He’s a Keeper

Couples today create a spectacle for their marriage pro­posals with the hope it goes viral. We didn't. After the church and reception hall were booked, Normann handed me a dia­mond engagement solitaire as an afterthought. Normann and I had dated for eight years, which included three breakups. When he thought of marriage as the next step in our relationship, his feet ran cold like glacier runoff. He got timid. A bit too timid, at times, but I ignored it.

I met him when I was a sophomore in college. I was looking forward to going out for dinner with my boyfriend at the time. Dressed and ready to go, I answered the ringing phone. He'd called to ask if we could spend our evening watching T.V. in his mother's living room, as we'd done for the past three months, so I slammed the phone on the hook, almost knocking it off the wall.

My older brother offered up a last-minute invitation to a Halloween party. I went. Marijuana and spilt beer permeated the smoky air, and one seedy man, with a skull attached to his fly zipper and a joint in his hand, approached me.

I ducked away and gravitated to the only other person who wasn't dressed in costume. Normann, at six-foot-two, with wiry blond hair, thick eyebrows, and a scraggly beard, was a plaid-wearing earthy guy. He asked who I was sup­posed to be.

I answered, "Depending on the circumstances, maybe a single lady."

Two months after we met, I was sure I wanted to keep Normann in my life. He showed me he was an honest man with a gentle heart, strong work ethic, and common sense. I was dating the bad boy who was on life's road to nowhere regardless of how much I prodded.

For our first date, he trimmed his beard and had his hair cut. I did a double take when I saw him. He was truly a dia­mond in the rough who only needed a woman's guidance in the grooming department. I hadn't realized his lack of vanity would result in constant reminders over the years to do it again and again.

Our second date, he called to ask if I'd had a chance to shop for Christmas.

I had recently been in a car accident that left me with two black eyes and a broken nose swollen to triple its normal size. "No, I'm staying inside until the swelling goes down."

"Nobody cares how you look. And if they do, it's their problem. Let them stare. I'm picking you up in for­ty-five minutes."

It amazed me that Normann didn't care how I looked, when my failing-at-saving-our-relationship, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend said he would see me after the bruising faded. I changed out of my sweats and T-shirt into snug-fitting jeans and a blouse for a trip to the mall. Under the harsh flores­cent lights, Normann said, "Your face is really beat up." He smiled. "You still look beautiful to me."

I smiled at that, as my ego needed a boost no matter how far-fetched. I planned an early evening because I had to work the next day, so I kept asking him what time it was. He noticed my constant need for the time and gave me a gold watch two days after Christmas.

This man was a keeper.

I invited him to share holidays with my family-he was sick, had to leave town unexpectedly; something suddenly came up. He attended my DePaul graduation ceremony and celebrated with me when I accepted my job offer from the largest accounting firm.

Then in June, on my twenty-first birthday before he was due to pick me up, he phoned. "I can't see you anymore."

"Excuse me? I don't think I heard you correctly." We hadn't had a fight. We hadn't even had one argument. I strained the phone cord as I raced into my brother's bed­room next to where the phone hung in the hall and slammed the door, the cord wedged in between the door and the jamb.

"I don't think we're right for each other."

"You're joking, right?"

"No." The line went dead.

I slid down the wall to the floor and kicked my broth­er's smelly socks and shoes away from me. With my knees scrunched to my chest, I dropped the phone on the rug. Tears rolled down my legs.

"You're going to break the cord," my dad yelled as he banged on the door.

I jumped up, swinging the door wide open. I slammed the phone on the hook and raced upstairs to my room. My father yelled again at my receding back.

It's his loss. It's his loss, I repeated to myself, when deep down it was my loss, too. Where was I going to find another guy my age that puts others before himself, offers to help before he's asked, and can fix things?

When I looked in my mirror, I saw a devastated girl. I wiped my tears and straightened my back. I don't need him.

