For those who didn't know Deb, I thought I'd fill out a questionnaire for her. I'm sure I'll get all sorts of things wrong, and maybe this will end up saying more about me than her, but all I can do is try.
*PERSONAL DETAILS
Name: Debra A. Chong
Nicknames? Debbie, Sweetie
Where do you live? Tampa
What's your age? Stopped counting at 39 :) (would've been 46 tomorrow)
Hair colour? Brown
Eye colour? Blue
Height? 5' 2"
Shoe size? 5
Date of Birth? August 23
What's your star sign? Virgo
How many siblings? 1 Sister- Donna
How many pets? 2 Cats: Buster and Bailey
Obsessions? Playing video games
Bad habits? Nail biting
Phobias? Spiders
*ABOUT YOU
What makes you happy? Cats, lounging in my PJs, coffee
What really irritates you? Getting mayo on my burger when I specifically tell the counterperson not to put it on.
What makes you sad? Cancer
What makes you angry? Abusers
What makes you scared? Spiders
Who is your best friend? Tim
Ever broken a bone? Yep. I was in a car crash and broke my collar bone.
What was the last CD you bought? Pat Benatar, "Go"
What was the last book you read? "The Highwayman and Mr. Dickens"
Who was the last person you spoke to? Tim
What was the last thing you ate? Macaroni and Cheese
What was the last thing you drank? Water
What's the best thing you've ever bought? BooKitty :)
What's the worst thing you've ever bought? The Mommobile :(
What's the best thing you've ever been given? A wedding ring!
What's the worst thing you've ever been given? Cancer
What are your future goals? To beat cancer
Describe your bedroom? Not a lot of furniture, but we'll get around to that. The bed is nice and comfy :)
Favourite thing to do on a hot summers day? Sit out on the front porch with a big glass of ice tea
Favourite thing to do on a snowy winters day? In Florida??? :D
If you were granted 3 wishes, what would they be? 1). A cure for cancer. 2) Homes for all unwanted pets. 3) To be a singer.
If you could go back in time to see or change something, when would it be and what would you do? I wouldn't have gotten married right out of high school. :(
What's the first thing you think about when you wake up? WHERE'S THE COFFEE!!! :)
What exactly were you doing on September 11th as the terrorist attacks were being carried out in America? I was at work as a dispatcher in Douglas County.
Have you ever been in love? Yep
Do you believe in the after-life? Not sure, but I hope so
Where do you see yourself in 10 years time? Owning my own knit shop
If you could choose your own death, how would you go? At home, with Tim
Would you ever consider having plastic surgery? I already had it. And once I get the cancer beat, I'll get some new boobs. :)
What's the funniest joke you've ever been told? "Zsa Zsa Gabor went on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and she had a cat on her lap. She asked Johnny, "Would you like to pet my pussy?" and Johnny said, "Sure, just move the damn cat out of the way!"
Do you have any regrets in life? Yes, but I don't have time to think about them.
Any hidden talents? Knitting
Is yours an 'innie' or 'outie'? Innie
Last job? Customer service representative for Checks Unlimited
Current job? Customer service for AOL
Dream job? A rock star!
Who is your hero? Firefighters
Describe yourself in 3 words: Caring, inquisitive, shy
*FAVOURITES
Favourite colour? Pink, green
Favourite animal? My cat
Favourite sport (to play)? Miniature golf
Favourite sport (to watch)? Baseball
Favourite soap? General Hospital
Favourite programme/s? Cops, Coupling, Court TV, Crossing Jordan
Favourite movies? The Wizard of Oz, Benny and Joon, Chocolat, Breakfast at Tiffany's
Favourite band? Barenaked Ladies
Favourite song? The Rose
Favourite room in the house? The bedroom
Favourite famous celeb/s? Johnny Depp, George Clooney, Barenaked Ladies
Favourite board game? Risk
Favourite video game/s? Sonic, Mario Kart
Favourite PC game? Magic the Gathering
Favourite food? Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
Favourite fast-food? Ho-Ho's Chinese food
Favourite drink? Coffee
Favourite magazine? Any knitting magazine
Favourite place? Zion National Park
Favourite cartoon character? Lisa Simpson
Favourite day of the week? Saturday
Favourite day of the year? Christmas
Favourite season? Winter
Favourite car? Mini Coopers!
Favourite shop? Knit n' Knibble
Favourite holiday? Christmas
Favourite country? Ireland
Favourite smell? Fresh bread
Favourite sound? Rain
Favourite accent? British
*PREFERENCES
Coke or Pepsi? Coke
Pen or Pencil? Pen
Day or Night? Night
Cat or Dog? Cat
Summer or Winter? Winter
T.V. or Radio? TV
Brains or Beauty? Brains
Tea or Coffee? Coffee
Brush or Comb? Brush
City or Country? Country
Red or White wine? Red
Early or Late nighter? Late
Early or Late riser? Late
Blonde or Brunette? Brunette
Scarey or Romantic movies? Romantic
Board or Computer games? Both
Half full or Half empty? Empty
Long nails or Short? Short
Happy and poor or Sad and rich? Happy and poor
Swimsuit or Bikini? Swimsuit
Glasses or Contacts? Glasses
Flowers or Chocolates? Chocolate, of course!
Love or Money? Love
Hugs or Kisses? BOTH!
*WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU...
Cried? When I found out I wasn't going to go on the Barenaked Ladies cruise
Laughed? When the girls from Knit n' Knibble came over.
Swore? When the doctor said more treatments wouldn't help
Lied? When I told Tim I believed him when he said that I was going to get better
Got drunk? The last glass of wine I had at PF Changs. :)
Read a newspaper? Last weekend
Read your horoscope? The last time I logged on a computer
Had a bath/shower? When I got home from the hospital
Smiled at someone? Last night
Gave someone a cuddle? Last night
Said, 'I love you'? Last night before Tim went to bed
Monday, August 22, 2011
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
A piece of advice
The first time I had to take Deb to the hospital was when she got food poisoning. She didn't feel well, so she asked me to speak for her at the emergency room check-in.
When they asked her birthday, I turned to her.
"You don't know my birthday?" she asked, in a tone I imagine she would've used if I had just admitted that I didn't know nose picking wasn't socially acceptable.
In my defense, if I was good with any sort of numbers, I could've gone farther in life, I feel. As it is, dates are numbers, so there you go.
