We graduated and got our first jobs. Two years to the day after my injury, a college friend, Jonny, fell down a flight of stairs after a night out in New York City and died. At 23, from a traumatic brain injury. When I heard the news, I thought of his mother. Then I thought of my mother, knowing that could have been me, and stopped feeling sorry for myself.

Over time, my leg healed, and my back mostly healed. Every few months, my back locks up and I can hardly move. When that happens, I take a week off and tell my co-workers that I injured myself skiing. At only 33, I can’t help but wonder how much worse and frequent these episodes will get as I age.

When the pain is unbearable and my guilt and self–pity return, Emma runs me ice baths. She strokes my hair and kisses my face while I lie on the couch after a day of sitting. She “camps” with me in our living room, where the stiff floor provides more back support than a bed. She tries to ease the pain with an amateur massage, or at least wields the massage gun with gusto. She moves our couches and books and picks up whatever I drop. She tells me to do my physical therapy and to exercise. She reminds me about everything I love and can still do.

We cook, with Emma standing and me sitting. We binge shows while lying on the floor. We travel on long flights with seat cushions and foam rollers and lacrosse balls, and Emma always takes the middle seat. We talk about how we were fated to be together because free will is a lie. And two years ago, we got married.

Our lives are shaped by pain, but more by love. I told Emma in my wedding vows that my life story is the story of the luckiest boy in the world. We laugh and love and play like puppies, as Danny calls us, through and around and during the pain. Even as it gets worse with each year, the pain is what I make of it: a footnote to the love story.

Last year, 12 years after our first date, we found ourselves back in our college town and went to the same restaurant for dinner. The goat cheese pizza was no longer on the menu, so we split the mac-and-cheese. Then we walked to the green to finish the re-enactment of our first kiss. Except that Emma was sure it happened under the tree in the corner, and I was sure we were on the sidewalk across the road. We pleaded our cases but never kissed, unable to agree, and then walked back to the car.

Source link: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/17/style/modern-love-my-twisted-path-to-a-meaningful-life.html