The end is near

For the last four weeks, our family has been counting down the days to June 19. The rest of our life felt like it was on hold as we waited for this one day to arrive.

My husband has been working his tail off — actually his arm off — in preparation for his four-month follow-up visit with the surgeon who worked on his shoulder back on March 8. After that gloomy visit with predictions of a second surgery, I have to admit we were expecting the worst.

We had gone through the four stages of grief as we thought about what it would mean to go back into the operating room for a second time, and we were starting to set up a tent in "acceptance."

As I mentioned in my last post about this, my husband has regained a lot of movement in his right arm since the surgery. But he has one motion that is still only at about 65 percent of its range of motion. Our lives have revolved around physical therapy appointments four days a week, often 2.5 hours long right after his work day, as well as putting on his stretching contraption three times a day to slowly pull his arm and hold it in place 30 minutes at a time.

We resigned ourselves to no vacation this summer since we would need all of his remaining vacation days to recover from a potential surgery. Three of his therapists had a big debate Monday night about what would be his best course of action. He seems to be an anomaly even in their eyes, or at least some kind of fascinating case for someone's future thesis, because of his inability to regain his full movement despite how hard he has worked the last four months.

Is it a scar tissue problem?

Did this all actually start 20 years ago after a bad car accident he had?

Could the problem have been building even before that? A bad football injury in high school? Hundreds of repetitive shoulder movements throwing a baseball during Little League?

An excruciatingly painful "dry needle" treatment last week seemed to show that the muscle in his arm was balled up so tight that it had basically stopped working since the injury seven months ago that sent him to the doctor.

Anyway, even the doctor said he was expecting the worst when he saw my husband's name on the patient list Tuesday.

I was in a different meeting during the appointment, but wanted to jump out of my seat when Capable Dad sent me this text:

"The end is near."

Could it be? The doctor was actually happy with his progress! He was NOT recommending a second surgery!

We couldn't believe it! We are so thankful to the many, many people who have prayed for him the past four weeks and the past seven months. This truly was not the result we expected, so we know God has been working!

The plan now is to continue his therapy at home, but reduce his visits to the PT office to twice a week for about six more weeks. Even though he still has limited range of motion in one area, he seems to be regaining a lot of flexibility and strength in the other directions. The doctor will check him again in six weeks, but he was pleasantly surprised with his progress.

Most people don't regain much more movement after the four-month mark. If that were the case, he might never regain his golf swing. Might not ever be able to pitch a baseball. He would be limited in his ability to shoots hoops with the boys.

Our prayer now is that he will regain that movement. Although those things are all very minor in the whole scheme of life, they are all things that he enjoys. And God has showed us that he can continue to work in ways that seem medically improbable.

It's crazy when I stop to think that this whole journey began seven months ago when we were working on rearranging our basement to clean out a ton of junk and make a nice space for our 11-year-old to hang out. My husband was carrying an armload of big work manuals when he tripped and the books jammed into his shoulder.

During the last two weeks, I have spent most of my free time back in the basement working on that long-lost project. I have been clearing out junk, cleaning and painting. Last night, my husband joined me in the basement to help me put together some storage units as I FINALLY finished up the project.

For the first time in many months, he held a power tool in his right hand and helped me put together some shelves. It was something I had seen him do many, many times during our marriage. And yet this time it was so special.

We had come full circle. We could see life returning to how it used to be.

It's been a long journey. But for the first time we could say it: The end is near.

Frozen

I've been meaning to write this blog post for a while now. I can't believe an entire week has passed, and I'm just now getting around to doing it.

Last Tuesday was CapableDad's follow-up visit with the surgeon who repaired his shoulder. We had been anxiously awaiting this appointment to get more details about why the doctor totally changed the surgery from what he told us he was planning to do originally.

To give a quick summary, CapableDad tore his labrum, which is the cartilage that attaches the arm to the shoulder, and he also tore his rotator cuff. He did this back in late November, but it took until March 8 to find out the extent of the injury and schedule the surgery.

The doctor came in on Tuesday with a file full of photos of the inside of my husband's shoulder. He had shown these to me quickly right after surgery, but it caught me so much by surprise that I couldn't fully absorb all that he was saying.

