The days, weeks, months, and years fly by as I deal with my sad and lonely marriage. I continue to try to get pregnant, hoping I will be blessed with a baby that can either save my marriage or at least give me something else to focus on. I bury myself in work, and my insurance business continues to flourish. It is small consolation though, because my personal life is in turmoil.
To make matters worse, I am devastated to find out that my father is not doing well. From the time I was a little girl, my vision of my father included a pipe in his mouth. He loved to smoke that pipe. Unfortunately, after a lifetime of smoking, my father developed severe emphysema.
In July of 2003, my parents drive to California so my dad can undergo special laser treatments to remove the affected lung tissue. Something goes wrong after the surgery, as my dad’s lungs will not heal. One of his lungs collapses, there are constant setbacks, and he barely survives.
I fly out to Los Angeles and stay with them in their hotel for a few days. Ryan stays home. It is stressful seeing my dad so ill, but we are hopeful that he will get better. At least this surgery will buy him some time. I think my parents have figured out that my relationship with Ryan is on the rocks. But for the most part, I haven’t burdened them with the details, because they are going through so much.
After four and a half months in and out of the hospital, my parents are finally able to return home to Minnesota. Despite a long healing process, the surgery seems to be a success, as my dad enjoys a much-improved quality of life. They caution, however, that it is a temporary solution that will last about three years.
Ryan’s drinking continues and escalates. After six and a half years of marriage, I finally realize he is not going to change. I resent him for drinking. When he does have a stint of sobriety, he resents me that he isn’t drinking. The resentment in our marriage is so thick, we can’t see through it to find the love or friendship that brought us together in the first place. I begin to think about divorce but find it hard to take that final step.
One night in the fall of 2004, Ryan takes the fateful final step for me. He hits me. If they hit you once, they will hit you again. I know that. In a way, I am relieved that it happened, because now I can finally justify leaving him.
A month later, Ryan flies back home by himself to Tennessee for Christmas. While he is home, surrounded by his family and friends, I call him and tell him I am going to file for divorce. He doesn’t argue or protest. He already knew.
Divorce is never easy, but this one is relatively cordial. I think Ryan missed his family, his friends, and his life back in Tennessee, and he seems excited to be back home in the country.
He flies back to Rapid City after Christmas, and I move out of our house for a week so he can go through our belongings and pack. We are fair about splitting our possessions. He leaves me with all of the furniture. The only thing he really insists on taking is our beloved springer spaniel, Smokey.
At the end of the week, Ryan calls.
“I’m sitting in the Kmart parking lot,” he says softly. “Do you want to come by and say goodbye?”
“Yes, I do,” I reply, as tears come to my eyes.
I quickly drove over to Kmart. We both get out of our cars, and without a word, embrace in a long hug.
“Bye,” I whisper through tears.
“Bye,” he replies, turns, gets in his car, and drives off.
What else can be said? It is over.
I get into my car and sit there for a while, lost in thought. An overwhelming sadness envelops me, as I feel the loss way down deep in my marrow, the regret of what might have been, the years forever lost.
As I drive away, the Fleetwood Mac song, “Don’t Stop” comes on the radio (the song he had written on the index cards). I call him on my cell to tell him. It is a bittersweet moment — a stark contrast between what was good back then and the finality of this unhappily ever after.
It is strange timing, because that song, in a way, is what started our relationship. He wrote out the lyrics, because he wanted me to think about “tomorrow” — a future with him. Now here it is playing on the radio at the end of our relationship, and it represents something completely different — a future without him.
I did a whole lot of praying over the past six and a half years. I had asked God a million and one times to improve our relationship, help Ryan with his drinking issues, and to give us a baby. I had gotten to know God much better simply because of the huge amount of time I’d spent talking to him. He had become more personal to me. Yet, despite my newfound connection with God, I feel a void in my heart, and a deep desire to have someone love me the way I hope to be loved.
Not long after Ryan moves back to Tennessee, my neighbor Terry, with whom both Ryan and I had become friendly, starts flirting with me in a fairly obvious way. He shovels snow off my driveway and sidewalks, helps me out with odd jobs I need done around the yard and the house, and comes over to chat whenever he sees that I am home.
