The One Who Stayed

Just about everyone has a story of a lost love; the “one that got away.” This Valentine’s Day, I want to share the story of the one who stayed. Kris and I have been married now for 13 years. I have known him for almost 22 years, and since I am now 37, that is more than half my life. The whole story of how we got from there to here is too long to tell but here is part one of the Reader’s Digest version, part two will be posted tomorrow. (Part One|Part Two)

1984 – Prince was at the top of the charts, but I was more of a Van Halen fan, or better yet, Led Zeppelin. My friend Sonya and I breezed into Chimes bar. The height of coolness for a just barely 16 year old girl who was already looking forward to telling this tale in the cafeteria on Monday. My first time in a bar. My parents were divorced and I wasn’t burdened with a lot of parental supervision, so we had decided to meet Sonya’s brother and his friend Reggie, and after a few drinks, we were going to the local (illegal) drag racing strip so they could race. (Did I mention we were idiots?) As soon as I set eyes on Kris, I had a tremendous crush. Flirting and a miniskirt availed me nothing. Kris was 21 and I was jailbait. He said hello, and proceeded to ignore me, which naturally made him irresistible. The evening passed with no deaths or arrests, although we were well deserving of both. God’s mercy in action. Kris moved to Florida later that year.

1988 – Prince had yielded the top of the charts to George Michael, and we all had Faith he’d stay there indefinitely. I had graduated and was in college. My boyfriend of two years had a great swimming pool where our little gang practically lived. We girls baked ourselves in the skimpiest of bikinis under the guys’ watchful gaze, and we ended up most days with a case of beer, bizz-buzz, and quarter bounce. I was in love, and life was perfect. I still saw Sonya periodically, and she mentioned that Kris would be having surgery for testicular cancer, and that it was serious. I hadn’t thought of Kris in quite a while. Months passed, and the updates from Sonya revealed that he was being treated at MD Anderson in Houston, and there was a real fear that this cancer (stage 4, metastasized to his lymph system and lungs) could kill him. I was wrapped up in my life and my upcoming wedding. Nobody told Kris he was supposed to die, and so he lived. His recovery was long, and my fiancee and I had him over to watch a movie once just so he could get out of the house a little while. I had seen Kris occasionally in the last couple of years whenever he was in town and chatted briefly, but that was the first real conversation we had. I began to think of him as a friend. My fiancee and I broke up on Valentine’s Day of 1989.

A couple of months later Kris called me from a nearby payphone at 6am. He had been up all night driving back from Houston. MD Anderson had told him the day before that he was officially in remission! I greeted him with frowsy hair, in sweatpants and a cut off sweatshirt. My teeth were not brushed. I had been awake less than ten minutes, but I was very excited for Kris. He told me his plans – move back to Florida and stay with some friends until he found a job, which he expected to do immediately given the labor shortage. Then he dropped the bomb on me. He proposed. I said, “No.” When he asked why not, I told him that I did not love him. His response, calmly: “You will.”

Kris left the next day for Florida. A week later, I met the man who became my first husband. Three weeks after that, I married him. Two months after that I got pregnant. Kris and I were both in the wedding party for his sister’s wedding in July, 1989. He just shook his head at me and told me I’d made a mistake – I should have married him. I remembered that on December 12th, when my life hit a low point. I had just been released from the hospital – complications with the pregnancy – and found an eviction notice taped to our apartment door. While I was in the hospital I lost my job, and I had no idea how I could possibly get another one since I was visibly pregnant. We had not had electricity or a phone in months. I had no idea where my husband was, but a safe bet was that he was in a bar somewhere. I dug the bible my father had given me years before out of a box in the back of the closet. Flipping it open at random led me to Romans 8:28. “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” Did that mean I’d look back on this time and think it was beneficial? That didn’t seem possible.

I flipped again and found Luke 11:9. “And I tell you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Nothing to lose. I prayed that my husband would stop drinking and using and that we would somehow work things out. All I wanted was a husband who loved me and would take care of our baby. And I actually felt better! I imagined a future where we sat on the front porch looking at our grandchildren play, and laughing about what idiots we had been, way back when. This pleasant daydream was interrupted by my husband’s return a few minutes later. He had not visited me in the hospital, and I hadn’t seen him in a week. He didn’t have much to say, except that he wouldn’t be back. He packed a bag and left. I saw him once more before he committed suicide while on drugs, an awful ending to a very unhappy life. I remember thinking, so much for that whole God thing…

The One Who Stayed will be continued tomorrow…