This time, I was ready to listen carefully and look closely at the photos. It was obvious from the photos that his muscles were very red and swollen. The doctor said this was a sign that scar tissue had been building up inside his arm for some time. The doctor even used the word "horrible" or something along those lines to describe what he saw when he looked inside my husband's arm.

The scar tissue most likely had been building up for a long period of time. It could have been caused by a previous injury. Certain types of people — women, diabetics and people over 40 — are also more likely to have this happen even without an injury. Anyway, apparently, so much scar tissue had formed that he was developing a frozen shoulder (possibly) even before his injury in late November.

Once the doctor saw what was happening on the inside, he realized that my husband was not going to regain full movement if he repaired the labrum and rotator cuff as he had planned. Instead, he cut out tons of scar tissue and filed away a very jagged area on the bone. It was amazing to see in the photos how the bone was rough and discolored before and then nice and smooth afterward.

The bicep is attached to the shoulder with two tendons. One of these tendons was tugging on the torn labrum. Instead of repairing the labrum, he cut the tendon away from it and then fastened it to the bone at a lower point. Although the torn labrum will never repair itself, he said it shouldn't cause any more problems because the tendon is no longer pulling on it.

During the visit, the doctor pushed and pulled my husband's arm in every direction to find out how much motion he has regained through physical therapy. I had to cover my eyes to keep from passing out as I watched the doctor stretch my husband's arm over his leg and push it down.

Somehow, CapableDad survived, although he was in a lot of pain for the next few days. He also gave him a three-week deadline to show a lot more improvement in his movement. Otherwise, the doctor will give him a cortisone shot to help speed up the process.

Being in a constant state of severe pain has become a way of life for CapableDad. For nearly three weeks now, his daily schedule consists of doing physical therapy, icing his muscles and then usually drifting into a comatose state for a few hours from the pain killers. That's the second reason this blog post is called "frozen." He spends a lot of time in a frozen state as his ice machine pumps freezing cold water into the ice pack strapped to his arm.

The progress seems extremely slow, but as I watch him do his physical therapy now, I know he has regained movement. He is also feeling better to just walk around the house or talk to people who stop by.

This week, he started working on building some strength back in his shoulder. However, he can't use his bicep at all until he reaches the 12-week mark. He isn't even supposed to lift a cup with the injured arm before then.

Thanks for checking in with us and taking the time to read. We continue to be overwhelmingly blessed by people bringing us meals, helping us with stuff around the house, asking about us, praying for us, filling in for me on Sunday mornings and just stopping by to lift my husband's spirits. We can never fully convey how much we appreciate it!

Zero to 180

Why am I updating my blog at 2 a.m.? I know it's ridiculous. I've basically reached the point that I'm tired of trying to go back to sleep over and over again.

I don't mean to sound like I'm whining and complaining. But for those who have asked, this is what life has been like the past seven days.

Our schedule feels very similar to what it's like to have a newborn in the house. Except we don't have a super cute little baby to admire during the waking hours. Instead, we have some very bruised, very sore muscles that are bundled up in knots, screaming and needing to be nursed around the clock.

I've been trying to think about why this experience is so different from anything we've been through before. I mean, I'm the Queen of Broken Arms. I've broken both of my wrists and both of my shoulders at various times in my life. I've been in full length casts and smaller casts and slings. So, I get the pain and discomfort of having one arm immobilized.

But the unique thing about having surgery on a muscle is that you are basically fighting against your own body's attempts to repair itself.

In both cases, the human body is creating scar tissue as fast as possible to fix the injured area. With a bone, this is great. Just don't move it for six weeks, and the bone actually ends up stronger than it was before.

With a muscle, your body is wrapping the area in scar tissue, which, if left alone, will become as hard as bone. If you don't continually move it and break it up early on, you won't be able to regain full movement later.

Right now, Capable Dad's ability to move his right shoulder is at zero. He has to exercise his injury three times a day without actually moving the muscle that is trying to heal itself. In other words, he has to use the other arm or his pulleys or a long cane to pick up, pull, lift and lower the limp right arm.

My amazing husband has always been naturally athletic. So, it's hard — and somewhat surreal — to see him struggle and wince in pain as he pulls up his arm to 90 degrees or slowly pushes it down to lower it to the bed. It's hard to imagine that these small movements can create such excruciating pain.