I am starving for affection and love. Terry says all the right things, and makes me feel loved. I eat up the attention. He is a fun person, and we get along great. It is much too convenient with him living only two doors down from my house.
Without much thought or discernment, I start a romance with Terry not long after Ryan leaves. Even if there was a huge stamp on his forehead reading “rebound relationship” I don’t think I could have stopped myself. I know in my heart it is too soon, but I can’t acknowledge it. It feels too good. After years of feeling nothing, feeling something matters more than the heartbreak I know deep in my soul is sure to follow.
In April 2005, I notice a spot on my left upper arm that looks like ringworm. After watching it for a few weeks, I realize it isn’t going away, so I make an appointment to see my dermatologist. Terry, who has become my constant companion, goes with me. When my female doctor enters the room, Terry flirts with her so obviously that I am actually a bit embarrassed for him. I dismiss the disrespect to me, thinking, he’s just a flirt.
My doctor takes one look at the spot, and says, “Pam, this is cancer. You’re coming back tomorrow morning.”
Terry goes with me again the next morning. As we sit in the doctor’s waiting room, I am looking through a magazine and see a picture of a gorgeous wedding ring.
Terry notices. “You like that?”
“I love it,” I reply.
“You want me to get you one?”
“Sure!”
I mean it. I am in love again, and caught up in the newness of the relationship. My knight in shining armor is saving me, the damsel in distress, as I deal with cancer. I buy the whole romantic scenario — hook, line, and sinker.
Learning about my diagnosis was scary. I am worried the cancer may have spread or it may reoccur. It makes me think about how precious life is and how short. I feel vulnerable. I don’t want to go through this alone. I open my heart wide and invest myself completely into my relationship with Terry.
Later that day, after spending most of the day at the doctor’s office, we are at Terry’s house, and he surprises me with a pepper steak sandwich he made himself. When we finish eating, he tosses me a ring, and asks, “Want to marry me?”
I dismiss the lackluster of his half-hearted proposal, telling myself, that’s just Terry’s personality. I say yes, proudly put the ring on my finger, and move forward with the intention that we will someday be married.
Our engagement presents one big issue, however. My family. They simply won’t understand. Both Terry and I know this is true love. The real deal. But, I doubt my parents will believe that, since I just separated from my husband.
“We have to wait,” I announce.
“But you want kids and I want kids. I don’t want to wait,” he retorts.
“We have to wait,” I firmly state again.
“You’re not getting any younger,” he rationalizes.
I am thirty-six, and my biological clock is not only ticking very loudly, but setting off blaring alarms. I assume I can’t get pregnant, after trying unsuccessfully for six years. We reach an agreement of sorts. We will wait to get married, but we agree to have unprotected sex, and hope for a baby. It will buy me some time to tell my parents about my new relationship.
Being diagnosed with cancer makes me more willing to take risk and throw caution to the wind. I am in love, and that is all that matters.
One day, I am flicking through the channels on television, and to my great surprise, I see Brandon and Brody. They (along with Linda and David Foster) are on a reality television show called The Princes of Malibu. I can’t believe it. I watch in amazement. It is the first time I have seen them in many years, and I am surprised how grown up they are. Brandon and Brody are handsome boys. Linda looks exactly the same, and as beautiful as ever. It’s hard to believe that my boys are now television stars.
It seems like a lifetime ago that I was their nanny. My life is so different now.
Between April and October, I begin to notice a lot of ups and downs in Terry’s behavior. Sometimes, he has so much energy that he exhausts me. Occasionally, he won’t even go to bed. He stays up all night, fiddling around in the garage. He takes things apart that don’t need to be taken apart. He cleans things that don’t need to be cleaned. I try to keep up with him, but it is impossible.
Then, inevitably, he crashes, and sleeps for three days straight. After noticing this drastic behavior for several months, I ask him about it.
“Oh yeah. I never really wanted to tell you about it, but I’m bipolar,” Terry admits.
The next day, I call an insurance client of mine who I know is bipolar and describe Terry’s symptoms. He confirms that it sounds exactly like bipolar symptoms.
That night, I try to talk to him about it.