So I learned her birthday. Aug. 23, 1965. 8/23/65. I worked at it. I got to remembering as easily as I remembered my own. I memorized it so I would never hear that tone again.
A couple of years later, some guys at work was planning a guys' night out. We were going to catch a Sky Sox game (the Colorado Rockies minor league team) on 50-cent hot dog night. Baseball, cheap eats, beer ... toss in a cigar and it would've been perfect.
So I tell Deb my plans.
"A guy's night out," she says.
"Yep."
"On Wednesday."
"Yep."
"The 23rd."
"Yep."
"Of August."
That tone was back.
Needless to say, there was no guy's night out for this guy.
So, fellas, here's that advice. Don't just memorize her birthday. Write it down on every calendar. Put up Post-Its all over your computer. Tattoo it someplace conspicuous. Do whatever you have to do to remember it, because whenever you forget it, you'll get that tone, and brother, that ain't good.
You'll thank me one day.
When they asked her birthday, I turned to her.
"You don't know my birthday?" she asked, in a tone I imagine she would've used if I had just admitted that I didn't know nose picking wasn't socially acceptable.
In my defense, if I was good with any sort of numbers, I could've gone farther in life, I feel. As it is, dates are numbers, so there you go.
So I learned her birthday. Aug. 23, 1965. 8/23/65. I worked at it. I got to remembering as easily as I remembered my own. I memorized it so I would never hear that tone again.
A couple of years later, some guys at work was planning a guys' night out. We were going to catch a Sky Sox game (the Colorado Rockies minor league team) on 50-cent hot dog night. Baseball, cheap eats, beer ... toss in a cigar and it would've been perfect.
So I tell Deb my plans.
"A guy's night out," she says.
"Yep."
"On Wednesday."
"Yep."
"The 23rd."
"Yep."
"Of August."
That tone was back.
Needless to say, there was no guy's night out for this guy.
So, fellas, here's that advice. Don't just memorize her birthday. Write it down on every calendar. Put up Post-Its all over your computer. Tattoo it someplace conspicuous. Do whatever you have to do to remember it, because whenever you forget it, you'll get that tone, and brother, that ain't good.
You'll thank me one day.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
The other side of the story
Looking back at recent entries, I notice I keep coming up with things I did for Deb, but I haven't gone into things she did for me. I worry that it makes me look like I'm trying to boost myself or, worse, not painting a complete picture of her.
So this one's to try to set the record a little straighter.
1. On one of our first dates, we went to Poor Richard's in Colorado Springs. If I was to list my favorite places on earth, Poor Richard's would make the list. It's a combination pizza place/bookstore/toy store. Seriously.
Anyway, being me, I was showing off by playing with the toys, especially this dragon handpuppet. It had a tongue, so I started using it to lick her face, my face, the other toys' faces.
Months later, for Christmas I got that puppet. I barely remembered playing with it, but she did. Its name is Aloyisius, and I still have him. And yes, he still licks everything in sight.
2. After I had my torn ACL repaired, Deb drove us back to the townhouse, but I couldn't make it inside, only to a lawn chair on the back porch which faced the street. I was weak, and I could feel my vision narrowing. I was getting the whole tunnelvision/head into the light thing, I swear. As i was passing out, she kept her cool, called 911 and got an ambulance.
I fully recommend marrying someone who's had emergency training and has worked as a 911 operator. They're good in crises. We even stopped one day at a traffic crash and she took charge of the scene until the highway patrol arrived.
Anyway, it turned out the anesthetic hadn't worn off - I remember the paramedic saying my blood pressure was 75 over 50, and he was surprised I had any consciousness at all. So after some monitoring, I got to go home for reals. But in our townhouse the bedroom was on the second floor, so Deb nursed me in the living room for the next couple of days.
3. The day after my first full-on panic attack, I was petrified of going in public, but I knew that avoiding crowds wasn't going to be an option. So when Deb went to the grocery store, I tagged along. Walking in the door, I was paralyzed. She told me I didn't have to go in, but I told her I did. OK, she said, and she took my hand and led me around the store, reassuring me constantly.
That's the girl I miss.
So this one's to try to set the record a little straighter.
1. On one of our first dates, we went to Poor Richard's in Colorado Springs. If I was to list my favorite places on earth, Poor Richard's would make the list. It's a combination pizza place/bookstore/toy store. Seriously.
Anyway, being me, I was showing off by playing with the toys, especially this dragon handpuppet. It had a tongue, so I started using it to lick her face, my face, the other toys' faces.
Months later, for Christmas I got that puppet. I barely remembered playing with it, but she did. Its name is Aloyisius, and I still have him. And yes, he still licks everything in sight.
2. After I had my torn ACL repaired, Deb drove us back to the townhouse, but I couldn't make it inside, only to a lawn chair on the back porch which faced the street. I was weak, and I could feel my vision narrowing. I was getting the whole tunnelvision/head into the light thing, I swear. As i was passing out, she kept her cool, called 911 and got an ambulance.
I fully recommend marrying someone who's had emergency training and has worked as a 911 operator. They're good in crises. We even stopped one day at a traffic crash and she took charge of the scene until the highway patrol arrived.
Anyway, it turned out the anesthetic hadn't worn off - I remember the paramedic saying my blood pressure was 75 over 50, and he was surprised I had any consciousness at all. So after some monitoring, I got to go home for reals. But in our townhouse the bedroom was on the second floor, so Deb nursed me in the living room for the next couple of days.
3. The day after my first full-on panic attack, I was petrified of going in public, but I knew that avoiding crowds wasn't going to be an option. So when Deb went to the grocery store, I tagged along. Walking in the door, I was paralyzed. She told me I didn't have to go in, but I told her I did. OK, she said, and she took my hand and led me around the store, reassuring me constantly.
That's the girl I miss.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The secret
Deb had a secret that she kept even from me.
She was always reluctant about most parts of her past. She would gladly talk about her grandmother, how she would sit next to her and play the piano. She told me she, like me, was an accidental baby, that her parents had gone to New Orleans and gotten tipsy, and ... oops.
But she kept most of her past under wraps. There were areas she wouldn't discuss, and in time I learned to let them be or risk being shut out entirely.