His schedule has become a four-hour cycle throughout the day. Eat. Take pain medication. Do physical therapy. Apply ice. Fall into a deep, comatose state from the pain medication.

Three days a week, he leaves the house to go to his torture session with the therapist (as opposed to exercising at home). She stretches and manipulates his arm to the point that he requires a lot more ice, more pain medication and more sleep. While he can move his bicep zero, her goal is to get it to 180.

Throughout the night, he starts to get restless around hour three of sleep as the pain medication begins to wear off. He has to pull himself out of bed and eat a snack so he can take more medicine and get back to sleep.

We can see him getting stronger each day. But I definitely wasn't expecting this level of pain to continue at Day 7. I really didn't know what to expect.

Anyway. We can't even begin to say how much we appreciate people who have helped with our kids and brought us food and prayed for us this week. We are super thankful for everything. The warm weather also has been a huge blessing that has made our days SO much more pleasant!

I wanted to post a photo of the injured area because there is nothing like an enormous bruise to make a blog post more exciting. Instead, I will post a photo of the 2-year-old eating one of the smiley face cookies sent by friends from Capable Dad's office. They totally made us smile!

The vampire or couvade syndrome?

CapableDad was almost ready for surgery. We had talked to nurses and the doctor's assistant who reviewed his medical history, got his IV in place and recorded his blood pressure. All that was left was a visit from the anesthesiologist.

She was a female doctor who was probably close to 60. She explained to us that she was going to give CapableDad some pain medication in his IV and then she would insert a needle into his neck to administer a pain block to his right shoulder.

She rubbed her hand along the side of his neck to show us the area where she would insert the needle.

"Ohhhh, he has a niiiiiice neck," she said with a big smile. She felt his neck again. "Yes. He has a very nice neck."

She looked at me and laughed. "Oh, we're all vampires," she said jokingly.

After she left the room, my husband and I both cracked up. It seemed like her laugh was just a little too sinister. Could it be that she really WAS a vampire?

And if not, can you imagine a male doctor making the same remark about a female patient? I'm not sure my husband would have thought it was funny if the tables were turned.

After the surgery, CapableDad said he couldn't remember a thing about having a needle injected in his neck. He couldn't even remember counting to 10. He said the anesthesiologist told him to lie down on something like a bean bag chair and said, "This isn't going to be very com...fort...a......"

And that was it.

I was in the waiting room by then, but I think I know the exact moment the needle went in. I felt a sudden pain in my back. It was the unmistakable pain right in the spot where my epidural went in for each of my four C-sections. Although I have felt that pain once in a while during the last 11 years since our first child was born, I haven't felt it in more than a year.

I have had that pain in my back almost constantly since CapableDad's surgery last Thursday. I've also been ridiculously tired. While his super-powered pain medication often gives him extra energy, it seems that with each pill he takes, my grogginess grows.

What was going on with my extreme exhaustion and this pain in the back? I looked on the Internet for answers, and that's when I came up with one possible explanation.

It's a scientific fact (studied by scientists and PROVEN by medical professionals) that when someone you love goes through an extremely painful situation, you can also feel their pain. It happens most often to a husband during his wife's pregnancy. You've probably seen those guys who grow a gut as large as their wife's pregnant belly? Sometimes they have fantom labor pains, too.

They even have a name for it. Couvade Syndrome. That must be it. I diagnosed myself with this medical condition. I would need to take frequent naps, eat extra chocolate and take hot baths. That would be my only hope for a cure.

But as I thought about it more, I realized there could be another possible cause.

My husband has been in so much pain that he's only tried to take a shower one time. His shoulder is still covered in Sharpie marker where the doctor mapped out a diagram of his muscle structure on the outside of his arm. Just below that is the initial of the doctor and the anesthesiologist who both left their tattoos to make sure they operated on the correct side of his body.

Maybe she WAS a vampire after all. Or maybe it was voodoo. Was it just a coincidence that I felt that sharp pain at about the same moment she would have injected the needle in his neck? Could there be more to the fact I've been fighting illness and fatigue since we got home from the hospital?

I realized I needed to get rid of her markings.

I carefully took rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball and did my best to wipe away her initials still there in Sharpie marker.

My back is feeling better already.

Or maybe I just need a nap.

