It's November 23rd 2019 and we are in a diner. H orders a WI omelet and it's almost funny watching  him eat as strings of cheese bow from his mouth to the plate. He looks quizzically, as though trying to decipher how he should proceed--and in that moment and moments like it it's a blast from the past, a flash in a pan. I see my Harry again. Then the moment passes and I  ask if it's ok to cut his food for him. And he thankfully relents and allows me to help him.

I know I am a young caregiver. Mostly because others keep *telling me* "What? But you're so young!"

I think when you marry, you know that you might one day be in a caregiver role of your spouse. My time just came early. The blessings in it is the ability to care for him and myself when I am in sound mind and body. And I have gratitude for that.  I am also glad we didn't have kids.
Children are great and I want mine to feel loved, not like a burden.  I knew I could dedicate myself to the complete care (dressing, cooking, medical appts etc.) of 1 person.
I know my husband well enough to know that he'd prefer it be our kid, so in the long run, care for him would suffer. And I would feel torn in two the whole time. It would be a hell of my own making.
Some people can raise children through the illness of a partner and I have to applaud them because admittedly I am too chickenshit to do so.

I love my husband and wouldn't give him up for anything...MOST days.