Not that learning where the limits were was easy. For instance, I told her about about my romantic past (such as it was), but she wouldn't talk about hers. She told me she had been married before and that it only lasted a year because he expected her to support him financially and they were living with his mother who was domineering. But she never talked about it beyond general details.
Whenever I asked about her other boyfriends, she'd deflect the question. "Why do you want to know? It doesn't affect us."
We both worked at the Colorado Springs Gazette at different times, and one day a co-worker let slip that she had gone out with another co-worker a couple of times, once to a Bob Dylan concert. Armed with this knowledge, I tried to see if I could get more details from her casually. I didn't go about it confrontationally with, "You went out with so-and-so, right?" I started a conversation about music and who we had seen in concert. After a bit, I said I'd always wanted to see Dylan, and she volunteered that she had seen him in Colorado Springs.
"Oh? With who?" I said, thinking I'd finally was going to get some insight into her past.
She named the co-worker.
"You went out with him? For how long?"
"Too long." She got up, and that was the end of the conversation.
After she died, I was going through her papers, and I found a notebook. It had addresses and little notes to herself. And it had some little pieces she had written.
I think everybody who aspires to be a writer writes little pieces that are really about themselves, but they write them as if they were writing about someone else. It's natural. When you write, you take from your own experiences and adapt them to the story.
This one started off with how the character's parents had gone to New Orleans and gotten tipsy and ... oops. So that's how I know she was writing about herself.
Then ... the secret.
Yes, she was writing it as fiction, and she might have made that part up, but from the other details in the piece and knowing her reluctance to talk about the past, I'm more than reasonably certain that it was true.
I won't reveal what it is. If she had wanted me to know, she would've told me. And I presume that if she hadn't told me, she wouldn't have told just anyone about it, only those who were really close to her. I'm not even sure her family knew.
Those who know it are no doubt keeping the secret as well. And I hope we always will because she obviously wanted it that way.
The fact that I found out her secret in this way doesn't diminish the fact that it IS something she wanted kept hidden, and I wouldn't betray her wishes. Not then, not now.
But the fact that she had kept a secret from me was crushing.
We'd had rough patches, like every couple did. One of the roughest was the religion discussion. Even though I don't go to church (I distrust organized religion) I still consider myself a Christian. One day she let slip that she considered herself an agnostic. That threw me for a loop. Because of my beliefs, I was afraid that meant eternity without her in the afterlife. It took a lot of discussion for us to find common ground, and she even got baptized to soothe my concerns about that. (I will always list that as the greatest and bravest thing she ever did for me)
So I understood why she wouldn't have told me. That didn't change the hurt I felt at the time, though. Why didn't she trust me, I wondered. Why didn't she have enough faith in my ability to accept this part of her past? We got over the religion thing, so we could've gotten over this. Didn't she know that?
It took a while to realize that this was another piece of unfinished business. She might have told me one day, if she felt comfortable that it wouldn't send our relationship into a death spiral. Or maybe she would've never told me. Or maybe she never would've told me, and we would've gone on to that front porch in Colorado into our nineties with my never knowing this about her.
Do we ever really know everything about our significant others? Do we really WANT to?
The main point is, it wouldn't have mattered in the end if she had told me or not told me. If she had, we would've gotten past it. If she hadn't, I never would've known and life would've gone on.
Like she said, "It doesn't affect us."
I wish I could tell her that. Hopefully, one day I can.
She was always reluctant about most parts of her past. She would gladly talk about her grandmother, how she would sit next to her and play the piano. She told me she, like me, was an accidental baby, that her parents had gone to New Orleans and gotten tipsy, and ... oops.
But she kept most of her past under wraps. There were areas she wouldn't discuss, and in time I learned to let them be or risk being shut out entirely.
Not that learning where the limits were was easy. For instance, I told her about about my romantic past (such as it was), but she wouldn't talk about hers. She told me she had been married before and that it only lasted a year because he expected her to support him financially and they were living with his mother who was domineering. But she never talked about it beyond general details.
Whenever I asked about her other boyfriends, she'd deflect the question. "Why do you want to know? It doesn't affect us."
We both worked at the Colorado Springs Gazette at different times, and one day a co-worker let slip that she had gone out with another co-worker a couple of times, once to a Bob Dylan concert. Armed with this knowledge, I tried to see if I could get more details from her casually. I didn't go about it confrontationally with, "You went out with so-and-so, right?" I started a conversation about music and who we had seen in concert. After a bit, I said I'd always wanted to see Dylan, and she volunteered that she had seen him in Colorado Springs.
"Oh? With who?" I said, thinking I'd finally was going to get some insight into her past.
She named the co-worker.
"You went out with him? For how long?"
"Too long." She got up, and that was the end of the conversation.
After she died, I was going through her papers, and I found a notebook. It had addresses and little notes to herself. And it had some little pieces she had written.
I think everybody who aspires to be a writer writes little pieces that are really about themselves, but they write them as if they were writing about someone else. It's natural. When you write, you take from your own experiences and adapt them to the story.
This one started off with how the character's parents had gone to New Orleans and gotten tipsy and ... oops. So that's how I know she was writing about herself.
Then ... the secret.
Yes, she was writing it as fiction, and she might have made that part up, but from the other details in the piece and knowing her reluctance to talk about the past, I'm more than reasonably certain that it was true.
I won't reveal what it is. If she had wanted me to know, she would've told me. And I presume that if she hadn't told me, she wouldn't have told just anyone about it, only those who were really close to her. I'm not even sure her family knew.
Those who know it are no doubt keeping the secret as well. And I hope we always will because she obviously wanted it that way.
The fact that I found out her secret in this way doesn't diminish the fact that it IS something she wanted kept hidden, and I wouldn't betray her wishes. Not then, not now.
But the fact that she had kept a secret from me was crushing.
We'd had rough patches, like every couple did. One of the roughest was the religion discussion. Even though I don't go to church (I distrust organized religion) I still consider myself a Christian. One day she let slip that she considered herself an agnostic. That threw me for a loop. Because of my beliefs, I was afraid that meant eternity without her in the afterlife. It took a lot of discussion for us to find common ground, and she even got baptized to soothe my concerns about that. (I will always list that as the greatest and bravest thing she ever did for me)
So I understood why she wouldn't have told me. That didn't change the hurt I felt at the time, though. Why didn't she trust me, I wondered. Why didn't she have enough faith in my ability to accept this part of her past? We got over the religion thing, so we could've gotten over this. Didn't she know that?