Third day

Today is Day 3 after Capable Dad's surgery. We both woke up feeling worse for wear.

His shoulder is in immense pain. His back hurts from trying to sleep upright. His head is foggy from so much pain medication.

I woke up with a sore throat, runny nose and stuffed up head.

I also woke up so thankful for the people handling my Sunday morning responsibilities at church this morning. I looked at the clock and added an hour for the time change and realized there was no way we could have made it on time. I was so glad for the freedom to sleep this morning.

While I overslept, the boys were helping their dad fill up the ice machine that pumps freezing cold water into his ice pack. The 7-year-old has been busy all morning practicing her hand stand walk overs in the family room. And the 2-year-old runs around in circles singing a medley of her favorite songs: "Twinkle-star! Twinkle-star! I love Barney! I love Barney! Jesus Me!"

The most difficult part of yesterday was helping CapableDad do the physical therapy he is supposed to do at home before he goes back to his second torture session on Monday. We have a pulley system that hangs over the top of the door. He straps the injured arm to one handle and the goal is to pull it up to a 90-degree angle. He doesn't move his arm at all the rest of the day, so the shock of doing this exercise is great.

He's only supposed to do it for three minutes. We are both extremely relieved when he makes it that long. It's really hard to watch him in so much pain as he slowly move his arm up and down again. But he's a trouper and determined to do his exercises.

We learned at physical therapy that Day 7 is when the human body starts laying down scar tissue like crazy. Once in place, the scar tissue is as strong as bone, so it will be very difficult to regain movement if it settles. The goal is to get as much movement back as possible before the scar tissue forms.

After three minutes of physical therapy, we get the ice and pain killers ready. The physical and mental exhaustion set in, and he's usually knocked out for a while.

Overall, we are so thankful. This week is supposed to include some 70-degree weather. We have been so blessed by people helping us out in every way. Thank you so much to everyone who has asked about us, brought a meal, sent a text or said a prayer. We appreciate it!

The beginning of us... the end (with photos!)

There are so many other things I could write about that happened during the next two years. We would go to extremes to see each other. At least once a month, he would call me on a Friday and tell me he was headed my way. He could drive the 590 miles in about 10 hours.

(This photo was taken in Kent's apartment in Mississippi. You can almost see that he is wearing The Ugly Shoes. Now I'm noticing that my shoes weren't exactly pretty!)

I would visit him as often as I could. I would convince my dad to give me a plane ticket. Or I would pack up my red Sunfire and make the long trek myself. It took me about 12 hours to drive all that way, past St. Louis, through the tip of Missouri and part of Arkansas, through Memphis and finally across Mississippi.

I bought a CD player "boom box," and I would check out audio books from the library. The books only came on cassette tape at the time, so I couldn't play them in the CD player in my car. I filled the front seat with D batteries so I could keep my boom box going as I listened to book after book on that long drive.

I have always loved to ride my bike. Once we started dating we started riding mountain bike trails. Kent would leave Mississippi around 4 p.m. on Friday and get to Springfield around 2 a.m. Somehow, we had enough energy to ride the mountain bike trails on Saturday.

(Here we are after a ride in Springfield. Our bikes were always covered with mud. This photo was taken in front of the garage to my apartment, "The Berkeley.")

We would enjoy every second of that day together, but the whole time we had this sense of impending doom that Sunday was on its way. Usually around noon, he would say good-bye and begin that long drive down south.

We also liked to play tennis. Several times, I would leave Springfield on a chilly day in early spring and we would play tennis all weekend in shorts in Mississippi.

We loved the warm weather in the south. But neither of us ever adjusted to the culture in Mississippi or the heat and humidity in the summer. The first time I went to visit him, we walked into a restaurant for lunch and saw his co-workers sitting together at a table.

"Look at that!" one of the guys announced. "Kent's got himself a woman."

I was so embarrassed.

(This photo was taken in Jackson, Mississippi. I thought it would be hilarious to take a photo in front of that big monument to "The Confederate Dead of Mississippi.")

After about a year making the Mississippi commute, he had the opportunity to take a job in the Chicago area. While we would still be about four hours apart, it seemed like next-door neighbors compared to Mississippi.

From that very first weekend when he made the unexpected trip to Springfield, we both knew we were meant to be together. We just knew. We had barely started dating, and yet we had known each other nearly all of our lives. I knew his family and he knew mine, so that alone gave us a jumpstart in our relationship.

