When I see him walk with a limp, my stomach tightens with an ache. His limp means he’s in pain, hurting, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better. I like to fix things, and I can’t fix him.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel this way if it were only a limp. Maybe.

But it isn’t only a limp. The limp is just one of Bob’s many physical challenges that I can witness. He has to tell me the rest, either by words, a grimace, or the ever-present limp when he walks.

He’s getting older. Hell, we’re both getting older. The difference between us is that Bob and death brushed close to each other in the past three years, and I almost lost him in the forever way only death can make things disappear.

Bob’s inability to walk without a painful limp came on suddenly around his birthday. Since then, it’s been a frustrating hunt to find a doctor who could help him. An X-ray ordered by his internist showed bone spurs in his left hip. We thought we had an answer. His internist prescribed physical therapy. Showing the discipline from his years as an athlete, Bob went for his appointments and religiously did the recommended exercises when at home.

The pain worsened, as did his ability to walk. Our young friends, a wonderful couple with their own problems, immediately brought over an unused walker, enabling Bob to walk with a little less pain. Lidocaine patches helped. I became proficient at pealing them from their backing, placing them in the right spot, then washing the glue off my fingers.

In the middle of this, I had a previously scheduled appointment for surgery on my right eye to redo my cataract surgery and replace a slipped lens. I hoped it would get rid of the haze the slippage caused and also fix my double vision. Bob was in no shape to drive me, his pain so intense. But he was determined that within the week, he’d be ready. And he was, despite the pain.

The surgery proved successful in fixing the haze from the formerly slipped lens. But within a few weeks, my double and skewed vision had worsened. My surgeon, a Fellowship-trained specialist, couldn’t explain it and said my ophthalmologist would need to prescribe prism lenses.

I couldn’t wait for my new lenses. I was excited until my ophthalmologist told me they don’t always work. She also confirmed what I had suspected—a stroke a year and a half ago was the reason for my double vision. Suspecting is different than knowing. It’s sobering, something to come to terms with. I will have double skewed vision for the rest of my life, and my only hope is that prism lenses will allow me to see normally.

So here we are. I can’t see well, and my husband can’t walk well. We deal with it. He drops me off at the market because it’s too painful to walk. I’m left to wander down aisles doing my best to find what we need through my wonderful but defective eyes.

I know I’m lucky. I’m not blind. I do not live in darkness. But, every morning is a challenge because my eyes start from scratch, attempting to adjust to the prism glasses. Even when the world comes into focus, it doesn’t last. I see multiple people, two tv sets with one hanging at an angle from another. Words on a page blur and multiply in two fuzzy lines with letters sometimes fighting each other for space.

I’m challenged, but I’m lucky. Other than a headache since I got my new prism glasses, at least I’m not in any pain.

Not compared to Bob, whose pain remains significant. An MRI showed his spine is a mess. We waited more than a month to get into a pain specialist. When we finally did, he was the wrong type of doctor and could do nothing for Bob. Our disappointment was palpable. We sent strong messages to our internist with a backup message for Bob’s new neurologist because she’s great at getting things done.

It didn’t take long for apologies from the internist. I’m sure a few heads in his office rolled. Although Bob was referred to the right doctors, we’ve waited more weeks for an appointment. More weeks of suffering.

Okay, you may say it’s only a bad back, but there’s more. Bob’s hand shakes. His body gets so cold inside, it’s like I’m touching an ice cube when I touch him. In addition, despite the unbearable pain in his leg, his feet are numb.

And he almost died three times in the past three years.

He almost died is never far when I witness his pain. When I see his courage as he fights for every step and any semblance of normality he can hold on to. His dignity.

Pain strips us of so much. We can’t do the things we love. We find it hard to enjoy what we can do because suffering coats each moment, even when we do our best to push through it.

Pain is exhausting. Not being able to participate in the things that make our life fun creates its own challenges as we struggle to find meaning in each day, struggle to be happy, struggle to be grateful.

I hold on to him to lead me when seeing becomes difficult. I hold on to him to hold him up because I hope my arm allows him to put less pressure on his legs.

So here we are. What a pair. The bad-sighted wife with her limping Chester-as-in-Gunsmoke husband.

Send in the clowns. There ought to be clowns.