A year ago, shortly after my ALS diagnosis, my husband, Paul, began to cultivate seeds under a grow-light in his study for the upcoming summer’s vegetable garden. He took to this project with scientific precision, glad to have a focus for his attention at a time when were both reeling with disbelief. I was happy to see him so immersed.

He chose seeds he thought would flourish in our soil and that would yield vegetables we would enjoy eating. He took particular care with the tomatoes, using seeds he had already dried from some varieties we especially liked. He set everything up on two card tables, labeled each row, made sure the lights were at optimal distance and angle, took care with the watering so as not to drown them.

We were both thrilled to see the seeds sprout then grown into tiny seedlings. He kept careful track of their progress. He worried about the ones that failed to thrive, but most of them developed exactly as he had hoped. When the weather warmed, he moved them out to the front porch to acclimate gradually to being outside. Eventually he planted the healthy seedlings in raised beds around the yard, and they continued to grow, and we ate from their bounty for much of the summer. Tomatoes, arugula, lettuce, beets, leeks, radishes, kale.

During those months we were making various accommodations to my disease. I had a port installed in my chest to facilitate the infusion of an ALS drug. Paul learned to give me infusions, which scared the hell out of him at first, but he quickly grew more competent than some of the nurses I’ve had since then. Later I had a feeding tube implanted in my stomach, and he began giving me water and drugs and supplemental formula through the tube. Morning and night we did these things, developing a ritual. He would perch on the edge of the bed, tray on a stool before him, and he would prepare the drugs and syringes, lining them up in an order we had decided was optimal.

One day recently I watched him sitting in front of the tray, measuring things precisely, hair askew like a mad scientist, and I realized he was nurturing me in the same concerted, invested way he had nurtured his plants. I had become his project, and he was bound and determined to do whatever he could to help me thrive. He noticed when a scab developed on my nose from the nighttime ventilator, and he covered it with Neosporin and a Band-aid. He used a Q-tip to clean the raw area around my feeding tube. He kept track of whether I’d had enough water and worried when I appeared to be tired.

I have always been a resolutely independent woman, determined to prove I could survive entirely on my own if I had to, and most of these ministrations I could have done for myself. But how could I not succumb to the honor of being nurtured like that; how could I eschew his deep caring? Suddenly, the flourishing of my body had become a project we shared and both cared about fervently.

Just yesterday he began to talk about planting seeds again, and I know he will do so this year with the same characteristic intensity. And I will watch those seeds grow with new interest, feeling how my fate is entwined with them, both of us having had the benefit of his focused and loving care.

Happy Valentine’s Day!