I met my wife exactly 20 years ago today on the morning of October 7, 1990. On a little apple-picking trip to a farm near Guelph, Ontario. It also happened to be the day before her 26th birthday, although at the time, nobody knew it, including me. Both of us were terribly unimpressed with each other then. She told me later of that first meeting, she thought I looked a bit on the creepy side, while I found her to be rather simple and ordinary. So we were quick to dismiss each other back then. She was just "one of the girls on the bus" to me. And to her, well, I was just me. But the funny thing I can remember about that day was, that we ended up being near each other a lot. We sat next to each other on top of the cart that drove us to the apple grove. And again, at the group picnic lunch, we were at each other's side. And if my memory serves me correctly, we even read the newspaper together at one point. Unusual, especially for two young people who were complete strangers to one another and who seemingly had no real interest in each other. Part of the reason could have been that I was scheming to get close to one of her friends on the trip. The other part could likely be no other than fate.
I saw her on a couple more occasions after that first fateful meeting. At a benefit dance, where we danced for the first time. The other was at a school christmas party in December later that year. We talked for a while on both times. And then, that was that. I would not see her again for another six months. I figured, as I did on the day I met her, " just one of those girls on the apple-picking bus ". One of those who you meet at random points in your life. One you won't care to remember as you go on. She probably said the same thing about me. And as I've said. That was that.
By the time spring arrived in 1991, I was on a totally different mindset. Certainly different from six months before. Less distracted. More attentive. Definitely at a much happier place. On a little eastend joyride with common friends, I managed to run into her again. Only this time, I wasn't scheming or looking at somebody else. I was just looking at her. It's amazing how people can see clearly without the distractions that blind them. Lost on me was the fact that I felt so comfortable being around her at our initial time together. Her magnetic warmth and the ease of just being with her. So I asked if I could see her sometime. And her answer was, well, you probably have a good idea what it was.
From the time we started seeing each other, we were always together. A couple in every sense of the word. We couldn't get enough of each other, so we did. Spending weekends together. The endless phone conversations that lasted for hours. Sneaking out of work. Sneaking into each other's room, when no one is looking. Our first summer together felt like nobody else existed. Just her and me. He and she. It seemed like the rest of the world didn't matter. But of course, it did. And the world has a way of making it's presence felt. In my case, it happened to be half a world away. My dad was dying back home in the Philippines. I had to see him one last time.
Coming back to Canada in April of 1992, after spending six weeks watching my father die everyday, I was, to say the least, a bit spent. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. A broken man with a severely wounded heart. It was her that made me whole again. Running the gauntlet of my short fuse and indifference, she waited patiently when weaker human beings would have walked away. She understood that I needed time to heal and someone to heal me. And she did.
We got married in June of 1993. Through the highs and lows, as we vowed to each other. And nothing could be higher than the birth of our son in the spring of the following year. Watching him grow up before our eyes. The first words. The first steps. The first day in school. The first trip to the emergency ward. Seeing ourselves in every little thing about him. Young parents, who not so long ago were children themselves, now staking their own place in this world. Through thick and thin. Good times and bad. Laughter and tears. Anger and sadness. Lust and genuine, whole-hearted love for one another. Whatever we've gone through, I am so proud to say that she was always by my side. I wasn't alone. I was never alone the whole time.
Earlier this year, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Being the weaker partner in the relationship, my natural reaction was that of denial. In fact, to this day, there's this huge part of me that won't accept it. Or pretend that it's not there. But the sad part is, that it is. So, just like the cliche, we take it "one day at a time". Which is how we've lived our lives anyway. It has always been a struggle for my wife and me. From the very beginning to this very day. Yet, I have always been happy just being with her. From day 1 to every morning that I wake up and see her again. Whether we get it right or we get it wrong. As long as she's there. Right by my side.
A facebook friend of mine, a wise young sage named Jenna once typed these words for her status update; "Crying doesn't signify weakness. It signifies LIFE". Needless to say, I was one of many who "liked" it :-). And I'm crying now. Not for myself but for my wife. Because I know that she worries. Not about herself but about me. But as Jenna stated, it's okay to cry. As long as it's for the right reason. So the cry-baby that I am; I cry. Not out of sadness but out of joy. The joy of being here. Being alive. And being with my wife.
So, to the little girl from the Southern Philippines, who grew up to be such a devoted daughter, sister, wife, mother and friend; The constant target of my endless, pointless mocking; The recipient of my carnal lust and affection at the most inappropriate of times; Unselfish to a point of fault; My partner, lover and best friend; And the kindest person I have ever known in my life;
HAPPY BIRTHDAY NANAY.
I thank you for everything. But most of all, I thank you for making me want to be a better man.