It took a while to realize that this was another piece of unfinished business. She might have told me one day, if she felt comfortable that it wouldn't send our relationship into a death spiral. Or maybe she would've never told me. Or maybe she never would've told me, and we would've gone on to that front porch in Colorado into our nineties with my never knowing this about her.
Do we ever really know everything about our significant others? Do we really WANT to?
The main point is, it wouldn't have mattered in the end if she had told me or not told me. If she had, we would've gotten past it. If she hadn't, I never would've known and life would've gone on.
Like she said, "It doesn't affect us."
I wish I could tell her that. Hopefully, one day I can.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A little yarn
One year for Deb's birthday I was at a loss for what to get her, so I went to the fallback position: jewelry. I went to Kay's and got her a little gold locket. I thought I had done pretty good for myself, but I thought an extra gift couldn't hurt, so I went to a Waldenbooks in the same mall.
Because I'd spent so much on the locket, I didn't have a lot left, but on the discount shelf I found a $5 book called, "The Cool Girl's Guide to Knitting." I felt bad I couldn't afford a more expensive book, but I knew she'd like it because she'd taken up knitting.
Turns out I could've saved the money on the locket. She loved the book and never wore the locket.
Deb was a knitter, and I never really understood what that meant. She'd go out and buy yarn without a project in mind, telling me, "I'll figure out something to do with it."
Once I asked why she started so many projects and never seemed to finish any. She just said she needed to have something to do, and finishing was less important than being able to knit. Being a goal-oriented person I never really understood that.
But even though I didn't understand it, I am proud of one knitting-related thing I was able to do for her.
When she got serious about knitting, she discovered Knit n' Knibble, a Tampa knitting store and cafe. She used to go there, buy more yarn than they'd ever need, snack on baked goods and hang out with other knitters who came in to buy more yarn than they'd ever need, snack on baked goods and hang out.
It's what we guys would call "No Man's Land."
At work we have what we call The Freebie Table, where review copies of books are set out for whoever wants them. I'd grab all the knitting books that were put out and take them home to Deb, and one day one of the "Stitch N' Bitch" books was set out. It became one of her favorites, and she went out and bought the others.
After she got sick, she couldn't go to Knit n' Knibble anymore, but she'd look at the store's website now and then. That's how she found out Debbie Stoler, the author of the "Stitch n' Bitch" books, was going to be signing books at the store.
I could tell she wanted to go, but she didn't have the strength. So on the day Stoler was going to be in town, I snuck one of her books out of the house and headed for Knit n' Knibble before I went to work.
The line was longer than I expected, but I was committed. I called into work and told them I'd be late.
I got to the front, and I explained to Stoler why I was there instead of Deb, and I asked her if she'd mind if I got Deb on the cellphone. I didn't want to hold up the line, so after I got the book signed, I got Deb on the phone, and after waiting for a break between signings, Stoler got on the phone and said,"Hi, this is Debbie Stoler, how are you?"
I could hear Deb squeal over the phone.
"I just wanted to tell you you got a nice husband here," Stoler said.
"Hey, he's taken!" Deb squealed back.
When I got home that night, it was to a happy wife. "I can't believe you did that for me!"
I still remember that smile. And I still have the book.
Because I'd spent so much on the locket, I didn't have a lot left, but on the discount shelf I found a $5 book called, "The Cool Girl's Guide to Knitting." I felt bad I couldn't afford a more expensive book, but I knew she'd like it because she'd taken up knitting.
Turns out I could've saved the money on the locket. She loved the book and never wore the locket.
Deb was a knitter, and I never really understood what that meant. She'd go out and buy yarn without a project in mind, telling me, "I'll figure out something to do with it."
Once I asked why she started so many projects and never seemed to finish any. She just said she needed to have something to do, and finishing was less important than being able to knit. Being a goal-oriented person I never really understood that.
But even though I didn't understand it, I am proud of one knitting-related thing I was able to do for her.
When she got serious about knitting, she discovered Knit n' Knibble, a Tampa knitting store and cafe. She used to go there, buy more yarn than they'd ever need, snack on baked goods and hang out with other knitters who came in to buy more yarn than they'd ever need, snack on baked goods and hang out.
It's what we guys would call "No Man's Land."
At work we have what we call The Freebie Table, where review copies of books are set out for whoever wants them. I'd grab all the knitting books that were put out and take them home to Deb, and one day one of the "Stitch N' Bitch" books was set out. It became one of her favorites, and she went out and bought the others.
After she got sick, she couldn't go to Knit n' Knibble anymore, but she'd look at the store's website now and then. That's how she found out Debbie Stoler, the author of the "Stitch n' Bitch" books, was going to be signing books at the store.
I could tell she wanted to go, but she didn't have the strength. So on the day Stoler was going to be in town, I snuck one of her books out of the house and headed for Knit n' Knibble before I went to work.
The line was longer than I expected, but I was committed. I called into work and told them I'd be late.
I got to the front, and I explained to Stoler why I was there instead of Deb, and I asked her if she'd mind if I got Deb on the cellphone. I didn't want to hold up the line, so after I got the book signed, I got Deb on the phone, and after waiting for a break between signings, Stoler got on the phone and said,"Hi, this is Debbie Stoler, how are you?"
I could hear Deb squeal over the phone.
"I just wanted to tell you you got a nice husband here," Stoler said.
"Hey, he's taken!" Deb squealed back.
When I got home that night, it was to a happy wife. "I can't believe you did that for me!"
I still remember that smile. And I still have the book.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Answered prayers
I never knew what to say except thanks, but the truth is being strong had nothing to do with it.
The fact is it would've hurt me more to leave than to stay, and not just because I loved her more than anything, even more than myself.
It was because of prayers.
I'd waited my whole life for her. Growing up, I knew the one thing I'd be really good at was being married.
I prayed to be a husband. For the longest time, I prayed for God to take care of "her, whoever she is."
It wasn't really until after we were married that I realized my prayer had come true. I know how strange that is, but really getting married for me was less about being head over heels for this woman than, "Well, we've been living together for a year and a half. I'm not going anywhere, neither is she, let's get on with it."
That's the truth.