Instead of sulking, I went to the neighborhood bar with my sisters and friends because we were regulars for ladies' night on Thursdays. We clinked our glasses to me, finally drinking legally. I sipped my cranberry-vodka, debating whether to obliterate my current memory with many more cocktails, though I had given up heavy drinking after my freshman year in college. Loud music pulsating, I struggled to hear a guy who talked to me on many occasions before. "Are you single? Do you want to go out with me?" he yelled.

I guess I am, I reasoned with myself. The best way to get over a broken heart was to find someone new. So we went on a couple dates. A rebound relationship, I compared every­thing he did to how Normann would have done, and he fell short. We lasted a few months before I called it off, blaming my new job as the reason.

In October, my sister begged me to call Normann, a mechanic, to look at her car with a stick-shift. She needed advice as to whether she should repair it or buy a new one. As she explained the problem, Normann's eyes strayed toward me. Several times he asked her to repeat what she said.

The few days after the first frost, a warm breeze rattled the leaves. Normann hunched under the hood. A leaf floated onto the engine. I leaned next to Normann, with his crazy blond hair standing erect, shouting for me to remind him about haircuts, to remove the leaf. Oil and gas emanated from the engine. We locked eyes, and I went a bit weak looking into his ocean blue irises.

Gone was the girl he left, hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing sweatpants who studied for four months straight to pass the CPA exam. Instead, I dressed in new white leather boots, acid washed jeans, and a flowing blouse, belted to show my twenty-six-inch waist. My thick auburn brown hair, layered, permed, and big on its own, didn't require teasing necessary in the Bos. My creamy flawless skin was accented with subtle hints of makeup, a detail I hadn't added to my face when I was with Normann.

His fingertips stained with grease, he pronounced her engine trashed. My sister and I planned to meet my fellow Arthur Andersen staff members downtown to watch the Bears football game. I thanked him and turned to wave goodbye again, satisfied with Normann's look of disbelief. I high-fived my sister once we were out of sight. I had funds, friends, and freedom. Eat your heart out Normann.

He called the next day. I was seeing several other men, but they fell to the wayside as Normann and I became exclu­sive. After two dates, I realized he planned to avoid the sub­ject of our breakup.

My blunt nature sidestepped any tact--I asked, "Why did you break up with me?"

He stumbled over his tongue as he mumbled something about marriage and how I'd graduated.

"What does graduating have to do with marriage?"

"I thought you'd start hounding me about getting married because that's the next step."

"I don't know whose staircase you're going up, but no, it's not my next step. I don't want to get married. And what if I did? You just break up with me with no discussion? That's just wrong."

"I'm sorry. I lived through my parents' divorce, with them pitting me against the other, dishing out guilt trips because I wanted to see the other one. Holidays caused the biggest fights. When I was young, they fought about who got me when, and for how long, then they guilted me because I had a good time. I just don't think marriage is worth it. It's just a piece of paper."

After we were together for three more years, we talked about marriage. He spent nights at my condo and I spent nights at his house. We had several assets together, including a twenty-five-foot speedboat. It was the next step.

"I can't do this," he said when he called one Friday night. We'd planned to attend a neighborhood street fest with friends.

"We don't have to go. We can do something else," I said. "I can't marry you." A click, and silence filled my ear.

In a fit of rage, I wanted to fling the cordless across the room, but if I broke it, I would be without a phone. Instead, I leashed my anger, shrugged, and shook my head with annoyance. I had traveled this road before.

I started dating someone else. Normann suggested as joint owners of the boat that we take a safety class to reduce our insurance rate. I took the bait, and by the end of the eight-week course, we were back together. After the first class, I asked why?

"Women changed when they get that ring on their finger. Nag. Nag. Nag. It's in all the movies. They don't have to be nice anymore. My friends' wives--they're bitchy. Look at your sisters. They're bossy and controlling. All because they have that piece of paper."

"I'm not an actor who can put on a show for five years. With me, what you see is what you get. As for my sisters, they were bossy and controlling before they got married."

