By Nan Haynes
I was married to my late husband, Dick, for 41 years. Those were the best years of my life. Early in our marriage, Dick called me his “bride.” In the later years, he called me his “tough old broad.” I loved both nicknames because each reflected the evolution of our relationship.
Dick was 30 when I met him and was a respected journalist and homeowner. I was 23, struggling with clinical depression and financially dependent on my parents. The year prior, they had sent me to a mental institution where I spent six months. The doctors released me when I learned how to model behavior they approved of. When I got out, I was still depressed but had learned how to hide it from others.
Dick and I married the year after we met. Forty years later, we gathered our friends at our favorite restaurant to celebrate his birthday, knowing it would be his last. In a toast, I thanked him for giving me a life – a life that thanks to his love and support allowed me long ago to emerge from my depression.
Dick gave me the time and space I needed to recover. He must have wondered if he had made a mistake during our first year together, as I spent much of my time on the living room couch. But if he did, he never showed it. Instead, he offered unwavering emotional and financial support. One of the most memorable gestures from that year was when he surprised me with a beagle puppy. His famous grin was unmistakable when I saw the puppy and asked joyfully, “Is he for me?”
While Dick wasn’t a dog lover, he knew I had grown up with dogs. And he witnessed me mourn the loss of my family dog when she died the year we dated, so his sweet gift meant the world to me. And having a puppy to take care of got me off the couch. The beagle and I started taking long daily walks. I started feeling better. Then I started running. A year later I was running marathons, while Dick continued to support me emotionally and financially. He was always there at the finish line, cheering me on, and I felt great.
By then, I had more to contribute to our marriage than running medals. So, I decided to finish my undergraduate degree. Then Dick encouraged me to continue my education, and I went on to law school. As my world expanded, so did our relationship. With new interests and perspectives, we had so much more to talk about.
He was proud to have a wife who was a lawyer and enjoyed taking me shopping for what he called my “lawyer clothes.” However, after 10 years, I realized I was a litigator who did not like to argue. Dick saw that this made me miserable and supported me when I took a significant pay cut to become a legal educator. The years I spent teaching were good. I was home more often, giving us more time together and more time for household chores.
I retired after 15 years of teaching. A few weeks after my retirement, Dick was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer. This was his third primary cancer diagnosis. Together we fought his disease for over three years.
Six days before Dick died, he sent me a note and flowers for Valentine’s Day. On the note he wrote, “to my love, my wife, my nurse, my everything.” The note is a treasure, a reminder of the love and the life we shared.
