Greg and I went on our first date in September 1992. I was 18, he was 19. We went out for hot dogs and a movie at the second-run theater. He cracked jokes about my green eyeliner and the way my overly hair-sprayed bangs bounced when I walked. By the end of the evening, I was crazy about him.
From the beginning, we found we were more together than we had been apart. Greg had a steadiness about him that taught me how to gain control of my sometimes erratic emotions. I like to think I helped him to discover options and opportunities in life he would not otherwise have seen.
We got married as soon as we could swing it after graduating from college. I loved him because he was funny, sweet, genuine, supportive and forgiving. As it turns out, I had only scratched the surface.
In the years since our two sons were diagnosed with autism, I have discovered Greg is kinder and more generous of heart than I could have imagined back when we were first married. He works all day while I homeschool the boys, and then most evenings he's the solo parent while I head to the Borders Books near our home to do my job as editor for a nonprofit. Even though he's often tired and stressed, he somehow never falters. He considers it his job to take care of me, to give me time to work and to have fun, and to make sure I don't become overwhelmed. These are rare things in a husband.
We are not perfect, but we are quick to forgive, which comes in handy when stress and frustration get the better of us. Often, the highlight of our day is watching television together after the kids are in bed. We find respite and release in each other's company.
When we go through difficult periods with the boys - and it seems like for the past few years, one or the other is always in a "difficult period" - I rely on Greg's strength, calm and love to help me maintain my sanity, and that is not an exaggeration.
I know it's cliché, but he is my rock. So you can imagine how terrified I was when he almost died.
In 2007, he suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm - a condition with a 50 percent survival rate. He spent three weeks at WakeMed, most of it in the neuro intensive care unit. Amazingly, thanks to the miracle of modern neurosurgery and the wonderful care he received, he suffered no lasting damage.
The experience made me permanently paranoid. If Greg is late getting home and I can't get hold of him, the possibility he's dead seems just as likely as the possibility that he's stuck in a meeting. In my panic, this logic makes sense. After all, what are the odds of having two children with autism and a husband with a brain aneurysm?
But then again, what were the odds of finding my perfect match while still a teenager? What were the odds of marrying the one person who could provide a seemingly endless source of strength, who could ease my stress and heal my heartbreak with a touch?
What were the odds of marrying a wonderful man and discovering years later that he's even better than I thought? Greg is my daily reminder that, overall, my good luck has outweighed my losses.
This month, we celebrate 14 years of marriage, and I celebrate a million little moments in which his love has made my life worth living.
Happy anniversary, honey.