It wasn't till after we were married, on our honeymoon at Disney World when I was walking around in the top hat with the mouse ears, holding hands with this really silly girl wearing white mouse ears with a veil who was soaking in each and every congratulation that it brought her that it hit me that I had married the girl of my dreams. Of my prayers.
This was "her."
After that, my prayer was to never take her for granted.
When the cancer thing started, I never doubted it would end with her cured. There was no other way it could have ended for me. Any other outcome was out of the slightest possibility of being a whim of a ghost of a chance of being an inkling of what could happen.
After all, my prayer had been answered. But so had another one, though I didn't realize it for a long time.
The other thing I prayed for while I was growing up was to be needed. I'm never more alive than when I'm doing something useful. Dad used to say you can't take care of everybody, just your own.
Deb was my own.
So in a weird way, the cancer was another prayer answered. I needed to be needed, and no one needed me more than she did.
When she died, I felt betrayed. Like every person who loses someone and who believes in God, I spent time asking why. I shouted at him. I cried at him. I hated him.
Then we made our peace. After all, he did answer my prayers. He did grant Deb the peace she wanted. And any hope I have of running into her again depends on him.
There are worse reasons to believe.
I just read "A Grief Observed" by C.S. Lewis, who is best known for writing the Christian allegories/fantasy classics the Narnia series. I also knew from seeing the movie "Shadowlands" that he had been married and lost a wife.
It wasn't until I got a Kindle and was looking to put the Narnia books on it that I discovered "Grief." In it, one of the great Christian minds of the 20th century comes very near to turning his back on God.
In the end, he makes his peace too. No conclusions, really. He concludes, like I've done, that grief is an ongoing process, one that never ends, but one you learn to deal with on your journey through life.
It was nice to know I had such notable company on my journey.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Another promise
I've said before there were three great promises in my life: I promised my dad I wouldn't be afraid of life; I said till death do us part; and I promised Deb I'd be OK after she was gone.
Actually, there are four.
When the hospice person came into the hospital room to talk to us before letting Deb go home the last time, among the questions was directed at me: "If something happens to your wife, do you think you might harm yourself?"
I answered as truthfully as I could: "I don't know."
And it was the truth. I didn't know what I would do. I'd never lost a wife before. Certainly never lost the only woman I'd ever loved before, the woman who'd become the center of my life, the person who'd become the way I defined myself. More than anything else in this world, I was her husband.
What would anyone do in those circumstances?
Did I think I would kill myself? I didn't think so. I had made that decision when I was 13, when I was standing in the bathroom with a razor blade and thought what was stopping me from doing it. I decided then that if nothing else, I couldn't put my mother through losing another child (I had an older brother who died of leukemia), so as long as she was alive I would never do that.
But this was a different situation all together, and right then, I honestly didn't know what I would do.
After the hospice person was gone, Deb turned to me and said, point blank, "I want you to promise me you won't hurt yourself."
First off, she knew I didn't make promises lightly. And she knew I'd never break a promise I'd make to her. So she knew what she was doing.
Of course I promised her. I could never say no to anything she wanted.
After she died and the hospice nurse and I cleaned her up, the nurse asked where Deb's pain medication was. Not really wondering why she asked, I told her, and she gathered it up. It wasn't till much later I realized she took it because of my answer to the first hospice person.
I could've told her not to worry about me hurting myself. I had already promised.
Actually, there are four.
When the hospice person came into the hospital room to talk to us before letting Deb go home the last time, among the questions was directed at me: "If something happens to your wife, do you think you might harm yourself?"
I answered as truthfully as I could: "I don't know."
And it was the truth. I didn't know what I would do. I'd never lost a wife before. Certainly never lost the only woman I'd ever loved before, the woman who'd become the center of my life, the person who'd become the way I defined myself. More than anything else in this world, I was her husband.
What would anyone do in those circumstances?
Did I think I would kill myself? I didn't think so. I had made that decision when I was 13, when I was standing in the bathroom with a razor blade and thought what was stopping me from doing it. I decided then that if nothing else, I couldn't put my mother through losing another child (I had an older brother who died of leukemia), so as long as she was alive I would never do that.
But this was a different situation all together, and right then, I honestly didn't know what I would do.
After the hospice person was gone, Deb turned to me and said, point blank, "I want you to promise me you won't hurt yourself."
First off, she knew I didn't make promises lightly. And she knew I'd never break a promise I'd make to her. So she knew what she was doing.
Of course I promised her. I could never say no to anything she wanted.
After she died and the hospice nurse and I cleaned her up, the nurse asked where Deb's pain medication was. Not really wondering why she asked, I told her, and she gathered it up. It wasn't till much later I realized she took it because of my answer to the first hospice person.
I could've told her not to worry about me hurting myself. I had already promised.
Friday, December 24, 2010
The fudge
I used to make fudge every year for Christmas. It started about 15 years ago when I needed to bring something to the office Christmas party. I discovered I had a talent for it. I would do it the old-fashioned way with sugar and not marshmallow creme.
Over the years, though trial and error, I added my own twists. I did a slow boil rather than a quick one to get the texture smoother. I experimented with how much vanilla to put in. I settled on pecans instead of walnuts. I got really good at making fudge.
Eventually, even though I took it into the office, I was doing it for myself because a) I was good at it; b) I got compliments and c) when I got it wrong I got to eat the mistakes.
Then Deb came along, and I started making the fudge for her. She looked forward to it, knowing not only she'd get to take it into her office and get the compliments, but knowing she'd share in the mistake batches and even scrape the bowl for every little bit of chocolaty goodness.
Then she was gone. I tried to make fudge that first year, but it wasn't right. I followed the recipe, tried all my tricks, but it just wasn't right.
I haven't made any since.
This year I made ginger snaps. I took them into the office, and when one co-worker saw I was handing out treats, he said, "All right, Chong made fudge!"
I had to tell him I hadn't. I hadn't made an announcement or anything that I wasn't making them because Deb was gone. I just sort of presumed people would figure it out on their own.
Then he started going on about the fudge. About how it was better than another co-worker's specialty. How he missed it.
And I'm thinking maybe it's time to make the fudge again.
It may be time to give it another try. It may not be the same as it was before. It may never be better than that. But it's probably time to see whether I still have the knack.