He moved to the suburbs in October and that next June we got engaged. On Nov. 15, 1997, we were married. We had dated just over two years and had lived in separate towns the entire time.

**

I can't imagine my life without my husband. He is my rock.

I'm the one who is always out there, pushing the limits and trying new things. I'm not afraid to learn something or try something new. But I always seem to doubt myself or need reassurance.

He always puts me at peace. When he's out of town for a long period of time, I start to go crazy without his calming presence. He keeps me grounded. He helps me see the good in me. Sometimes, he seems to understand me in a way that I don't even understand myself.

We've been married and been parents for long enough that sometimes it's hard to remember that life was ever different. But once in a while, I glance at him and remember seeing him ride his BMX bike in sixth grade or walking across the field in high school in his football uniform.

I remember sitting in the back of his dad's car shouting out directions or The Ugly Shoes or the drive to Mississippi. I think about the Thai restaurant or The Berkeley or riding our mountain bikes around Springfield.

It's hard to believe that those two people are parents with four children. It's hard to believe we're even responsible enough to keep things going sometimes.

It's fun to remember those days.

It's good to remember when life was so much less.

I'm so thankful for today that life is so much more.

The beginning of us, part 6

The plane ride from Columbus, Mississippi, to Springfield, Illinois, took less than two hours. But it was plenty of time to replay that scene hundreds of times in my mind. What had happened?

After all of the anticipation of those weeks and months of e-mails, followed by endless phone conversations, finally resulting in that fun first date, how could it end with me telling him he was a jerk?

I already knew that this guy had an extremely dry sense of humor. I have always had a sarcastic sense of humor, so I totally got it. One of the things we liked about each other was that we made each other laugh. But I had such a hard time deciding when he was serious that I had asked him to use a code (the symbol ~) to indicate when he was being sarcastic in his e-mail.

I assumed those parting comments were his dry sense of humor, covering up the nervousness of saying good-bye. But I would have preferred honesty at that moment.

By the time I got home, I already had an e-mail with the subject line, "the jerk."

He said he liked the fact that I was strong enough to say what was on my mind. He deserved to be put in his place, and he was glad I had done it.

OK.

I really didn't expect that response.

At the end of that week, I got a Fed-Ex package. It was April 14, and he had paid for an overnight delivery of my birthday card. That really wasn't necessary.

No seriously, it wasn't.

My birthday wasn't until the following week, April 21. He had gotten the dates mixed up and was so afraid he would miss my birthday that he sent the card Fed Ex. I hardly had the heart to tell him that he was a week early.

**

A couple of weeks after that I got a call saying he was in Chicago. He had gone on a business trip and left his car in southern Illinois where he and his co-workers all grabbed a train up to Chicago. He thought maybe he would drive a few hours out of his way and come by and see me on his way home.

It was the worst possible time he could come to visit me. It was during the final days of the legislative session, and it was assumed that, like all of the other reporters, I needed to work pretty much around the clock to cover whatever happened.

I was always functioning in "survival mode" that time of year. I would eat on the run, sleep very little and work until late in the evening. I was stressed enough just trying to get through my life, at that point. But there was no way I was going to delay this visit. I was surprised and excited that he was actually coming to town.

I scrambled furiously to clean up my apartment. Springfield is a town with so much history, and it still has streets lined with historic homes. I lived in a four-flat apartment building that was probably built around 1940. My apartment had gold patterned wallpaper and thick shag carpeting. The kitchen had the original stove and refrigerator. I held my breath every time I used a match to light up that gas stove, hoping the whole apartment didn't go up in flames.

I could look past all of that though because of the thick solid wood molding, the built in bookshelves and the sunroom on the front. Instead of a shower, I had a clawfoot tub, and the place used radiator heat. Above the front door was a plaque that said, "The Berkeley."

To this day, we still talk about The Berkeley. That place had so much character. It instantly brings back great memories of our early days of dating.

**

I was working when he got into town.

I remember standing outside the Pressroom on the mezzanine level of the Capitol, waiting for him to walk up the steps. I worked in an office with a group of men who were going to have a lot to say if I came walking in with this visitor.

