For the ten years that we’ve been married, I am usually the one who got sick – heart, foot, eyes, diabetes, etc. – not her. She is 17 years younger than me and the healthiest person I’ve ever known.

No matter what she eats, she never gains weight and has the energy of any five men. She works day and night and, on weekends, belly dances with her comrades for hours at a time.

But when I need help, she is always right there.

I’m just not used to seeing her sick, which she is right now, spending almost all day on the downstairs touch. She looks pale and drawn.

I sprang into caretaker mode, bringing her tea, cooking, doing the dishes, shopping,  checking on her, and rushing to get her medicine. These are the things she does for me. It could be the flu; it could be Covid; it could be a variant. The animals are easy in the summer; I have to open and close some gates. The dogs seem to get it; they are no bother at all; they are eerily quiet.

They know.

We were around many people in crowded spaces over the weekend, and she got sick almost as soon as we got home. I suspected my sickness a month ago was Covid-related; I had all the symptoms, too, even though I tested negative.

She’ll get tested, but it sure looks like the variant. She has all of the symptoms but one. It is disorienting to me, a sort of upside-down thing. I love doing what she has done for me so many times.

Yet it is upsetting to see someone so vital laid low.

Almost everyone we know has gotten sick like this; as a younger, vaccinated, and boosted person, she will be okay in a few days, maybe tired for a while.

She is the powerhouse around here, the inexhaustible energy source, the creative spark, the fixer of broken things, the stacker of wood, the garden tender, the garbage hauler,  and when she is lying down all day, the artist every minute, and when the world is upside down, and as much as I love caring for her, I do feel some waves of vulnerability.

She ate little of the food I prepared for her and has gone up to bed after insisting on closing up the chicken coop. It is quiet here; I will be with her shortly, bringing tea, lying next to her.

I can’t be comfortable if she is sick, and I wonder if she feels the same way about me when I am ill or hurting. I want to be there if she needs me.

I know she’ll be all right, and she knows she’ll be all right. But it feels eerie and dark tonight. Our house is always full of conversation and sharing and discovery. Not tonight.

One day, one of us will be alone, and life will go on.

I feel especially mortal tonight. I think things will be much better in the morning.

Maybe we should sleep apart tonight, she said, looking pale and weak. She mentioned this twice.

Not on your life, I said. We’re sleeping right next to each other.