“Terry, why don’t you get on meds?”
“I’m not going to get addicted to any meds,” he retorts, irritated at my response, and walks away.
For months, I pay two mortgage payments — mine and his. He always has an excuse for why he can’t pay. Finally, I decide to sell my house, and move in with him, so we only have one mortgage. We are practically living together anyway, so it seems like a good move.
In early November, Terry and I have a horrible fight. I catch him talking to another girl on the phone, and demand that I meet her, if she is “just a friend” as he says. He refuses. I move out and stay with a friend, Judy, for two weeks, trying to figure out what I am going to do.
On November 18, I am in my car driving over to Terry’s house to tell him I am breaking up with him. I am listening to the local Christian radio station.
The announcer says, “Are you about to give up on someone? Don’t give up on someone too soon. Jesus forgave seven times seventy.”
Is this message meant for me?
My period is late, but I have been late countless times all those years I tried to get pregnant, only to be disappointed time and time again. So I haven’t taken a pregnancy test yet.
After hearing the message, which seems like a sign from God, I decide to pull over and buy a pregnancy test to see if I am indeed pregnant. I want to know before I go to see Terry. I buy a test at a drug store and go into the bathroom of a nearby convenience store.
It is positive. I am both happy and sad. Happy because this has been my deepest desire for years. Yet, sad because my relationship has been so rocky lately, and here I am finding out this wonderful news by myself in the bathroom of a convenience store.
I sit in my car for a long time, thinking everything over. I have a new life growing in my tummy. I want this child to have what I had — a mommy and daddy who love each other and who live in the same home. I have to give Terry another shot, for the sake of my baby. My drive over to see Terry and break up has been sidelined by a message on the radio and now switches to a completely different focus.
When I arrive at Terry’s house, I sit him down and ask him, “Are you willing to do anything to make this relationship work?”
“Yes, I am, Pam,” he promises, seeming remorseful.
I’d heard about a Christian couples retreat called “A Weekend to Remember,” which happens to be coming up that weekend. I ask Terry if he will go with me. He agrees, so I tell him that I will pick him up at his house on Friday. I say nothing about being pregnant.
When I arrive at his house on Friday, I hand him a card with baby blocks on the front. On the inside, I have written, “Congratulations. Hope you and mommy work things out because I really want to be a part of both of your lives.”
He looks at me with a startled expression and asks, “What does this mean?”
“I’m pregnant,” I reply.
Terry bursts into tears. I am so touched by his tears and how happy he seems. I believe in my heart that somehow everything will work out.
I agree to get back together and work on our relationship, although I decide to continue living with my girlfriend until I am sure Terry is committed to making things work.
On December 1, 2005, I receive a call on my cell phone from a parole officer who informs me that Terry has been arrested for possession of Methamphetamines. A girl named Theresa was with him at the time of the arrest. I feel like I have been kicked in my stomach. I am a few weeks pregnant, and the father of my baby is with another woman. I know what it means. Everything makes sense now. The phone calls. The “friend” I can’t meet. The erratic behavior and mood swings.
I drive to the jail the next day to talk to him. The Meth possession and drug use should be a huge concern for me and I definitely need explanation and some show of remorse. First and foremost, I care about one thing, and I have only one question.
“Were you sleeping with her?”
Acting offended that I’d even suggest such a thing, he responds, “No, Pam, I swear on the Bible. I swear on my unborn child’s life. I was not sleeping with her. I have never slept with her. She was just my drug connection.”
Again, I believe him. I want so badly for this to work. I want to trust the love I feel for him. I want to believe he loves me, and that he can change, and that I can help him change. I trust him, and I begin to plan how I will manage this pregnancy alone until he’s out of prison, and we can all be a family again.
I have been attending the same church (Atonement Lutheran Church) since I moved to Rapid City in 1998, and I am still the organist. I’ve been a regular, faithful member, but it sure hasn’t kept my life from falling apart. In a way, I guess it’s not much different from the church experience of my youth. I go because I know I should. It does make me feel better when I attend. The people are nice, the pastor is great, and the messages are inspiring. But I don’t read the Bible, I’m not involved in any study groups, and I don’t pray all that much except when I really need God’s help for something.