A year later, we set an October wedding date, close to our seven-year anniversary of meeting. I picked out bridesmaid dresses and searched for the white satin dress of my dreams. We talked about kids. I didn't want nine like my mother, but from growing up in a large family, I wanted at least three. Apparently, that scared him, too.

He called again to end it. We loved each other. We trusted each other. How could he not see we were meant to be together? If he didn't have faith in our relationship, whether I wanted to or not, it was time for me to move on.

I piled his stereo, clothes, underwear, socks, and tooth­brush at the front door. When he came to my condo, frost oozed from my voice. "Think it over. This is the last time you're breaking up with me."

"I need more time."

I handed him the signed boat title.

This time, he was back two days later begging me to take him back. I resisted.

Three weeks later, we attended a musical-comedy, as we had purchased dinner-theater tickets months before.

Monday morning, he came to my work office bearing two dozen roses placed in Candlelight Playhouse commemo­rative glasses. The front desk called me to the lobby, so I walked to the far corner where he joined me.

He smiled and handed me the flowers. "I love you. I don't know why I'm being so weird about it. I don't want to live without you."

"Please go. Three times you've walked out on me. It won't happen a fourth," I hissed.

"We can fly to Vegas tonight and get it over with! Then it's done and I won't have to think about it anymore."

"Do you hear yourself?" I said in a hushed voiced. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

"I love you."

I looked at his hand encircling my arm and, with a glare, told him to remove his hand from me.

In a halo of fragrance, I smiled at the receptionist as I walked past. "Lovely, aren't they?"

He left love notes on my car. I ignored them.

I was friendly with Normann, but our romance was over. I padlocked my heart no matter how much I wanted us to be together.

I met Dave and introduced him to my girlfriends, hoping he would date one of them. He said he enjoyed my com­pany, and that was when I coordinated another group date. I planned to stay single. But the third date, I gave up. Dave and I started dating.

Dave offered to do the brakes on my car. He wasn't handy like you-know-who. I called Normann to fix Dave's repair job. Dave couldn't unclog my kitchen sink. He left as Normann came in with a plumbing rod, passing in the hall.

After six months of dating, Dave approached the sub­ject of marriage. I could settle for Dave. He was kind, funny, and he liked to dance. If I opened my heart, I was sure I could find happiness with him and eventually come to love him as deeply as I had loved Normann. I probably could make it work.

But I realized I didn't want to be married unless I mar­ried Normann. He was my first real love. I loved him com­pletely and unconditionally before knowing the pain of heartbreak. My head said no. He's hurt me too many times. My heart wanted to spend the rest of my life with Normann.

Once I admitted it to myself, I opened up to Normann.

We walked along the Chicago harbor shore where we had docked our boat in the summer. The harsh March winds blew, and I leaned into him, craving his warmth. This time he told me he feared having children, that our baby could have a disability-his sister had given birth to twins, one of whom died after two months from a brain injury at birth.

Normann said, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can't guarantee we will have a large family."

"You don't have to guarantee anything."

He pulled my hands out of my pockets. "I don't have a ring, but I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He wrapped his warm hands around my cold fingers.

"I don't need a ring." We kissed.

We agreed not to set a number. One child at a time. If all went well, we'd consider having another. If things were rolling along, maybe another.Normann was always prepared for things to go wrong, while I remained an optimist. He was an extreme Boy Scout, making sure contingency plans were in place for possibilities. We balanced each other and butted heads.

We'd been together fifteen years, married almost six, when Marina, our first child, was born. Marina did what she was supposed to do-she ate, slept, and pooped. She hit the child development milestones on target. She was walking, babbling, and demanding in a flash. Two year later, we were ready to welcome another child.

And now we were living Normann' s worst fear.

