Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (20 page)

We planned our wedding day; we planned a battle with cancer. It was the happiest time of my life; it was the saddest time of my life. I had finally met someone who opened my heart, someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with . . . someone for me to love only a precious, short time.

Chuck’s sense of humor gave me strength to face each day. As his paralysis worsened, he would lose his balance and fall. There were times I returned from work to find him face down on the floor. So we developed a code. If he was in bed, he was “sunny side up” and if he was on the floor, he was “over easy.”

When I came home, he would always call out, “Hi, beautiful!”

“Hi, handsome,” was my usual response.

The day of our wedding, April 26, 1997, was a spectacular spring day. The sun was shining. The sky was the bluest it could possibly be with white puffy clouds. The air was warm with a slight breeze.

By now, Chuck was in a wheelchair. When we said our vows, he struggled to stand by my side. To dance our wedding song, “Every Time I Close My Eyes,” I sat on his lap while his best man pushed us around on the dance floor.

The first night together as husband and wife, our feelings for each other were stronger than ever, but physically, Chuck was weak. I lay on top of him so he could hold me with his left arm. We fell asleep embraced.

The following week, we watched the video friends took of our wedding and reception. We looked at photos friends felt compelled to get to us as quickly as possible. Chuck turned to me and told me what a great time he had and how happy he was.

Exactly one week after our wedding, we awoke to a Saturday the exact opposite of the week before. Cold drenching rain fell on a dreary day. We watched old John Wayne movies (Chuck’s favorite), and just enjoyed our time together.

That night, while I was preparing a special one-week anniversary meal, Chuck fell and was having difficulty breathing. By 10:30 P.M., the paramedics were trying to resuscitate him.

But I knew he was gone. I knew his essence was already in a peaceful place. All that was left was the shell he had lived within.

“Life is so unfair,” friends and family said as they comforted me.

But I believe otherwise. Life would have been unfair had we not met. Life would have been unfair if our lives and hearts had not touched. Life would have been unfair if Chuck had no one at the end to be loved by . . . and to love.

Life is very fair.

Barbara M. Johnson

A Second Chance at Remembering

“
I
think patience is what love is,” he said, “because how could you love somebody without it?”

Jane Howard

The day we married, January 14, 1984, dawned crisp and beautiful. A florist delivered long-stemmed roses with a card from Tom.

“I can’t wait to see you at the end of the aisle.”

I knew when I read those words that Tom would love me forever. What I didn’t know was he would soon forget having written them.

Our wedding was huge and joyful. Pretty much everyone we knew helped us celebrate. We danced until we got kicked out of the reception hall.

After our honeymoon, Tom and I settled into a new townhouse. I was only twenty-three and Tom was twenty-five, so it was exciting to be on our own. We put away gifts, invited our folks for dinner and settled to begin our new life together.

Twenty-two days after our wedding, we were heading home from the mall. It had snowed and the road was a little icy, but otherwise it was a bright February Sunday. When the car in front of me hit the brakes, I tapped mine, too. The next thing I remember was waking up in the emergency room with a nurse asking if I knew my name and where I was.

Our car had skidded onto the wrong side of the road, where another car hit the passenger side head-on. I had minor cuts and bruises, but Tom was flung seventy-five feet from the car. Although he was declared dead on arrival, the emergency-room doctors restarted his heart.

I was stunned when I saw him. His face was covered with bruises, and his broken jaw hung sagged to his chest. He was on a respirator and hooked to monitors, with tubes everywhere.

He lingered in a deep coma for an unbelievably scary two weeks. Overwhelmed, I couldn’t digest what the doctors said.

“As each day goes by, it’s less likely Tom will ever open his eyes.”

“If Tom wakes up, he’s unlikely to be the same man he was.”

“Tom could end up with the mental capacity of a child.”

“You may have to institutionalize your husband.”

My mom wrapped her arms around me, coaxing me to focus on the here and now: Tom was alive. That’s what mattered. We’d deal with the rest when we had to.

I spent hours by his side, hoping for a miracle. I chattered about little things, my new computer-support job and how I couldn’t believe I was back at home with my parents (they wanted to keep an eye on me). I joked that he had to wake up so I could get out of there.

One morning Tom flinched when doctors pricked him. Bit by excruciating bit, he moved a little, then a little more, staying awake longer each day until, after a week, he was fully conscious.

Tom couldn’t move most of his body and he couldn’t talk because of his broken jaw. He knew we were engaged, but he didn’t remember the accident or our wedding. Worse yet, he just wasn’t “Tom.”

He’d entered the coma a twenty-five-year-old man but came out like an adolescent, with an inappropriate, twelve-year-old-boy sense of humor. The doctors assured me this didn’t mean he’d stay that way. As his brain healed, he might slowly return to being himself again.

The question was: Would his brain fully heal?

Surgery repaired his jaw. But it took physical, occupational and speech therapy to help regain his motor skills. In March, he moved into my childhood room with me so my mom could take care of him while I was at work.

It was a confusing time. Tom was improving, yes, and I never really doubted he’d recover, but I’ll admit I felt more like a caregiver than a wife. One day, Tom was struggling to do a small motor-skill exercise, picking up a nickel off the counter, and I wanted to scream, “Just grab it!” But then a few days later my mom called me at work to say Tom had mastered the challenge, and the pride and hope I felt was indescribable.

