My wife refused the medication that would save our marriage

Before I started shidduchim, my mother expressed concern that I had no inkling of what it means to be married, since I was a naive, sheltered, idealistic yeshivah bochur. Today, with the benefit of 12 years of hindsight, I can say with certainty that I was underprepared for marriage. But not for the reason that worried my mother.

I did have one advantage over other young husbands, which is that I knew I had a lot to learn when it came to marriage. That made me open to learn — and open to taking responsibility for any problems that arose.

I was young when I got married, young enough that I was not yet in any rush to start shidduchim. But when my wife was redt to me, my parents insisted that I meet her right away. Avigail was described as talented, charismatic, accomplished, and intelligent.

“You don’t want to miss this girl,” my parents told me.

Sure enough, Avigail and I clicked immediately and quickly got engaged.

The first sign of trouble happened shortly after our sheva brachos.

“So, Asher, which supermarket should we shop in?” Avigail asked me early one morning. “The smaller one around the corner, or the big one three blocks down?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I leave it to you, whatever you think.”

With that, I hurried to shul.

I came home to find Avigail in tears. “You don’t know how to be a husband,” she wailed. “A husband doesn’t just say, ‘Do whatever you want.’ You have to be more involved! You’re not a bochur anymore! You can’t just be passive!”

Oops, I thought. I guess I really don’t know how to be a husband. Well, this is lesson one: Be more involved.

A couple of days later, Avigail posed a similar question. “So, which phone plan should we get? My friend uses T-Mobile, and she’s happy with them.”

Not wanting to be perceived as passive, I opted not to say, “Sure, whatever you think, T-Mobile is fine.”

Instead, I said, “I think Verizon is a good company, maybe we should look into that.”

Apparently, that was the wrong answer, because again, Avigail burst into tears. “You’re so uncaring!” she said, between sobs. “You don’t care about my opinion at all!”

We quickly settled into a pattern where Avigail would frequently accuse me of being uncaring and unloving. If I offered an opinion, it meant I didn’t care about her; if I didn’t, it also meant I didn’t care.

“Look at all the other young couples around us,” she would tell me sadly. “You can see the excitement pouring out of them. Not like us.”

She told me that just looking at our wedding pictures made her cry. “Don’t you see there’s no love in them?”