By the way, I'm not going for any metaphors here. I'm not trying to substitute "making fudge" for "going on a date" or "finding true love." I waited 35 years for the right one, and I'm prepared to wait another 35 for someone remotely comparable to her.
It's just ... maybe it's time.
Over the years, though trial and error, I added my own twists. I did a slow boil rather than a quick one to get the texture smoother. I experimented with how much vanilla to put in. I settled on pecans instead of walnuts. I got really good at making fudge.
Eventually, even though I took it into the office, I was doing it for myself because a) I was good at it; b) I got compliments and c) when I got it wrong I got to eat the mistakes.
Then Deb came along, and I started making the fudge for her. She looked forward to it, knowing not only she'd get to take it into her office and get the compliments, but knowing she'd share in the mistake batches and even scrape the bowl for every little bit of chocolaty goodness.
Then she was gone. I tried to make fudge that first year, but it wasn't right. I followed the recipe, tried all my tricks, but it just wasn't right.
I haven't made any since.
This year I made ginger snaps. I took them into the office, and when one co-worker saw I was handing out treats, he said, "All right, Chong made fudge!"
I had to tell him I hadn't. I hadn't made an announcement or anything that I wasn't making them because Deb was gone. I just sort of presumed people would figure it out on their own.
Then he started going on about the fudge. About how it was better than another co-worker's specialty. How he missed it.
And I'm thinking maybe it's time to make the fudge again.
It may be time to give it another try. It may not be the same as it was before. It may never be better than that. But it's probably time to see whether I still have the knack.
By the way, I'm not going for any metaphors here. I'm not trying to substitute "making fudge" for "going on a date" or "finding true love." I waited 35 years for the right one, and I'm prepared to wait another 35 for someone remotely comparable to her.
It's just ... maybe it's time.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
The 2nd best birthday present
The best present, of course, was meeting Deb.
The second best was a Red Ryder BB gun. I was 25 at the time. Mom finally figured I was ready to handle the responsibility.
True story.
The second best was a Red Ryder BB gun. I was 25 at the time. Mom finally figured I was ready to handle the responsibility.
True story.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Over my shoulder
So last night I was watching "Good Will Hunting," which I hadn't seen in years, and it gets to the part where Robin Williams is cutting Matt Damon down to size for thinking he knows everything because he's read a lot. Everything was ok until he got to this line:
I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.
It leveled me to the ground, like the first 10 minutes of "Up" floors me. I had to turn off the movie. I spent the rest of the night mopish. If anyone else had been around, I wouldn't have been fun to be around.
Today I went to Big Cat Rescue. I've had a bug to see places around the area I haven't gotten around to seeing even though I've been here five years. I don't want to be like the guy who lives in New York his whole life and never gets to the Statue of Liberty.
I'm walking with the tour group, and suddenly I get a feeling someone's standing behind me over my left shoulder. I turn around and no one's there. I shrug and move on.
A couple of minutes later, it happens again. Again a shrug.
The third time it happens, it clicked.
I don't think I have to spell it out. She loved cats, especially big ones. And she never could stand to see me sad.
By the way, Big Cat Rescue is a great place. If you're ever in Tampa, it's a must see.
I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.
It leveled me to the ground, like the first 10 minutes of "Up" floors me. I had to turn off the movie. I spent the rest of the night mopish. If anyone else had been around, I wouldn't have been fun to be around.
Today I went to Big Cat Rescue. I've had a bug to see places around the area I haven't gotten around to seeing even though I've been here five years. I don't want to be like the guy who lives in New York his whole life and never gets to the Statue of Liberty.
I'm walking with the tour group, and suddenly I get a feeling someone's standing behind me over my left shoulder. I turn around and no one's there. I shrug and move on.
A couple of minutes later, it happens again. Again a shrug.
The third time it happens, it clicked.
I don't think I have to spell it out. She loved cats, especially big ones. And she never could stand to see me sad.
By the way, Big Cat Rescue is a great place. If you're ever in Tampa, it's a must see.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Four years on: 10 observations
1. I just realized today that Deb died five years after 9/11, so for the rest of my life the landmark anniversaries of that day, like next year's 10th, will also be a landmark for me, like next year's 5th. Since I'm bad with dates, this is frighteningly useful to me.
2. I often dream that Deb is still alive, and I always become aware of it being a dream. I always shrug and just go with it.
3. Four years can seem like an eternity and a moment at the same time. It seems like forever since I held her, but only a moment since we said goodbye.
4. The gas bill is still in her name. It was going to be a hassle to change it over, so I just left it. It don't bother them, it don't bother me.
5. I still watch movies and videos and think, "She would've loved this." The latest one: Disney's "Alice in Wonderland" synced to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." As both a Disney and a Floyd nut, she would approve.
6. After we got married, someone picked up the cloth rose petals that were tossed in front of her and gave them to us. Since then, whenever I take a vacation out of the country I leave a petal in each place I visit. So far, there are petals in Jamaica, Belize, Mexico, Grand Turk and Honduras.
7. Since we got married in my mom's trailer, we never really had a first dance. The only time I remember us dancing is at Barenaked Ladies concerts to "Call and Answer," so I guess that would be our song.
8. I've put away most of the stuff of hers I kept, but I always keep her coat on the coatrack by the door.
9. I still have the first present she ever got me: a book called "The Vigilantes of Montana." I have no idea why she thought I'd be interested in that. I've never read it.
10. I still wear a couple of her T-shirts.
Still miss you, Sweetie., and still love you.
2. I often dream that Deb is still alive, and I always become aware of it being a dream. I always shrug and just go with it.
3. Four years can seem like an eternity and a moment at the same time. It seems like forever since I held her, but only a moment since we said goodbye.
4. The gas bill is still in her name. It was going to be a hassle to change it over, so I just left it. It don't bother them, it don't bother me.
5. I still watch movies and videos and think, "She would've loved this." The latest one: Disney's "Alice in Wonderland" synced to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." As both a Disney and a Floyd nut, she would approve.
6. After we got married, someone picked up the cloth rose petals that were tossed in front of her and gave them to us. Since then, whenever I take a vacation out of the country I leave a petal in each place I visit. So far, there are petals in Jamaica, Belize, Mexico, Grand Turk and Honduras.
7. Since we got married in my mom's trailer, we never really had a first dance. The only time I remember us dancing is at Barenaked Ladies concerts to "Call and Answer," so I guess that would be our song.
