Still My Hero

At this point in our lives it is true that Dennis is probably not going to be able to jump up (it would take him awhile to "jump") and attack someone who might try to kidnap me, (although he does have that big, carved walking stick that our son, Josh, brought him from Guiana.  It is really heavy and I'm positive he would make an attempt to use it if the occasion arose) but he still finds ways to protect me.

He saves me from having to drive all by myself. He lets me know if I am getting too close to the car in front or changing lanes without looking.  Or he watches to see when there is a stop light coming up or I need to make a left turn in a few blocks and he warns me ahead of time.  I have to admit that I'm not always as grateful I should be.

But a few years ago when, long after dark, we left our Sunday School Christmas party and were shocked to find a sheet of ice on all the roads and I had to drive clear across Tulsa, I was terrified. Dennis kept calmly telling me I could do it, letting me know where to slow down and where to speed up for maximum traction till we made it home. I was exhausted and shaking by the time we pulled into our garage but had he not been with me, giving me the benefit of his years of driving in bad weather, I probably would have pulled over and waited till Spring.

He just saved me, once again, from having to talk to a telemarketer.  He knows that most of the time I hate to talk on the phone, and have even been known to stop in when I'm driving by the doctor's to make an appointment so I don't have to phone them.  If you call our house, Dennis will probably answer the phone first, so don't be insulted  Of course, I guess if I was planning to have an affair his questioning of callers could thwart that too, but so far it hasn't been an issue.

And I don't do confrontation. He does that for me. The nurse who chose to unload her bad day on me while I was waiting to be wheeled into the operating room for my mastectomy is now a graduate of Sensitivity Training School and I received a letter of apology from the president of the hospital.

If it has to do with math, motors, or malfeasance of any kind, Dennis does the talking. I never talk to the guy at the car repair place, or the insurance adjuster, or the people at St. Francis Hospital billing office whose employers' children I am probably keeping in very fine schools. Lately some underling will sometimes get a little snotty and insist I get on the phone to give them permission to talk to Dennis about my business.  I'm sure they feel the need to save me from being so un-liberated.  I have to get on the line and say  "I don't need you to save me.  My husband is doing it for me, thank you."

They'd better quit bugging me about it, too, because he may talk softly, but he carries that really big, stick.