My birthday gift to you, my Leonard

Things these days are code protected.  You have to know what 4 numbers give you access to your money at the bank. You have to supply a snappy one liner each time you log on to a computer at work. You have to answer a secret question about what your kindergarten teacher was wearing the first day back from Christmas break to change your cable TV settings.    There are a lot of codes.

It must stem from the prevalence of fraud in our society.  I understand that when it comes to my hard earned cash.  But is there really some entity scheming to add channels to my cable TV subscription?  My cartoon mind conjures up an image of men sitting around a table tucked away in a cave in some desert country.  One says to the other "She will never see it coming.  Tomorrow when she turns on the TV she will have HBO!  I knew Ms. Winkler wore that red dress after Christmas at Laidlaw Elementary in 1977."

So now you know what was going through my mind during Leonard's varied medical procedures.  When I brought him to appointments, the first question was always "What is his name?" followed by "And his birthday?"  11-14-75 became our free pass.  If we could supply it ( and prove that they didn't have Leonard Murley Lorton the first or second sitting there)  we could move forward with whatever medical step was next.

So those numbers became a code for me.  In the beginning there was hope embedded in those 6 random digits.  They were on the intravenous antibiotics they started with when they thought his gall bladder was infected.  They were on the sleeping pill that would give him some relief in a dual occupant hospital room.  They were on the bag of poison we pumped into him that would let him see his boys go to high school.  They were hope.

Then it changed.  Each time I rattled off 11-14-75, I could hear the code screaming the obvious to everyone.  Yes this robust healthy man born in 1975 is the same one you just read about in his chart.  Yes, he is the one with metastasized cancer throughout his body who appears as asymptomatic to his young wife as to you.  Yes, that makes him 37.  37. 37.

Quicker than either of us ever imagined, the meaning behind the numbers changed again.  Supplying those precious numbers, 11-14-75, became a pathway to relief.  If I could utter them for him when the pain halted his own response, a bolus of morphine could be administered while we waited for the IV to work.  If I could provide the code, the home delivery would leave me a 200 mg bag of relief so I would be ready as soon as the last one was empty.  If I could supply the code, our journey would be bearable, manageable, possible.

Now it is 11-14-2013, the first time those numbers hit me here alone.  What does the code mean to me now?  I don't see them as a backstage pass anymore.  They are no longer hope.  They don't scream as loud.  They don't bring with them relief.  They remind me that my sweetheart, my love, my giant will forever be 37.  He won't be gray.  He won't be stooped over.  He won't be weary.  He won't age.  He won't get Medicare.  He won't share pudding with me in the old age home.  He won't subscribe to ARP magazines.  He won't even see 38 let alone 58 or 78 or 98.

But again, my cartoon mind thinks that maybe the next realm required a new code.  Maybe heaven requires a password change.  Maybe St. Peter follows the same protocol.  Maybe Peter greeted my Leonard at the Pearly Gates and asked "What is your name?"  and then "When is your birthday?"  Maybe, just maybe, when my Leonard rattled off 11-14-75 he was told that wasn't accurate any longer.  The code had been changed.  Now his code is 8-6-13.   
8-6-13 wouldn't need morphine.   
8-6-13 wouldn't endure the irritation of shared hospital rooms.   
8-6-13 doesn't have a midnight delivery from a hospice pharmacy.   
8-6-13 would give the opportunity to gain eternal knowledge in God's presence.   
8-6-13 would signify that through an Infinite Sacrifice, Leonard's soul continues.   
8-6-13 means hope.

So on this day, 11-14-2013, my birthday gift to him, is my acknowledgement of this hope.  I count the days until I, too,  require a password change and we are reunited making up for not getting to share pudding in our old age.