“Do you love me?” Her words, like the slow drip of water from a stalactite formed over millennia, resonated deeply within me. I was in a trance, induced by an antidepressant taken after a late dinner, when her question jolted me awake. “Do you love me?” The enormity and inopportune timing of the query weighed heavily on me as I lay in bed, grappling with the clarity it demanded.
Initially, I thought the question had arisen from a nightmare she had experienced. But as I looked at her tear-filled eyes illuminated by the streetlight filtering through the window, I realized she had not been sleeping. Instead, she had been contemplating love, life, and everything in between. The feline intensity in her gaze indicated a hunger for an answer. I began to search through the recesses of my mind, seeking a swift response.
What troubled me more than the answer was the context. Why had she asked this question now, after 42 years of shared life? Since we entered into this union at the age of 22, we had fought countless battles, from trivial matters like cooking and household chores to serious issues like financial disputes and misunderstandings. After each conflict, we had lazily signed numerous agreements—Magna Carta, Camp David, and Ozlo—and were cheered on by our children, who used these moments to sneakily fill their shopping carts, much like geopolitics in the oil and gas industry.
These treaties had revitalized our family bonds, only for them to crumble as quickly as a house of cards when new, irrelevant topics emerged. It was a cycle of love and hate, as tumultuous as it could be. We were like two superpowers perpetually threatening to launch ballistic missiles at each other, only to shake hands in a luxurious retreat. Call it love diplomacy.
Around the time the Covid pandemic grounded the world, she spoke of her knee pain, her head resting on my shoulder as we watched the sun set over an empty Ajman beach. I nudged the last empty bottles into the surf. “My tennis elbow is worse than that,” I replied. “Who told you to play table tennis? Learn to mind your age.” “Who told you to walk for two hours? You aren't young either.” “Watch the sunset instead of picking faults,” I whispered over the howling wind. “You always said sunsets are painful,” she argued. “Let’s stare the setting sun in its eyes. Practice it.”
Fast-forward to the days when rents in Dubai skyrocketed. We both grew stoic as reality finally sank in. Egos died abruptly as we turned the pages of new chapters in our love story, life, and medical journals—not necessarily in that order. On weekends, our CX7 found its way to clinics instead of our favorite breakfast spot. Pills of various colors replaced cosmetics and utility bills in the sling bags we both carried.
I held her hands tightly, offering assurance as we roamed the city for reminiscence therapy. “How many times did I tell you to pass some orange juice?” she asked this morning. “I did, and you drank it, too, darling.” “Oops, I forgot.” After that, I arranged her pill organizer, folded the laundry, made her a drink, and played Leona Lewis’s Bleeding Love to soothe her soul and senses.
Wasn’t I a caring husband? Had I missed anything she had wished for? What colossal deficiency on my part had prompted her to question if I still loved her? “You remember the love letters you wrote to me in the 80s? Back then, you were so passionate,” she recalled. “I still am. It's just that I'm more focused on your health and physical comfort.” “You are my partner, not a home nurse.” “Love is about caring, isn't it?” “Caring is one of several elements that define love, darling. When was the last time you ran your fingers through my hair? You never did since my meningioma surgery. The doctors left a Sheikh Zayed Road under my thin hair. I need a hair treatment to hide the surgical scar. Remember, you proposed to me saying you loved my knee-long hair.” “Darling, your health is more important.” “What about my happiness? Did you answer my question, do you still love me?” “I did answer, didn’t I? Just a while ago.” “Oh, you did? Oops, I forgot.”
