The Feral Truth: My Love Language Is Logistics

I used to think I was pretty good at showing people I loved them.

I'd buy thoughtful gifts.

Plan trips.

Remember birthdays.

Do nice things.

You know.

Normal expressions of human affection.

Then I became a caregiver.

And apparently my love language is now:

Have you taken your medication?

Romance is alive and well over here.

I don't remember exactly when this happened.

I just slowly became the person who expresses love by anticipating absolutely everything another human being could possibly need.

Paul says:

"My appointment is at 2:15."

Adorable.

To him, this is one piece of information.

To me, this activates an entire internal operations center.

Appointment at 2:15.

Need to arrive early.

Traffic.

Valet.

Walking time.

Possible bathroom stop.

Oxygen.

Medication.

Paperwork.

Chargers.

Snacks.

Therefore:

WE ARE LEAVING AT 12:47 AND THIS DECISION IS FINAL.

That's love, baby.

I love through preparation now.

I refill prescriptions before they run out.

I bring the sweatshirt because I know he'll get cold.

I pack the thing he says he doesn't need because I have met this man before.

I charge the oxygen concentrator.

Then I check whether it's charged even though I am the person who charged it.

I bring backup batteries.

Backup chargers.

Backup plans.

And occasionally a backup for the backup plan because apparently anxiety has an operations department.

I know which medications need food.

Which appointments require fasting.

Which doctor needs which records.

Which pharmacy has what.

Which bag contains the medical equipment.

Where the insurance cards are.

And, God help me...

all the passwords.

There is no greater act of devotion in this house than me yelling:

"DO NOT RESET IT. I KNOW THE PASSWORD."

Because if you reset that password after I have successfully maintained control of it for three years, I cannot be held responsible for what happens next.

And then there's packing.

We no longer leave the house.

We mobilize.

An overnight stay near the hospital requires enough equipment to suggest we're establishing a small field office.

Suitcases.

Medication.

Oxygen concentrator.

Chargers.

Backup supplies.

Snacks.

More chargers.

And seventeen miscellaneous objects that nobody thinks are important until we are 75 miles from home and someone asks:

"Did you bring the—"

Yes.

I brought it.

I don't even need to know what you're about to say.

It's in the bag.

That's how much I love you.

The funny thing is that nobody sees most of this.

And honestly, that's kind of the point.

The best logistics are invisible.

If I've done my job correctly, Paul doesn't have to think about half of it.

The medication is there.

The equipment works.

The paperwork made it into the bag.

We arrive where we're supposed to be.

Nobody knows that somewhere behind the scenes I mentally ran through 47 possible catastrophes and packed accordingly.

That's the part of caregiving people don't always see.

Love becomes incredibly practical.

Not less meaningful.

Not less emotional.

Just...

Useful.

I've realized that when someone I love is going through something hard, my instinct isn't necessarily to say:

"What can I do?"

My brain skips directly to:

What needs to be done?

There's a difference.

I research.

I organize.

I make the phone call.

I find the resource.

I build the spreadsheet.

I make the list.

I pack the bag.

I solve the problem.

And if the thing we need doesn't exist?

Well...

Apparently I buy a domain name and build that too.

It's possible I have taken this personality trait slightly too far.

But that's how I love people.

I make things easier.

I anticipate.

I prepare.

I carry some of the mental load so the person I love can put theirs down for a minute.

And maybe that's why caregiving came so naturally to this particular part of me.

Not easily.

Absolutely not easily.

But naturally.

Because underneath all the medical equipment and paperwork and passwords and ridiculous amounts of luggage is something very simple:

I love you.

So I remembered.

I love you.

So I brought it.

I love you.

So I handled it.

I love you.

So you don't have to worry about this one.

I've got it.

And these days, that's probably the most accurate translation of my love you'll ever get.

The Feral Truth: I don't always say "I love you" with grand gestures. Sometimes I say it with a charged oxygen concentrator, a packed bag, a solved problem, and four little words: "I already handled it."