M

began hiring and training patient advocates—friendly, helpful local people,
generally—who could sit with patients in the ER, helping them set up follow-up
appointments at community health centers and educating them on where they
could go to get decent and affordable regular care.

My work was interesting and rewarding, but still I had to be careful not to
let it consume me. I felt I owed that to my girls. Our decision to let Barack’s
career proceed as it had—to give him the freedom to shape and pursue his dreams
—led me to tamp down my own efforts at work. Almost deliberately, I’d
numbed myself somewhat to my ambition, stepping back in moments when I’d
normally step forward. I’m not sure anyone around me would have said I wasn’t
doing enough, but I was always aware of everything I could have followed
through on and didn’t. There were certain small-scale projects I chose not to take
on. There were young employees whom I could have mentored better than I
did. You hear all the time about the trade-offs of being a working mother. These
were mine. If I’d once been someone who threw herself completely into every
task, I was now more cautious, protective of my time, knowing I had to maintain
enough energy for life at home.

y goals mostly involved maintaining normalcy and stability, but those
would never be Barack’s. We’d grown better about recognizing this and letting it
be. One yin, one yang. I craved routine and order, and he did not. He could live
in the ocean; I needed the boat. When he was present at home, he was at least
impressively present, playing on the floor with the girls, reading Harry Potter out
loud with Malia at night, laughing at my jokes and hugging me, reminding us of
his love and steadiness before vanishing again for another half a week or more.
We made the most of the gaps in his schedule, having meals and seeing friends.
He indulged me (sometimes) by watching Sex and the City. I indulged him
(sometimes) by watching The Sopranos. I’d given myself over to the idea that
being away was just part of his job. I didn’t like it, but for the most part I’d
stopped fighting it. Barack could happily end a day in a faraway hotel with all
sorts of political battles brewing and loose ends floating. I, meanwhile, lived for
the shelter of home—for the sense of completeness I felt each night with Sasha
and Malia tucked into their beds and the dishwasher humming in the kitchen.

I had no choice but to adjust to Barack’s absences anyway, because they
weren’t slated to end. On top of his regular work, he was once again