For the first six months, my husband was not allowed to interact with Wheatie in order for me to properly build a connection with him. My husband, trying to do the right thing, took that literally and, as a result, distanced himself from me. When I was in distress or needed something, my husband would leave the room, because it was suddenly “Wheatie’s job” to help. What my husband thought was “following the rules,” I internalized as him giving up on me, or on our relationship. I thought maybe my disabilities and chronic illnesses were becoming too much for him, all while my bond with my service dog was growing stronger by the day.
I remember this moment clearly: I was at home, a tourniquet wrapped around my left arm as my nurse set up my monthly IVIG infusion, an IV treatment that administers antibodies, and a process that usually takes 4-5 hours. I could hardly feel the IV enter my vein. Wheatie’s big head rested on my lap as I took a deep breath and braced myself for a long afternoon of blood pressure checks, cramping, chills, and being poked and prodded. It’s as if this 60-pound black lab was human — he knew the drill, he was tapped in. I looked up and Sean was putting on his shoes. “OK, it looks like you have it all set up,” he said. “I’m going to go grocery shopping and grab some lunch.”
My heart dropped. Why was he leaving? What was he not telling me?
The tension was so high in our house. It suddenly felt like Wheatie and I were a unit, with Sean on the opposing team.
We went to our first marital therapy session the next week. Wheatie sitting in between us, I heard Sean for the first time explain how he’d been feeling.
“It hurts to watch you like that, to watch you get poked like a lab rat,” he said. “I feel useless, and if I do anything I fear I’m breaking the rules, so it’s best if I’m gone.”
We began to learn about attachment styles and how our styles of communication differed — differences that were already present in our relationship, but had been amplified because of Wheatie. Sean wanted to be needed, and he felt that Wheatie stripped him of that. Meanwhile, I thought that Sean was relieved to no longer be needed and enjoying the freedom he now had.
Understanding this helped us see and understand each other’s perspective. Eventually, my husband was allowed to interact with Wheatie more. Sean also learned that he and Wheatie can both be helpful to me in situations — it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Sean can cuddle with me on the couch when I’m feeling sick, while Wheatie fetches my medication. Sean can get a break and go play soccer with friends, knowing I’m safe getting in and out of the shower thanks to Wheatie.
Sean and I often laugh that we are quite incompatible in many ways, but it “just works.” The way we coexist despite different communication habits is one of those examples. After a lot of therapy and communication with the service dog program where Wheatie is from, we found a pattern that works for us.
The experience of getting Wheatie and the distance it created in my marriage taught us how important communication is between partners. We know now that we can’t assume what the other is thinking. We have to be vocal about our needs.
A recent memory: I am sitting on our screened-in porch right around sunset, my migraine settling in. I look out into the yard and see Wheatie and Sean taking care of themselves, playing soccer. Sean is holding a seltzer and Wheatie is ready to take him on with every move he makes, both of them pausing to check on me every few minutes. And me, taking care of myself while smiling back at them. This was the balance all three of us needed.
Wheatie saved me and my independence, but he also saved my marriage. He helped Sean and I look at ourselves and what was being unsaid. I am so lucky to have Sean, and he is so lucky to have me, and we are so freaking lucky to have Wheatie.
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