8. I've put away most of the stuff of hers I kept, but I always keep her coat on the coatrack by the door.
9. I still have the first present she ever got me: a book called "The Vigilantes of Montana." I have no idea why she thought I'd be interested in that. I've never read it.
10. I still wear a couple of her T-shirts.
Still miss you, Sweetie., and still love you.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Happy birthday, you
Hey, Sweetie.
You would've turned 45 today. And you wouldn't have appreciated me saying that officially makes you "my old lady." But I doubt you would've minded after we got back from Disney World and I took you to your favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner.
Best of all, we would've been one year closer to getting that place in Colorado, the one we could see the sun setting over the mountains from our own front porch, rocking the day away.
Miss you.
Tim
You would've turned 45 today. And you wouldn't have appreciated me saying that officially makes you "my old lady." But I doubt you would've minded after we got back from Disney World and I took you to your favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner.
Best of all, we would've been one year closer to getting that place in Colorado, the one we could see the sun setting over the mountains from our own front porch, rocking the day away.
Miss you.
Tim
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
The best birthday present ever
I've told this story before, so I'm sorry if you've heard it, but it never gets old for me, so bear with me.
In June 2001 I moved from my hometown of Yuma, Arizona, to Colorado Springs to work at the Gazette. I don't make friends easily, so six months later when my birthday rolled around, I really only knew one person in town, my friend Sarah, who I had worked with in Yuma and had preceded me to the Gazette by a year or so. It being my first birthday away from my birthplace, I didn't want to just sit around the apartment, so I invited Sarah out to lunch. She was broke, so I offered to pay. The way my life had been going, paying for my own birthday lunch didn't see out of the ordinary.
I picked Olive Garden because having one in the same town was still a new thing to me. Ordinarily, I had to drive to Phoenix or San Diego to eat at one, so I still associated it with special events. We agreed to meet up there around 12:30.
I love Sarah. She has many fine qualities. Punctuality isn't one of them. So around 12:40, I was still waiting in the front area. I had told the greeter to hold off on seating me until she had arrived.
I was just sitting there when I heard someone call my name. I look up and see Erin, a reporter at the Gazette who had recently announced was leaving the paper to move to California. With her was someone I didn't know and didn't take much notice of at first.
Erin asked what I was doing, and I said I was waiting for Sarah. She and Sarah were friends, so she sympathized about her being late. She introduced me to her friend, whose name I didn't immediately remember because I'm lousy with names. Erin told me that she and her friend were having a goodbye lunch. I said, that's funny, it's my birthday, so it was a day for occasions.
About then, Sarah walked in. She and Erin chatted for a bit while I told the hostess that we're ready to be seated. Then it occurred to me that Erin and her friend, who I still hadn't paid much attention to, would be waiting for a while because they had just added their name to the list and I was near the top by this point. So I ask if they'd like to join us.
We get a booth, and I'm seated across from Erin's friend, and that was the first opportunity I had to get a good look at her. My first thought? She reminded me of the school teacher on "Little House on the Prairie." Not Miss Beadle. The other one. Eliza Jane.
(No, I never told her that. I never had the courage.)
My second thought was, "Nice eyes." I'm an eye person. I don't make eye contact easily, but when I do, I hold onto it. And she held my gaze too.
She wasn't getting into the conversation between Sarah and Erin, so I asked her a couple of questions and found out she had left the Gazette one month before I began. It was clear from the way she talked that she hadn't left under the happiest of conditions, but she wished me better luck there.
All the while, I kept taking in her face. Wicked chin. Sharp nose. Shy smile. At one point, Erin called her Deb, and this time I paid attention to the name. And I noticed the left hand was ringless.
At one point, Sarah excused herself. Knowing her, I figured she was going to tell the waitress it was my birthday so they'd sing to me. She did that, and they brought a small cake and sang whatever song it is they sing. It wasn't until I got the bill that I realized that the cake wasn't free. Not only had I paid for Sarah's lunch, I had paid for my own cake. (In her defense, she thought it was free and said she wouldn't have ordered it if she had known.)
So that was lunch. And it should have been the end of it, except I couldn't get Deb out of my mind. I thought, maybe, just maybe ...
I called Erin a two days later. She was packing to leave town. I asked her if she thought Deb would go out with me.
Her answer: "I don't know. She's a little strange."
My response: "I'm strange too. We'll get along great."
I got Deb's number from her, and it took me a half hour to work up the courage to use it. When I did, I got her answering machine. I had to go to work, so I did, and when I got there I had a pink message slip waiting in my inbox.
I still have it tacked to my bulletin board.
Deb, it turns out, had thought I was a nice guy, but she thought I was "with" Sarah, and so hadn't thought about asking me out. We made a lunch date, and the rest is history.
So despite the fact that she had left the Gazette a month before I got there, I met my future wife because I had picked Olive Garden, Sarah was late and Erin and Deb had decided to have a farewell lunch. Another reason I don't believe in coincidences anymore.
And that is how I got the best birthday present ever.
In June 2001 I moved from my hometown of Yuma, Arizona, to Colorado Springs to work at the Gazette. I don't make friends easily, so six months later when my birthday rolled around, I really only knew one person in town, my friend Sarah, who I had worked with in Yuma and had preceded me to the Gazette by a year or so. It being my first birthday away from my birthplace, I didn't want to just sit around the apartment, so I invited Sarah out to lunch. She was broke, so I offered to pay. The way my life had been going, paying for my own birthday lunch didn't see out of the ordinary.
I picked Olive Garden because having one in the same town was still a new thing to me. Ordinarily, I had to drive to Phoenix or San Diego to eat at one, so I still associated it with special events. We agreed to meet up there around 12:30.
I love Sarah. She has many fine qualities. Punctuality isn't one of them. So around 12:40, I was still waiting in the front area. I had told the greeter to hold off on seating me until she had arrived.
I was just sitting there when I heard someone call my name. I look up and see Erin, a reporter at the Gazette who had recently announced was leaving the paper to move to California. With her was someone I didn't know and didn't take much notice of at first.
Erin asked what I was doing, and I said I was waiting for Sarah. She and Sarah were friends, so she sympathized about her being late. She introduced me to her friend, whose name I didn't immediately remember because I'm lousy with names. Erin told me that she and her friend were having a goodbye lunch. I said, that's funny, it's my birthday, so it was a day for occasions.