Instead, I showed him to the gallery of the Illinois House of Representatives and helped him find a seat. He would have to hang out there until the session ended for the evening, and I could go home.

I told a few of my other female reporter friends that this guy had come to visit me and was sitting up in the gallery. I tried to point him out from where we sat in the press box on the House floor.

I came back a few hours later to find him mesmerized. He had made a few friends who had kept him company while he got a first-hand view of how laws are made in the state of Illinois. Much to my surprise, he wasn't bored or anxious to go home. He was loving it.

**

I took him to a Thai restaurant that was a popular hang-out with and all my friends. The restaurant was a total hole in the wall. The waitresses were mean and would yell at you if you didn't order fast enough. But the place was always packed. The food was amazing.

Unless, of course, you are someone like my husband. Someone who loves meat and potatoes. Someone who really doesn't like Chinese food or Japanese food or Thai. I had no idea at the time how much that restaurant must have been outside his comfort zone.

The only thing I actually remember about that meal was that I was trying to get to the bottom of why he had traveled all the way from Mississippi to Chicago and then went out of his way to visit me in Springfield. Why was he there?

His answer was simple and straightforward.

"I had to see you."

Little by little, he was taking his chisel and hammering away at the bricks and mortar I hid behind. He was chipping away at a little hole to my emotions.

I was learning that he was a guy who didn't mess around. He didn't play games. He was exactly who he was. He didn't care what anyone thought about him, but that didn't come across in an arrogant way. He was just completely OK with who he was.

He wasn't interested in mind games or playing with my emotions. I asked a question. He would answer.

"You had to see me?" I repeated.

Chip. Chip. Chip.... Clunk. One brick down.

**

This story is almost done...

The beginning of us, part 5

We started talking almost daily, and I was loving this relationship. It was completely safe.

We spent long hours on the phone or e-mail, just getting to know each other. He asked me about my day. He made me laugh. It didn't matter how I looked or what I was wearing. There was no risk involved.

I still don't know if the next part of the story was fabricated, like the e-mail address, or what was going on behind the scenes.

My parents told me that they had decided to go to Mississippi for a tour of the antebellum homes that happened every spring in the town where he lived. They asked me if I would like to go along. My dad traveled so much for his job that he had tons of frequent flyer point. We could all fly down, and Kent could show us around.

I still don't know why, but Kent's parents were going to make the trip, as well. They lived in Cincinnati and my parents lived in southern Illinois. The four of them knew each other, but they had never been close friends.

It seems funny now that both sets of our parents planned this trip. I think I found out later that they had actually called each other and plotted it somehow. Whatever the case, I was very nervous about meeting this guy in real life, not to mention in front of both sets of our parents! We would all meet at the house that was the start of the tour of the antebellum homes.

"Do you think we'll even recognize them?" I asked my mom.

"Of COURSE we'll recognize them!" she said.

I actually noticed Kent's mom first. I couldn't remember what she looked like, but as soon as I saw her, I immediately remembered her.

The first thing I noticed about Kent was his shoes.

He was wearing white Nike basketball shoes that had a thick black stripe down the side and black shoe laces. They were laced very loosely and the laces hung open at the top.

They were the ugliest shoes I had ever seen.

To this day, we still refer to them as "the ugly shoes."

**

In a way, I was impressed that he would wear such ugly shoes. I had probably spent hours choosing what outfit I would wear for that moment. I thought it was kind of cool that he was so self confident. The shoes said it all.

Other than that, I noticed his big smile. He was smiling constantly, and I could see he had already used that big smile to charm my mom and dad. He took such an interest in everything they had to say. He asked my mom questions and listened intently as she answered.

I wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as I thought I would be. It was like we had known each other our whole lives. And I guess that makes sense because we really had known each other most of our lives.

The six of us piled into two cars and began driving around town to see all of the beautiful homes in this small town in northern Mississippi. Kent and I sat in the back seat of the car with his mom and dad.

The two of us were using a map to try to navigate around town. We were both holding the map and he would point out where he thought we were. I noticed that his tan fingers were bent in funny ways. He told me that between playing football, baseball and just doing crazy boy stuff, he had broken nine of his 10 fingers. Apparently, he let most of them heal on their own. I thought those bent fingers were the coolest thing.

