F as in Flower

Have you ever ordered an item on the phone or spoken to a customer service rep about something and you got to the point in the conversation where you had to tell them your name? In my wife’s case, 999 times out of 1000, the dialogue unfolds like this: First name, please? It’s Fehmeen. Um, could you spell that? Okay, it’s F as in flower, E, H, M as in man, E, E, N as in Nancy. Even though I’ve heard it a thousand times, this exchange never fails to crack me up because she repeats that F as in flower mantra every single time it happens in the same calm, clear, patient and precise manner as if it were her first time saying it.

The aforementioned story exemplifies the character of my wife in an unbelievably accurate way. Being the primary caregiver for a pair of dependents, one an infant, Emma, and the other, an adult, yours truly, ALS Boy, Fehmeen is the textbook definition of patient. Not only does this superwoman feed, dress, change, play with, nurture, and love our six-month old daughter, she does so while catering to my ever-increasing and somewhat neurotic and OCD-laden needs. Fehmeen is so busy and focused when she arrives home from work each day taking care of us two munhooses that she rarely has the simple pleasure of tasting, let alone enjoying, her food. She has prioritized the quality of our lives above the quality of her own and for those ultimate acts of self-sacrifice, Emma and I are extremely fortunate and eternally grateful.

When we met by the copy machine in the teacher’s lounge at school about four and a half years ago, I was in a decrepit state of social disrepair. I routinely wore tapered jeans and work shirts (with other people’s names on them). I lived in relative squalor in a tiny yet overcrowded one bedroom pit of an apartment that was so filthy and disgusting that I had refused visitors for years. My lifestyle was so routine-oriented that when I would go to La Salsa every Friday night to order the same thing I always ordered on Friday night, the workers called me “Siempre lo mismo.”

But that all began to change that fateful, windy Saturday when we were both working in our classrooms at school and Fehmeen asked me to join her outside to correct papers and the minute I sat down, a huge gust of wind blew in and I spent the next fifteen minutes gathering up several class sets of Problems of the Weeks that had scattered on the ground. From that point, I took her to several movies that she said she enjoyed but later admitted that she hated. We even attended a musical in SF that she referred to as “horrific”. (I can’t blame her for that one; the second act totally sucked). She even upgraded my wardrobe from lonely bachelor circa 1987 to American Eagle jeans and short sleeve collared shirt wearing man of the current decade.

We soon became inseparable. I could not get enough of her. Not only was she beautiful and exotic, she was engaging to speak with, intelligent and thoughtful on all topics, and she made me feel special, like I was the only one in the world that existed. She loved teaching as much as I did and she was extremely good at it. We constantly bounced ideas off each other as we logged countless hours in cafes and coffee shops working and preparing for school.

As the months turned into a year, we began discussing marriage. I was forbidden from proposing in a restaurant, at a ballgame, on a beach, or in front of any family members so I had to really dig deep to come up with a worthy and memorable marriage proposal. I placed the ring inside of the piano that I owned and I begged her to play Mary Had a Little Lamb, a song that I had taught her to play. When she got to the high note of the song, the pressed key made no sound. When I opened up the piano to investigate, I pulled out the ring from it’s hiding place between the hammer and the string and I popped the question.

We were married in three separate wedding ceremonies over a three week span in June and July of 2006. First up was the civil ceremony at the rotunda of the City Hall building in San Francisco. With the guest list restricted to only our parents and us, this was the ceremony that made our union legal and official. I recall Fehmeen and I acting nervous and giddy and silly when the Justice of the peace was performing her officiant duties. The Nikkah, a traditional Muslim ceremony, came next. An intimate gathering of about a hundred family members attended this joyous occasion, and never in my life had I seen my wife look more stunning and gorgeous. That is until the day of the American ceremony arrived, and the memory of how angelic and beautiful she looked that hot July day still takes my breath away. I can still vividly recall conversations we had that day as if they occurred yesterday.

When we got married and we arrived at the part in our third ceremony where we recited our vows, you know the for better or for worse, in sickness and in health part, well, I envisioned at the time that we would have decades worth of the better and healthy times before the worse and sickness times reared their heads. Some people would consider our situation unlucky and on the surface, I believe that to be an accurate assessment. But for the sake of my personal sanity, I choose to characterize my plight in a more favorable light.

In the lottery of life, I hit all my numbers when I met Fehmeen. I have never met a more determined, practical, courageous, and inspiring woman in my life. Babe, you and Emma are the reason I get out of bed each morning to face an increasingly challenging day. But with you by my side, I know deep down inside that I will surpass all expectations for this disease and survive for decades and beyond. If you ever feel down and sad and it appears that the entire world is collapsing around you, please remember that I love you and I appreciate you in ways I could never adequately express. I could never survive this journey without you. I love you the most in this world.

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