My wife’s cooking is excellent. I keep stressing that. The funny part is this: sometimes, when she’s roasting or deep frying a dish, the smell of the oil gets to her, and she loses her appetite for whatever delicacies she’s made. On and off, she also feels like tasting food other than her own. The pizzas and pastas, and even Mexican, Italian, and Chinese food that she was exposed to during our visits to the US, sparked a liking for some of these dishes—especially spicy Mexican food and pasta.

Just before I had my heart attack, I promised her that I would take her out to a restaurant once a week, and in return, she should take me for a walk to the nearby park. I was sick of walking around the house. Proposals are always in our hands, but disposals? Not so much. The heart attack ensured these simple, yet meaningful, plans were sealed away. The doctor-imposed restrictions on so many things, and as a crowning glory, after being diagnosed with prostate cancer, I had to undergo radiation and other therapies, which brought even more restrictions. It meant home cooking and, unfortunately, no semi-retirement for my wife. No outings to restaurants for her to savor the foods she loves.

The best I could do for her was ask my sons, who visited India to assist us during my cancer treatment, to take her out to restaurants whenever possible—not just for the food, but for a change of scenery, some fresh air, and a few hours away from the house.

It has been more than two months since my radiation therapy ended, and I’m feeling better. So, why not take my wife out now? There’s no rule that says I have to eat out too. I can find something that won’t clash with the doctors’ restrictions. My second son’s recent visit enabled this. I even went out with them, shedding my inhibitions, frustrations, and fears. And nothing happened—I’m fine.

An interesting incident occurred just yesterday. My son had taken us to a new vegetarian restaurant where everyone except me had lunch—South Indian meals. This week, I promised my wife that we would return to the same place to try their snacks and tiffin items. But, lo and behold, we were half an hour late, and only meals were available. My wife was disappointed and hungry. So, we moved on to another reputed restaurant, and again, only meals were available. We scratched around for whatever different food we could find. Better planning is needed next time!

Why do I write all this? I feel guilty. There were so many ways I could have assisted my wife with cooking and other routine chores. Why didn’t it occur to me that she, too, needs rest and a change of scene now and then? I ignored that. It’s time to give her some form of retirement—at least partially—and to respect her needs. After all, she has been my walking stick through it all.

The least I can do now is say "sorry."

Continued in 156. Hover-art - Part 1