I gave birth to a robust, healthy, nine-pound baby girl, who nursed on schedule. But on the second day, KiKi stopped feeding and became agitated. Concerned with KiKi's crying, I questioned the nurse. The nurse brought KiKi to the nursery where she could observe her. She assured me my baby would resume nursing, but that didn't happen. A neonatologist examined her on the third day and explained that KiKi had contracted a bacterial infection. They trans­ferred her to the neonatal intensive care unit. An antibiotic would eliminate the bacterial infection within three days. They sent us home without her.

At seven o'clock the next morning, the neonatologist called and informed us that KiKi had been placed into an induced coma. During the night, KiKi' s heart had failed, said the voice on the phone, and for a period of time, her brain had been starved for oxygen. At the hospital they told us KiKi might not survive.

"Your daughter is going to need around-the-clock care for the rest of her life. She'll more than likely need to be institutionalized."

Normann rattled off questions. I didn't want to believe the doctors, though. I needed to see her, to hold her.

In the NICU, I stared at the tube down my baby's throat, the whirring ventilator linking her to life. There were no other parents in the room. The weight crashed down on me. and I collapsed alongside the incubator in a fetal position, awash in tears.Dizzy with fear.

Normann bent down and rubbed my back, and I felt his warm tears on my neck.

After thirty days in the neonatal intensive care unit, KiKi was finally discharged. They strongly encouraged institu­tional care and warned us KiKi probably would not walk or talk, would require a feeding tube, and her quality of life would benonexistent, thereby burdening our family. I thought about our two-year-old at home and if she would suffer.

I held my baby. "We can handle this," I said. The look on Normann' s face suggested he was having second thoughts.

And he blamed me.

I felt the silent pressure building like water against a levee ready to collapse. His quiet anger was so great, I ques­tioned whether our marriage would survive the first month after KiKi was born; he spoke to me only when necessary, while I wallowed in self guilt.

It was time to confront it. We would either drown in the deluge or learn to swim. Three days of KiKi's relentless crying, I was up during the night with her and up during the day with Marina. I napped when they both slept. My energy depleted--I refused to tolerate Normann' s silent treatment any longer. We needed to voice our feelings so we could work to get past them.

I felt the silent pressure building like water against a levee ready to collapse. His quiet anger was so great, I ques­tioned whether our marriage would survive the first month after KiKi was born; he spoke to me only when necessary, while I wallowed in self guilt.

It was time to confront it. We would either drown in the deluge or learn to swim. Three days of KiKi's relentless crying, I was up during the night with her and up during the day with Marina. I napped when they both slept. My energy depleted--I refused to tolerate Normann' s silent treatment any longer. We needed to voice our feelings so we could work to get past them.

"They didn't fire the midwives. That group decided not to use midwives anymore."

"I wonder why."

"There's a difference between getting fired for incompe­tence and being let go because of how a doctor conducts his practice."

"So where did that lead you? To someone you had no idea about. We saw how competent she was. You're going to have to live with your decision. And now, Marina, KiK.i, and I have to live with the results of that decision, too. It's going to take me some time to get over this. Right now, I'm pissed." The midwife had used a medically accepted protocol at the time that didn't detect an infection present which had caused KiK.i's illness and subsequent brain damage.

Two days later, when I found the time to brush my teeth, I saw our toothbrushes hugging, the bristles intertwined. Normann put them together as a sign we would survive this together.

KiK.i's life tested our limits-illnesses, hospitalizations, excessive crying, and her lack of childhood development. What came naturally for Marina, KiK.i had therapists trying to teach her how to roll, to reach, to sit, to swallow, and to talk, without success. Before Marina could talk, she could point, grab, or stomp to get what she needed. I deciphered KiK.i's cries with fifty-fifty accuracy.