We were driving his dad crazy trying to give directions from the back seat. I think he actually had to pull over for a while because he was so frustrated with us shouting out, "turn left!", "turn right!"

For the next few days, it seemed like I spent more time with my parents and Kent's mom than I did with him. We would wander around and look at the homes. We met his mom for lunch. Kent and his dad always seemed to be busy playing golf.

Finally, it was the last evening of the long weekend we would be there. The phone rang in my hotel room. He asked me to go to dinner.

It took me a minute to process this. You mean, just you and me? 

I hadn't lived with my parents for eight years at that point, but I still had this strange feeling I should ask permission. I was finally going to escape my parents and his parents and all of those old Mississippi homes.

He picked me up in his black pick-up truck, and we headed to a Mexican restaurant. He had been so quiet when we were with all of those parents. Now that it was just the two of us, he talked non-stop.

We talked and talked and talked that night. It was probably 3 a.m. when he finally dropped me off and headed home.

I had to leave the next morning.

I only had one problem. My parents had reserved two hotel rooms — one for them and one for me. They left me a note the next morning to tell me they had to leave early for the airport. I was stuck there without a car.

I called Kent's apartment to ask if he could give me a ride. His mom answered. He was still sleeping, so she would come pick me up. We must have gone by his place to pick him up on the way to the airport. The only thing I remember is that just as I was about to board my plane, he made some comment along the lines of, "Well, have a nice trip. Maybe I'll see you again some time."

I didn't think it was funny.

I looked him in the eye and said, "You are such a jerk."

Then, I turned around and walked onto the plane.

The beginning of us, part 4

I had my modem set to check my e-mail once an hour. Many times I couldn't wait though for the computer to wake up from its sleep and the modem to start its screeching. I had put myself OUT there, and I was a nervous wreck.

About 24 hours later, I heard that familiar voice.

"You've got mail."

I can't remember exactly what his message said. I know he asked me some questions about where I had been the last eight years since we graduated from high school. So, I had to write back. I made sure to wait at least an entire day before sending my reply. I didn't want to seem too interested.

I was living in Springfield, Ill., at the time. I was a newspaper reporter, working in the state Capitol Building. One of my main "beats" was the Illinois Department of Corrections. I had been covering a death penalty case and somehow the subject came up. For several e-mails, we chatted about the death penalty. I didn't really care if he was for it or against it. I was just impressed he had some thoughts about it.

He lived in a university town in Mississippi, and he was proud of the fact that he had managed to get a password into the Internet on campus. That was what he used to check his e-mail. At some point in our string of conversations, I realized he also used the university's Internet to look up some of my articles on line. He was spying on me.

For the next few months, we would e-mail almost daily. One time, I didn't get an e-mail for several days.

"That's it," I decided. He must have met some cute Mississippi girl and forgotten completely about me. When he finally wrote back three days later, he apologized profusely. He had been sent on a work trip to Texas and couldn't write. He checked for my message the minute he got home.

Really?

This was perfect. I had lived by myself for five years already, and I was accustomed to having the freedom to do my thing: hanging out with friends on the weekends, working late when I needed to, going for bike rides in Washington Park, meeting up with my reporter friends or their wives for our "book club," meeting people for dinner.

I could come home and have some interesting conversation at the end of the day. I was starting to settle in. This was nice. Then he asked me if he could have my phone number.

"Oh, no!" I thought. "This could ruin everything."

Things were going so well. Did we really have to destroy our relationship by talking on the phone? What if he turned out to be a complete idiot in real life? I wasn't excited about this new phase, but I knew I was only prolonging the inevitable. At some point, we would need to talk. I mean, really.

Reluctantly, I gave him my number. He told me he would call me on Saturday. I tried to stay away from my apartment as much as possible. I wanted to make sure I missed his call.

When I was home, I would try to talk on the phone so he couldn't get through. I definitely didn't want him to get the idea that he could just call me any old time, and I was going to be there to pick up the phone.

He left a message.

He didn't sound too bad.

I called him back at a time I knew he would be at work just so I could listen to his answering machine.

OK. He sounded normal enough.

I called it a few more times, just to be sure.

When he finally called back, I couldn't handle the suspense any longer. Caller ID hadn't even been invented yet at that point, but I could tell who was calling. My stomach was full of butterflies when I picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

**

To be continued...