About then, Sarah walked in. She and Erin chatted for a bit while I told the hostess that we're ready to be seated. Then it occurred to me that Erin and her friend, who I still hadn't paid much attention to, would be waiting for a while because they had just added their name to the list and I was near the top by this point. So I ask if they'd like to join us.
We get a booth, and I'm seated across from Erin's friend, and that was the first opportunity I had to get a good look at her. My first thought? She reminded me of the school teacher on "Little House on the Prairie." Not Miss Beadle. The other one. Eliza Jane.
(No, I never told her that. I never had the courage.)
My second thought was, "Nice eyes." I'm an eye person. I don't make eye contact easily, but when I do, I hold onto it. And she held my gaze too.
She wasn't getting into the conversation between Sarah and Erin, so I asked her a couple of questions and found out she had left the Gazette one month before I began. It was clear from the way she talked that she hadn't left under the happiest of conditions, but she wished me better luck there.
All the while, I kept taking in her face. Wicked chin. Sharp nose. Shy smile. At one point, Erin called her Deb, and this time I paid attention to the name. And I noticed the left hand was ringless.
At one point, Sarah excused herself. Knowing her, I figured she was going to tell the waitress it was my birthday so they'd sing to me. She did that, and they brought a small cake and sang whatever song it is they sing. It wasn't until I got the bill that I realized that the cake wasn't free. Not only had I paid for Sarah's lunch, I had paid for my own cake. (In her defense, she thought it was free and said she wouldn't have ordered it if she had known.)
So that was lunch. And it should have been the end of it, except I couldn't get Deb out of my mind. I thought, maybe, just maybe ...
I called Erin a two days later. She was packing to leave town. I asked her if she thought Deb would go out with me.
Her answer: "I don't know. She's a little strange."
My response: "I'm strange too. We'll get along great."
I got Deb's number from her, and it took me a half hour to work up the courage to use it. When I did, I got her answering machine. I had to go to work, so I did, and when I got there I had a pink message slip waiting in my inbox.
I still have it tacked to my bulletin board.
Deb, it turns out, had thought I was a nice guy, but she thought I was "with" Sarah, and so hadn't thought about asking me out. We made a lunch date, and the rest is history.
So despite the fact that she had left the Gazette a month before I got there, I met my future wife because I had picked Olive Garden, Sarah was late and Erin and Deb had decided to have a farewell lunch. Another reason I don't believe in coincidences anymore.
And that is how I got the best birthday present ever.
Friday, September 11, 2009
9/11
Deb died on Sept. 11, knowing, I'm sure, that it was the best way to make sure I wouldn't forget the date.
She phoned me on Sept. 11, 2001, to tell me the first tower had been hit. Shortly after I turned the TV on, I saw the second tower get hit. So even from the start, the worst day in our lifetimes was a part of our story.
And I know the same woman who loved to tell people that Ronald Reagan nearly ruined our wedding would get a big kick out of my telling people she died on 9/11. "Just don't tell them the year," she'd tell me before giggling.
So even though you'll never see it on a memorial at Ground Zero or hear it as they call out the names of the victims, you can say you heard about the one 9/11 casualty who died in Tampa.
Just don't tell them the year.
She phoned me on Sept. 11, 2001, to tell me the first tower had been hit. Shortly after I turned the TV on, I saw the second tower get hit. So even from the start, the worst day in our lifetimes was a part of our story.
And I know the same woman who loved to tell people that Ronald Reagan nearly ruined our wedding would get a big kick out of my telling people she died on 9/11. "Just don't tell them the year," she'd tell me before giggling.
So even though you'll never see it on a memorial at Ground Zero or hear it as they call out the names of the victims, you can say you heard about the one 9/11 casualty who died in Tampa.
Just don't tell them the year.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Happy birthday, sweetie!
Told you I wouldn't forget. Wish you were here. The cosmos still owes us bigtime.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Yes, sweetheart ...
I won't forget your birthday this year. I made that mistake once, and you never let me live it down. It's bad enough to think I already face an eternity of "You were going to go to a baseball game without me on MY birthday" without compounding the mistake.
And this year I'll try to not get the balloon bouquet stuck in a tree. OK?
And this year I'll try to not get the balloon bouquet stuck in a tree. OK?
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Pride
I was watching "Pride of the Yankees" over the weekend and, of course, stayed with it to the end with Lou Gehrig saying he'd been given a bad break, but "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."
Though I won't claim to have that kind of courage, I will say I understand what he meant.
Sure, Deb dying was the worst thing that has ever, and is likely ever, to happen to me. And I may never truly recover from it.
But for the briefest of moments, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be her husband, her friend, her caretaker, her patient, her lover, her love.
How many people can truly say they were in the right place at the right time? I can.
I'm a lucky bastard.
Though I won't claim to have that kind of courage, I will say I understand what he meant.
Sure, Deb dying was the worst thing that has ever, and is likely ever, to happen to me. And I may never truly recover from it.
But for the briefest of moments, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be her husband, her friend, her caretaker, her patient, her lover, her love.
How many people can truly say they were in the right place at the right time? I can.
I'm a lucky bastard.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Five years ago ...
I was standing in a sweltering trailer (someone had kicked the air conditioning vent closed) scared out of my wits, standing in front of a bunch of relatives, wondering what the hell I was doing.
What did I really know about the woman I was about to marry? I mean, sure, we had lived together for about two years, but so what? People got divorced after living together. What chance did we really have?
Then she stepped into the room, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And for some reason, she was willing to get up in front of a bunch of my relatives and say that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.
We didn't know then that the rest of her life was only a little over two years. But that wouldn't have mattered.
Because when I saw her that day, I was certain I was doing the right thing, and five years later, I'm still certain it was.
I love you still, sweetie.
What did I really know about the woman I was about to marry? I mean, sure, we had lived together for about two years, but so what? People got divorced after living together. What chance did we really have?
Then she stepped into the room, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And for some reason, she was willing to get up in front of a bunch of my relatives and say that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.
We didn't know then that the rest of her life was only a little over two years. But that wouldn't have mattered.
Because when I saw her that day, I was certain I was doing the right thing, and five years later, I'm still certain it was.
I love you still, sweetie.
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