebanese Maronite church. It’s double protection. Maybe there are dueling deities representing their individual earthly faiths? The Roman deity gave her the stroke; the Eastern deity took it away? Score one for the Mediterranean lord? Don’t tell her I wrote that. I’m going to have enough grief when she finds out I lied about vacuuming the entire downstairs.

Of course our two fabulous daughters were here. One operates just like her mother. She made lists, bought tons of materials for the house. The other, the agent editor, set up the pill routine.

Then, more friends than I dreamed we — well, really, She — had starting delivering flowers and casseroles — I mean big casseroles — and multi-pastries. She received a ton of cards and had 300 get-well hits on Facebook. And she’s not even on Facebook. I’m on Facebook, and when I had a minor heart attack six years ago, I didn’t even get a Snapchat message.

The massive meals on wheels highlighted the first major change in her makeup: For a woman who was a picky eater, She now eats like she’s going to the chair; both of us put on 5 pounds.

I mean, after routine chores, we sit around eating all of this proffered abundance. My oldest made it glorious before she left by bringing in a 12-pack of Stella Artois.

The first week I was caregiver in charge. I was all puffed up, putting on my big boy pants and organizing everything. But when the daughters left, I was alone at the wheel; suddenly I found myself standing in place, holding various tools and lists, data and pills. In that week, She slept a lot, always taking naps, going to sleep early, which left me standing at the window wondering if I could handle all of this.

For about four days, I kept holding on to her arm, until she got tired of that and pulled away. Remember, this is a woman who took care of a feckless, childlike writer/actor for 55 years, developing super-patience and eventually minimal patience with my persistent failings.

After two weeks, I thought I had mastered the routine; I had everything nailed down. I was the boss, baby. Caregiver Supreme. While she slept, I worked: laundry, dog care, meals prepared and laid out, so that she never need lift a finger. You know what happens to fingers that never lift; they get itchy.

She put up with that crappy illusion for about three days, and then reduced my pay grade to minimum wage. As her mobility came back, so did her sense of territorial imperative. “Did you dust when I was napping? And under the beds and couch?”

Suddenly, she was moving around with Space Age confidence, relieving me, one by one, of all my duties: making her own breakfast, making her bed, moving from stove and fridge to table with dynamic dexterity.

I knew at the moment that the big boy pants were shredding at the knees, and shrinking at the cuffs, when she held a fork in front of my nose.

“Oh honey, your eyes are going. Is that clean, really, sweetie?” Notice how she softened the admonition with the “sweetie”? She’s never called me sweetie. Was this, I wondered, a word that floated up while her personal lexicon was in deep sleep?

“So you’re back,” I said. I was apparently, despite my annoying habits, still a much needed figure in the tapestry of her day.

Gently she put her hands on my shoulders and smiled, “That’s right, the bitch is back, baby.” Notice how she softened that with a “baby?” I melted, not realizing how visible all of my buttons are. She sealed it with a gentle kiss.

Yes, the “bitch” is back, but she’s my bitch. Welcome back, baby.

J.P. Devine is a writer living in Waterville and recovering from his wife’s stroke.