Broken Not Damaged

The Best Kind of Love

By Annette Paxman Bowen

I have a friend who is falling in love. She honestly

claims the sky is bluer. Mozart moves her to tears. She has

lost 15 pounds and looks like a cover girl.

“I’m young again!” she shouts exuberantly.

As my friend raves on about her new love, I’ve taken a good

look at my old one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has

gained 15 pounds. Once a marathon runner, he now runs only down

hospital halls. His hairline is receding and his body shows the

signs of long working hours and too many candy bars. Yet he can

still give me a certain look across a restaurant table and

I want to ask for the check and head home.

When my friend asked me “What will make this love last?” I ran

through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests,

unselfishness, physical attraction, communication. Yet there’s

more. We still have fun. Spontaneous good times. Yesterday, after

slipping the rubber band off the rolled up newspaper, Scott flipped

it playfully at me: this led to an all-out war. Last Saturday at

the grocery, we split the list and raced each other to see who

could make it to the checkout first. Even washing dishes can

be a blast. We enjoy simply being together.

And there are surprises. One time I came home to find a note on the

front door that led me to another note, then another, until I reached

the walk-in closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a “pot of gold”

(my cooking kettle) and the “treasure” of a gift package. Sometimes I leave

him notes on the mirror and little presents under his pillow.

There is understanding. I understand why he must play basketball

with the guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must get

away from the house, the kids - and even him - to meet my sisters

for a few days of nonstop talking and laughing.

There is sharing. Not only do we share household worries and

parental burdens - we also share ideas. Scott came home from

a convention last month and presented me with a thick historical

novel. Though he prefers thrillers and science fiction, he had

read the novel on the plane. He touched my heart when he

explained it was because he wanted to be able to exchange

ideas about the book after I’d read it.

There is forgiveness. When I’m embarrassingly loud and crazy

at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some

of our savings in the stock market, I gave him a hug and said,

“It’s okay. It’s only money.”

There is sensitivity. Last week he walked through the door with

that look that tells me it’s been a tough day. After he spent some

time with the kids, I asked him what happened. He told me about a

60-year-old woman who’d had a stroke. He wept as he recalled the

woman’s husband standing beside her bed, caressing her hand. How was

he going to tell this husband of 40 years that his wife would

probably never recover? I shed a few tears myself. Because of the

medical crisis. Because there were still people who have been married

40 years. Because my husband is still moved and concerned after

years of hospital rooms and dying patients.

There is faith. Last Tuesday a friend came over and confessed her fear

that her husband is losing his courageous battle with cancer. On Wednesday

I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape her life after

divorce. On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the frightening

effects of Alzheimer’s disease on her father-in-law’s personality. On Friday

a childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her father had died.

I hung up the phone and thought, This is too much heartache for one week.

Through my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I noticed the boisterous

orange blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard the delighted

laughter of my son and his friend as they played. I caught sight of a wedding

party emerging from a neighbor’s house. The bride, dressed in satin and lace,

tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That night, I told my husband

about these events. We helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and

that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.

Finally, there is knowing. I know Scott will throw his laundry

just shy of the hamper every night; he’ll be late to most

appointments and eat the last chocolate in the box. He knows

that I sleep with a pillow over my head. I’ll lock us out of the

house at a regular basis, and I will also eat the last chocolate.

I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable. No, the sky

is not bluer: it’s just a familiar hue. We don’t feel particularly

young: we’ve experienced too much that has contributed to our growth

and wisdom, taking its toll on our bodies, and created our memories.

I hope we’ve got what it takes to make our love last. As a bride,

I had Scott’s wedding band engraved with Robert Browning’s line

“Grow old along with me!” We’re following those instructions.

“If anything is real, the heart will make it plain.”