Sixteen years ago, as we were planning our wedding, I had decided "'til death do us part" wasn't good enough. Too traditional. I wanted something different and we decided on the more contemporary "until we are parted by death." I thought yes, I will be with this man until the day I die. There will be times we have no money, and times we do. There will be good times and bad times. There will be times when one of us is sick, like with the flu, and the other one will bring soup and a cool cloth for a fevered brow. And we will make it. Nothing but death will tear us apart. I said that when I was 28, and he was 27.

My parents celebrated their 58th wedding anniversary yesterday. I came to town with my husband and son and we went to a restaurant that disappointed my father and caused him to be cantankerous with the wait staff. I cut my mother's meat for her and escorted her into the women's room while she committed an wide array of social faux paus.

On our first wedding anniversary I called in sick to work so my husband and I could spend the day in bed. The next day I could barely walk. I was 29 and certain that in 58 years I would still want to spend the day in bed, so in love with him I couldn't stand to be away from him, especially on our anniversary. But yesterday I split my parents up again so my Dad could have a break. I spent three hours driving my mother around again in circles. She can't stand to be away from him. She is afraid and angry when she can't see him. But I bought her a chocolate shake and that bought us some time. She can barely walk. She is old and her body is tired. She teeters and is tippy. She can barely walk.

For a while my parents owned their own business running errands for people. Dry cleaning, package delivery, rides to the doctor, etc. They were champion grocery shoppers. One of the times I drove my mother around we ended up at the grocery store and I tell ya what, once that old lady got behind the cart, she was like geriatric bat out of hell. She knew where she was at and what she was doing and had increased her speed tenfold. We can not presently give her a walker because she struggles to understand what it is for and that causes more chaos. I think we should forgo the walker and get her a grocery cart.

When I looked at my parents yesterday I felt so naive. "In sickness and in health," I had promised. Just as my parents, young, and in love, had promised each other. Over the years I had occasionally allowed myself to think maybe if something horrible happened to one of us, like cancer, the other one would still sit by their side and hold their hand while they were ill. Two or three years, I would think. Worse case scenario two or three years of serious illness or suffering and then, better. Or dead.

"You are so pretty," my Dad told my mother as he buttoned her jacket for her again yesterday. Eight years we are in to this journey. "You and me, Kid," he will say to her as he reaches out his rough skinned hand for her and waits for her to stagger over to him and place her tiny and gnarled hand into his. She will be sick. Until they are parted by death.