Love was so natural between Helen and me. It was in her eyes the first time she walked into the newspaper office and introduced herself. I was to be her advisor in publishing the high school newspaper. She was the student editor. I was a reporter for the local newspaper, where the publication would be printed.
We dated through college. We even engaged for more than a year. I finished one year ahead of her. I was completing my military obligation when she was finishing her degree - in three years. I took a job in Dallas and she took one in Fort Worth.
After we got settled in our new jobs we began seeing each other again, but we made no commitments. I felt our romance was returning, and then I had a job offer from another newspaper, but it was in another city, San Angelo, in far Central West Texas.
Within a month, the absence that often brings fondness brought us together again. "Do you still have that ring?" she asked one evening when she called me.
"Yes," I said. "I couldn't get rid of it."
"When you come this weekend, bring it with you," she said. "I'm ready to be your wife."
We were married the following June.
In September, we learned she was pregnant.
Our happiness soon would be interrupted by a nightmare. She began to have excruciating pain in her joints. The doctors ordered a battery of tests. Afew days later the internist asked for both of us to meet with him.
"As far as we can tell, everything is fine with the baby," he said. "But, Helen, you have a condition called lupus erythematosus."
"What is it?" I asked.
"It is an ailment she may have had all of her life, but was dormant in her until she became pregnant," he said. "When she became pregnant, it began attacking her organs. It's akin to rheumatoid arthritis."
"Is there a cure?" we both asked together.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "There is a group of doctors in Houston who are doing research on it. I have talked with them, and if you will agree to enter a program there, they may be able to help you. The best we can hope for is that they can arrest it with some form of medication."
Several weeks in Houston resulted in huge doses of cortisone being prescribed. Her tiny body began to balloon, not just from the several months of pregnancy but from the medication.
In early February, her internist gave us both a bleak and hopeful diagnosis. "The medication isn't working," he said, "but when the pregnancy is terminated, the Lupus may become dormant again."
A couple weeks later came heartbreak. "We can't find a heartbeat," the doctor said, "We think the heavy doses of cortisone were just too much. I'm sorry but your baby is dead."
We would wait for the baby to deliver itself naturally. Though sad about losing our child, optimism grew that Helen would be better after the delivery. In a few days, she delivered a baby girl. We found a baby cemetery where she was laid to rest.
Though weak and still bloated from the massive doses of medication, Helen came home. A couple of weeks later, she was back in the hospital, this time fighting for her life, against peritonitis. The cortisone had purferated a kidney and her body was flooded with poison.
Her Christian witness of courage and strength lasted to the end, which came in the middle of March, slightly more than nine months after our marriage. As I held her in my arms, while she breathed her last breath, I felt a numbness come over me, like I also had died.
Her parents and I took her home, burying her in a cemetery on a hill overlooking the town where we had first met and fell in love.
The next year I walked around in a daze. I do remember someone telling me, "Don't make any major decisions for a year," he said. "You need time to heal."
I buried myself in my work and into a friendship with one of the young reporters on my staff. He and I would rise early each day and play golf until it was time to go to work.
I remember a sympathy card I received after Helen's death. It read, "Memories become sweeter with the passing of time." There were many nights filled with tears and memories.
She had been a talented pianist, so her family and I donated a baby grand piano to the church where her father had been pastor. It was during the dedication of that piano that I renewed a relationship with a young woman, Deana, who was a friend of Helen's and had been in our wedding. She had returned home after a failed marriage and now had a child.
We had a wonderful visit. I returned to San Angelo, my spirits lifted. The Bible teaches us that where the Lord shuts one door for us, he opens another.
That door opened when a former associate called to tell me he had been promoted to publisher of my hometown newspaper, and he wanted me to return home as editor. I jumped at the offer. It was home, where my mother was and where Deana was.
A few days after starting the new job back home, I called Deana. "Would you like to get a Coke?" I asked.
The conversation we started at that piano dedication continued that night and lasted several hours. She agreed to go the movies with me the following weekend. Four weeks later, we were engaged to marry. Our love for each other grew. Her child became the child Helen and I had lost.
We were married the end of December, and it was the beginning of a relationship that has lasted more than 40 years. We have two children and three beautiful granddaughters. Our love is as intense today as it was when we renewed our friendship at the dedication of that piano to the memory of Helen. We continue to cherish the sweet memories of Helen. My experience with her life, her death and my recovery from it has given me a tremendous experience to share with others.
"Don't make any major decisions for the first year," I echo that counsel that I was given years ago, to my friends, who become bitter widows and widowers. "And remember, memories become sweeter with the passing of time."