Gradually Tom regained his strength, speech and motor skills, and after about six months we moved home. Signs of his brain injury continued to show up occasionally. By our first anniversary, he was nearly 100 percent better. Tom was himself again—the man I depended on.

As the years passed, our memories of the accident slowly faded into the background of our jam-packed lives. We had three beautiful children. But it was clear Tom would never remember the time around our wedding. We leafed through photos but nothing helped.

The hardest part for me was Tom couldn’t remember the small, private things we shared: the spider that fell in my soup on our honeymoon and the first time he called me his wife. These moments, the intimate details that make up the fabric of a marriage, were locked away somewhere in Tom’s brain—and I couldn’t pry them loose. In the great scheme of things, Tom’s memory loss seemed a small price to pay for his life.

Then an opportunity to renew our vows came through a contest with
Redbook
magazine. When I learned that my entry won, I immediately called Tom to tell him all five of us were going to Disney World to get married again.

The day of the ceremony, Tom and I saw each other at a morning rehearsal then parted to separate hotel rooms. As I was getting ready, I heard a knock at the door—it was our twelve-year-old, Jeffrey, holding a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses with a card from Tom.

“I can’t wait to see you at the end of the aisle,” I read.

The vows we exchanged were simple and traditional, a cherished opportunity to recommit to the man I came so close to losing.

That night our kids were whisked on a VIP tour of the Disney parks so Tom and I could have a romantic dinner. After nearly two decades together, we felt like newlyweds, holding hands and kissing all night—a night that, this time, we’ll both remember.

Becky Knutson
As told to Jeannie Kim

“For richer or for what ?”

Reprinted by permission of Martha Campbell.

What Matters Most

T
rouble is a part of life, and if you don’t share it, you don’t give the person who loves you enough chance to love you.

Dinah Shore

The day before the wedding, Travis and I were both sick with the flu.

However, I pushed myself to tie the final ribbons and fold the final programs. I had instructed my planning crew about exactly what went where, at what time and how. I made list upon list, envisioning every detail. I drove and drove—delivering, directing and reconfirming. When it was time for the rehearsal, I was lying on the front pew, fighting waves of nausea and diarrhea, but still trying to direct the proceedings.

No problem,
I thought.
I’ll get some sleep and be fine for the big day.
I said good-bye to everyone, and went home. I’d allowed myself six hours of uninterrupted sleep, and then the wedding schedule would begin. I laid out the papers and directions, took an antacid and went to bed.

Shortly after midnight, I awoke with a knife-sharp, crippling pain in my lower back. I rolled awkwardly out of bed, and crawled up the stairs. Every second step, I stopped to catch my breath.

My mother and stepfather rushed me to the emergency room where I was promptly admitted. At 2 A.M., Travis arrived with his mother and father. The nurse gave me pain medication, scheduled me for X-rays and suggested I try to get some sleep.

All I can clearly remember is the concern on Travis’s face while he held my hand. Our mothers were in the next room, frantically trying to create a contingency plan for the wedding. Postpone? A ceremony in the hospital? I vaguely remember those concerns, too.

The on-duty physician—a friend of both families—told me my pain was probably a kidney stone. I was incredulous. A kidney stone? The night before the wedding? Something so small could cause so much pain?

I didn’t care, I told them weakly. I was getting married in a few hours. I had a schedule to keep.

The nurses on staff chuckled and rolled their eyes. But they called the X-ray technician early, scheduled me first and rooted for me to make it to the church on time.

At 7:30 A.M., the doctor made his diagnosis; at 8 A.M., I went to X-ray; at 9 A.M., the results came back: kidney stone-free. It had passed! At 10 A.M., I was released—just in time for a quick shower before my hair appointment en route to the church.

Travis drove me home from the hospital. I was disappointed he’d seen me before the ceremony, tired and miserable. I felt weak, weary and un-wedding-like. He looked at the “Bride” T-shirt I still wore from the rehearsal the night before and told me I was beautiful. It was at that moment— leaning on him as I walked to the car in my faded pajama bottoms—that I felt “married” for the first time.

Because of the medical fiasco the night before, I don’t remember much about the decorations or the food or the placement of all the items that I was oh-so-focused on just a few days prior. I forgot about schedules and details. I didn’t care about the music, or who sat next to whom, and honestly, I don’t even remember how everything worked out.

What I do remember is the face of my husband at the end of the aisle. I remember him holding my hand in the hospital. I remember the look in his eyes when we spoke our vows.

He was there, I was there—and nothing else mattered.

Shonna Milliken Humphrey

Old Love Turned Brand-New

Vicki gripped the steering wheel of her car, trying to control her anxious excitement. Twenty years was a long time—what would he look like? Would she recognize him? As she began her three-hour drive to the airport, it all came flooding back.

Vicki met David in 1975 at a campfire party in Georgia. They were sixteen and instantly fell in love. Not long after that, David’s stepfather, who was in the military, received orders to move the family to Oklahoma. David asked Vicki to marry him and go with him, but she was simply not ready to leave home. Instead, her father retired, and she moved with her parents to Mississippi. Tearfully, the young lovers went their separate ways.