Thirty Years – What's Next?

It's been 30 years. Is that a short time, or a long time? I guess it all depends: this 30 years is a long in that it has encompassed so very much, but it's short in that it hasn't been nearly enough.

Last month Scott and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary, a milestone that brings up countless, varied memories of the past and incalculable confusing questions about the future .

We met in Hawaii, where we both lived for many years. We were friends for a long time, then close friends, then – somehow, magically – sweethearts. We married in a beach ceremony at Anaehoomalu Park, me in a traditional holokuu, Scott in an embroidered shirt and Hawaiian wedding sash, both of us bedecked with flowers and maile.   The wedding was performed by a friend who was both a minister and a kahuna; the cake was decorated with real flowers by another friend; the Hawaiian music was provided by our friends of the Lim Family band; the reception pavilion was decked with flowers from my co-workers’ gardens; the luau feast was brought by… well, by everyone, in true Hawaiian style.

Since that Great Adventure, we have shared adventures galore. Some have been fun, some not so much, but they all have been shared.

We have had wonderful travel adventures, visiting such diverse international sites as Hong Kong, Spain, Tahiti, Jamaica, Thailand…. We have traveled the US from Miami to Seattle, Buffalo to San Diego, with Yellowstone, St. Paul, Boston, the Southwest desert, the Northwest rain forests and New England hills in between. We have enjoyed touring in our own backyard, exploring Yosemite, Kings Canyon, the redwoods, the beaches, the mountains. We have roughed it at a cliff top campsite in Hawaii and luxuriated in ersatz Italian elegance in Las Vegas, found more friendship, fun and fond memories than we ever could have imagined at (quite literally!) a little grass shack on the island of Taha'a. We have "kidnapped" each other for special birthday getaways, Scott taking me to Victoria BC and on a floatplane ride over the Canadian island where I spent many childhood vacations; me sneaking Scott away to Pebble Beach – and secretly bringing his two best friends for a most memorable round of golf.

We have shared moves, first from Hawaii to the mainland, selling most of our stuff (even my car!) In a humongous garage sale and packing up the rest to load onto a Matson barge bound for California – which Scott said would make a great country-western song title: "Thirty-five Years in Twenty-eight Boxes" – alighting in one Napa Valley town then moving to another then moving up over Mount St. Helena to our very own little home on the sixth green.

We have shared activities: deep-sea fishing off Kona, walking the little streets of Macau, playing golf, hiking the Lakes Basin near Graeagle, bird-watching on the coast, horseback riding in the hills above Lake Tahoe. We've shared events: baseball games and football games, my art show openings, birthday luaus, operas, plays, concerts, family gatherings, tractor parades, parties wild and subdued.

We have shared families, getting to know and love each other's' parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, assorted in-laws and varied cousins. I have been exceptionally fortunate in this regard, for I have gained two wonderful stepdaughters who are, in all the ways that count, my actual daughters. They are children of my heart, and I treasure the family they have created for me.

We have made it through the rough patches, from the normal, everyday, live-together, get-on-each-others'-nerves conflicts to the earth-shaking, life-changing tragedies. We dealt with personal demons, family alienation, job losses, depression, money issues, accidents. We saw each other through medical scares and medical actualities: Scott has had countless surgeries, one of which left him in a coma and near death for a month. We buried both our fathers, Scott's mother, and are slowly losing my mother to illness and dementia. We suddenly, horrifically lost my sister and her barely-teenaged daughter in a car crash.

And now we are faced with this. Now we are learning, firsthand and unasked-for, everything there is to know about ALS. We are learning what it does to the person with the disease, what it does to the caregiver, what it does to a relationship. We are learning all the nuances found in the phrase "progressive disease." We are learning how much this thing costs, in money, in energy, in emotion. We are learning, through trial and error– and necessity – how to switch our former roles: I have, by and large, been that healthy one, the one providing care and comfort when my husband is ill or injured.

But not now. Now I can do almost nothing. Now I need almost constant care. And as ALS progresses I will be able to do less and less and I will need more and more. And hanging over our heads all the time is the definitive truth of this disease: it will, ultimately, eventually, kill me.

So we share that knowledge and that worry. But we are buoyed by our 30 years of marriage – the good times, the bad times, everything we know about each other, all our love. We would like to look forward to 30 more years. We will settle for, and cherish, what time we have. We will remember what we said on that Hawaii beach: for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.