Loved for Life, My Love Story

20150601_194851Many years ago, my husband’s family came to town. He is the middle of five children. The year was 1971. I’m those days, if there was a new doctor in town, our local newspaper might write an article about the physician and their family. That’s how we met. You see, My husband’s parents were both psychiatrists. His dad and mom met while going to med school in Dublin, Ireland at University College Dublin (UCD). They had moved to Newfoundland where my father-in-law was from for several years before coming to the U.S. and eventually settled here, in my hometown until my husband’s senior year of high school. They moved to the suburbs of Chicago in 1984, a very sad time for us.

Because my parents read that John and Helen had gone to school in Ireland, and my parents were both immigrants from Ireland, my parents decided to invite the newcomers over for dinner. Our date was sealed, but we didn’t know it then. In fact, we wouldn’t even become friends until several years later.

I have no recollection of even meeting my beloved until I was 10. That was the year he broke his leg and was in a cast for the summer. Silly boy! His younger sister and brother and I played in the pool nearly every day. Then, one day I noticed him. Jet black wavy hair, the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen, hazel eyes and a great big plaster cast on his leg. He looked so sad! If you met my husband and his siblings, you would know, without a doubt, they are all related! I asked what happened. His younger brother fell over on his bike and into my husband’s bike and just like that, a fanstastic fracture that placed him in the hospital for a month in traction. Yuck! But even with that four look on his face, he was cute!

I eventually got to know him as I would spend more time at their house. His sister and I were great friends! They had cool stuff at their house, like an Atari 2600 and the boys would play it. Jim, My husband, was really good! I started hanging out with them as much as I did with his sister after a couple years. By 6th grade, I decided I was going to marry this boy. I think everyone knew but him. Poor oblivious older guy! 

We dated all the way through high school and half way through college. I started thinking ridiculously that he must not love me because he wouldn’t hold my hand in public. How naive and silly! Even though we lived 200 miles from each other, we wrote just about everyday to each other and talked on the phone all the time. How innocent those conversations were though. The problem was that I was growing up in some ways and didn’t know how to talk about some of those things with him.

Then one fateful day in January, 1991, I broke things off with him. I was convinced the spark was gone. He didn’t take it well at all.  In fact, he sent me the most beautiful bouquet of red roses for Valentine’s Day a few weeks later.  I was not impressed, however.  No matter what he did, I would not listen. Is this the end? No, I said he’s my husband, not my ex-boyfriend, but how we came to that stage took many years.

Until then,

I bid you happy daydreams!


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