I fell in love with my husband while my mother was dying. That sounds heartless and morbid, doesn't it? But it wasn't like that at all.
We'd
met six months before, at a conference. I lived in California; he was
based in Massachusetts where I'd grown up. We'd corresponded and
talked on the phone, but it didn't seem all that likely that our
relationship had much future, given the geographic barriers.
When
my mom's leukemia resurfaced after a year's remission, I took a leave
of absence from my job so that I could be with her on the east coast.
For nearly a month, I visited the hospital every day. Aside from her
disease, she was incredibly healthy, and it took a painfully long
time for her to die.
When
I wasn't at her bedside, I spent the time with K. He somehow knew
exactly how to deal with me. If I needed to talk out my fears and my
sorrows, he'd let me. If he thought I needed distraction, he'd
provide it. He drove me back and forth to the hospital. He took me
out to dinner. He let me cry on his shoulder.
Away
from my home, my work and my friends, I felt lost and depressed. I
worried about my job – my first serious employment since leaving
graduate school. I had nightmares about my mother. K handled it all.
I was incredibly grateful for his support. I suppose at some level he
had ulterior motives, but honestly, I don't know whether I would have
made it through those dark days without him at my side.
When
my mom finally let go and passed on, he helped my siblings and I make
the arrangements, and accompanied me the funeral. Only later did I
realize what that cost him. My mother had converted to Catholicism.
For reasons buried in his own history, K. has an allergy to organized
Christianity. Normally, he won't set foot in a church. However, he
made an exception, so that he could be at my side, quietly offering
me his love and his strength.
A
day or two after the funeral, I returned to California. I was
seriously concerned that I might be fired. But K. and I both knew
that our relationship had changed. A month later I came east for the
winter holidays and then he and I drove cross-country together, in
the first of what would become many journeys. We count our time
together from the day we left Massachusetts and headed west.
Good,
decent men? I certainly found one, or rather, he found me. That was
more than thirty years ago. He's proved himself again and again. Last
Spring, when I had hip replacement surgery, the poor guy had to take
on almost all the household responsibilities. He hardly complained.
I
must have really good karma, to have hooked up with this man. Other
women apparently feel the same way I do about him – he's not
particularly good looking but he never fails the charm members of the
fairer sex. I almost feel embarrassed by my good fortune.
Maybe
that's why I have some trouble writing male characters who are
self-centered, lazy, manipulative or cruel. I've heard so many tales
of woe from my girlfriends – but it's hard for me to identify.
My
guy is solid gold.
