“Sickness and health” probably made the list, but I can’t say that I put a lot of thought into that one. It seemed like a no-brainer. What was I going to say, “Get sick and I’m outta here”? And how hard could it be to stay together in health? We were in our early 30s, and it seemed to me that sickness was a concern for the distant future.

I imagined my unwavering love even when, sometime in our 80s, Kennard would start complaining about his joints and develop gout (what is gout, anyway?), and grow excessive ear hair. If the sickness thing showed up earlier, it would probably be some horrible disease (his, of course), which I’d handle with grace and dignity, and perhaps some attractive but understated new clothes.

I didn’t envision taking a tumble that would put a serious strain on our new little family. During a riding lesson six months after our wedding, my horse stumbled badly and sent me in a perfect, graceful arc over her head. I landed squarely on my shoulder and I immediately knew something was wrong, though I couldn’t yet tell which part of me was broken. I lay there in the arena staring up at the sky, and after some period of time I heard my riding instructor say, “Uh oh.” I began to think about vomiting. The instructor said, “Do you want an ambulance, or do you want Kennard?”

“I want Kennard,” I said. It turned out that I got an ambulance, too.

The ER doctor said that I had broken my collarbone quite badly, and referred me to an orthopedist. The orthopedist put me in a brace and said I’d be better in a few months. You could hear the bones grinding when I walked. I preferred not to walk.

I couldn't drive, couldn't sleep, couldn't work, and spent a lot of time whimpering. For the next couple of weeks, Kennard took care of me and Riley, too. He'd only been her stepparent for six months and was trying to give her plenty of space to get used to him. So much for that plan. Overnight, he became her main caregiver. He reduced his work hours so that he could take her to kindergarten and back. He brushed her hair and made her lunches and tucked her in bed at night. He took over the household chores, the cooking and the shopping. If it had been me, I might have whined, but he never did. Maybe it was all for the best, since he and Riley became much closer. And sometime during my recovery period Kennard and I made a baby together -- though I’m amazed that I had any interest in that particular activity at all. Must have been all that nurturing.

So there I was, barely recovered from the collarbone thing and newly pregnant. Unlike my first pregnancy, this one turned out to be highly unpleasant. There was morning sickness and exhaustion and then, halfway through, there were horrible, knife-like pains in my chest. I went to my obstetrician who said, “The baby’s fine, but you probably just have an ulcer."

Further testing revealed that it wasn't an ulcer, it was gallstones -- and apparently they were taking road trips into ducts where they had no business being.

My OB said I’d need surgery to remove my gallbladder within days.

“What about the baby?” I said.

“The baby will be fine,” he said. “And you have no choice.”

Three days later, the offending organ was in a jar somewhere, and I was lying in my hospital room waiting to feel some movement from Baby Benjamin that would tell me he’d made it through the surgery OK. After weeks of kicking me incessantly he was completely still, and though I thought I could feel his little body when I pressed on my belly with my fingers, he didn't respond to my nudges. When he finally started kicking two hours after the surgery, Kennard and I high-fived in the hospital room.

I went home the next day, and once again Kennard was taking care of me. And taking care of Riley. And taking care of damn-near everything else. I was gestating, but that was the extent of my contribution to the family. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so grateful, or humbled, in my entire life.

After Ben was born, I didn’t return to horseback riding. It seemed wrong to risk an accident that would leave Kennard to take care of two kids alone, even temporarily. Needing Kennard’s care as much as I had recently, I’d come to think of my body as community property; it belonged to Kennard nearly as much as to me. Oddly, the thought didn’t make me feel stifled, it made me feel loved and needed. My definition of taking care of Kennard had grown to include keeping him from having to take care of me.

I started looking for a new sport that would be safe, but not boring. My sister-in-law recommended yoga, but that would only have interested me if there was full-contact, co-ed competitive yoga. I joined a co-ed soccer team instead.

I’d never actually played soccer before, but it looked like fun, and it didn’t involve unpredictable 1,500-pound animals. It seemed perfectly safe.

When I wore my new uniform, with shin guards and soccer socks and cleats, Kennard leered at me and said, “You look hot.” But in my fourth game, I crashed into an opposing player, collapsed to the ground, and suddenly felt like vomiting. It all felt very familiar. I didn't know that I was going to need surgery to repair a shredded knee ligament, but I knew it was going to be bad.

As my teammates carried me off the field, I kept saying, “My husband’s going to kill me.” They must have thought that I had a very unsympathetic spouse.

But I do not have an unsympathetic spouse. When I limped up to him that day and whispered, "I'm broken again," there was only love and worry in his eyes. He didn’t say, “What the hell were you thinking—co-ed soccer!?” He just said, “Let’s get you home.” And he took care of everything.

I’m not sure that we promised to stay together in sickness and in health, but that’s what we’re doing. The vow has meaning for me now that it never did before. And I’m trying really hard to like yoga.

This essay originally appeared in The Monthly.