Marina showed her frustration with KiK.i's constant wailing, innocently kissing KiK.i' s toe then biting it, or get­ting KiK.i a toy and telling her to "catch it" while flinging it at KiK.i's head. Medical equipment, a Little Tykes Kitchen, and toy bins replaced the coffee table, floor planters, and a recliner. In KiK.i's quieter, healthier moments, Marina dragged her by the foot inside the soft cottony blanket-fort built over the dining room table. Marina pretend-fed KiKi plastic food and placed a doll next to her so she could play, too. Deep in her throat, KiKi voiced her aahs. Other times Marina played a game with KiKi, jumping over her, and if KiKi's random swinging arm touched Marina, KiKi won. KiKi gurgled her delight.

Normann played with Marina, and baby KiKi watched. As Normann learned to care for KiKi he realized she wasn't as fragile as he thought. Now she wrestled, got tossed and tickled by Normann just like her big sister. He no longer feared he would break her. KiKi arched with joy as Normann entered the back door from work. Marina raced to hug him, and he swung her up in the air. KiKi's face beamed with excitement as she anticipated her turn. Normann dumped Marina headfirst onto the loveseat and she giggled. He then turned his attention to KiKi.

"Whose belly am I going to eat? I'm hungry." He smacked his lips.

KiKi's legs thrashed. He blew loud raspberries on her stomach and grabbed her foot to munch on. Her arms flung with pleasure.

Marina sat on Normann. As a bucking bronco, he reared, and Marina held onto his neck. "KiKi' s turn," Marina said. I held KiKi on Normann' s back as he crawled and arched his back. KiKi giggled.

We came to an acceptance, this was our life, and put our daughters as our priority. I carved out "Marina time" when we went to park or out for ice cream without KiKi. We searched for alternative therapies that would help KiKi with basic skills-rolling, sitting, crawling, or walking-locally, throughout the US, and internationally. Traditional therapy at home didn't help her reach any milestones.

When KiKi was three and Marina was five, the whole family traveled to Poland so KiKi could participate in a gru­eling, month-long, intensive physical therapy program, six days a week, five hours a day. We continued the program for many years and KiKi developed enough upper body strength to push a walker and take steps. This program gave us hope that KiKi would someday walk.

On our first free day, Normann pushed KiKi's wheelchair up the steep ramp, steps filled in with concrete on the edge of the crumbling stairs. The Baltic Sea air was biting; pud­dles almost iced over. Leaves rustled on the ground as the wind gusted. We looked for a place to shop and warm up after the bus ride. People spoke what sounded to like gib­berish as they hurried by.

Signs strung endless consonants with few vowels in store fronts with tiny handwritten translations in English below. A jewelry store was open, and we went in mainly to get out of the wind. Marina traveled from display case to display case filled with amber necklaces and rings, leaving smudges on the glass in her wake. A small display section glittered with gold and diamonds. One caught my eye, a simple gold band paved with tiny gems.

I didn't need it. I didn't even wear my diamond engage­ment ring. On my left ring finger, I wore the thin gold band he slipped on my finger twelve years ago.

Normann followed my gaze. "Do you want it?"

I'd learned to give up a lot since KiKi was born. "I don't need it." Trinkets and figurines had lost their appeal, more things to dust and keep track of.

"I didn't ask if you needed it. I asked if you wanted it."

I imagined the ring beside my wedding band. "Only if you're telling me you'd marry me all over again."

Normann gestured to the man which ring I'd like to see. It sparkled in my hand. Marina wanted to see. I showed KiKi, and she gurgled. I tried it on and it fit. Normann bought the ring and we went outside.

The clouds opened up and a few stray rays of sun peeked down. Normann bent down on one knee and slipped the dia­mond band on my finger. "I would marry you all over again, even knowing what was to come." He gazed into my eyes and whispered, "I love you."

I gasped as my hands flew to my cheeks-this was better than his first proposal, when he'd handed me a diamond ring in my kitchen and asked, "Do you want it?"

He worried about our future before we were married, and decided at that moment our crazy present life was worth doing again.

To this day, I wear the diamond band bought in Poland first, which represents his direct connection to my heart, and then my gold band he slipped on my finger thirty years ago.

Yes, this man is definitely a keeper.