I am worried about telling the pastor and the church members about my pregnancy. I’m not sure how they will treat me. I doubt they will want me to be the organist anymore.
Their reaction overwhelms me. Every single member of the church showers me with love, acceptance, support, and kindness. I need a place to stay because Terry’s house is being sold. One of the members lets me live in the apartment in their basement, for drastically reduced rent, which is such a blessing.
I believe in my heart that God put Terry in my life for a reason. I have suffered deep hurt, but I am willing to stand by him if this is God’s purpose for me, and if I am supposed to be the one to lead him to God. I wonder to myself if I am too loyal. It’s always been something I pride myself on. I was loyal to my first boyfriend in high school, I was loyal to the Jenners and Kardashians. I was loyal to Ryan for seven years, and now I’m staying loyal to Terry. I have to believe that he wants to get better and that he is committed to our relationship.
Now I have to tell my parents, and I dread calling them. They don’t even know I’m dating someone, and now I have to confess I’m pregnant too. I finally gather the courage and call them. My dad’s response is, “Well, the damage is done.” Not exactly supportive. Of course they have questions about the father of the baby. I can’t bring myself to tell them the truth, so I concoct a huge lie. I tell them Terry has received a civilian contract over in Iraq to work on a construction project and that he is overseas for my entire pregnancy.
The main reason I lie is because of my dad’s illness. For years, he has become progressively sicker, short of breath, and unable to do the things that he loved. I know the truth about Terry will upset him so much, and I fear it will affect his health, so I lie to try to protect my father.
I support Terry as he is sentenced and sent away to prison. And, I support him by driving to visit him once a month, my tummy getting bigger and bigger. I don’t have much money, and every trip with food, gas, and hotel is at least a hundred dollars. My first pregnancy — an event I have looked forward to my whole life — should be a joyous time of celebration, expectation, and sharing every little new development with my partner. Instead, I am alone.
I am broken. My life is in shambles. I am disappointed in myself and my choices. The dreams I had for my life have been shattered, the broken shards trampled in the mud. I have a big belly. I am an unwed mother. My boyfriend — the father of my baby — is in jail. I am lying to my family. I can’t get much lower unless I start crawling. I am feeling pretty sorry for myself, lonely, and quite unlovable.
And then the kind people at my church show me just how lovable I am. One of the ladies at the church, Eldene, hosts a baby shower for me at her house. I think every lady in that church attends, even women I had never met. I will have everything I need when my baby is born, thanks to them. Women from the church often call to check up on me, ask if I need to talk, and invite me to lunch. I am overwhelmed at how these kind people are treating me — an unwed mother whose partner is in jail (which churches generally frowned upon, or so I thought). It is exactly what I would hope for from people who follow the teachings of Jesus. It is above and beyond what I ever imagined or expected.
Their actions change my life and transform my faith in God. It is a defining moment in my life and in my walk with God. They show me what the true love of Jesus looks like. And through them, I experience His love, in a real and tangible way. It isn’t just empty words in a book. It is real. It makes me want more of Him and expect more from Him. I want to personally know a God who can love me like that.
So I join a Bible study. I am lying on my bed, after coming home from my first night of Bible study. I open up the front of my Bible, after blowing the dust off the cover. As I gingerly turn the thin pages, I notice one verse highlighted on the title page. Wow, this must be a really important verse, I think. The verse is Isaiah 40:8, “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of the Lord stands forever.” Flowery and lovely, but I don’t quite get what it means.
So I open the study book we will be going through. And at the top of the page for the first lesson is a Bible verse: 1st Peter 1: 24-25. “All people are like grass, and all their glory is like the flower of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord endures forever.”
Whoa! That gets my attention. I feel like God is speaking directly to me. Okay, so I guess the word of God — the Bible — is rather important. I make a commitment right there to start reading the Bible regularly.
That’s how it starts — my real relationship with God. First, I came to know that God loved me through the actions of the people in my church. Secondly, I hear God speak to me directly through two Bible verses about grass and flowers. And, finally, I begin to read God’s words to me from the Bible. That is how my true, real, deep down in my soul, “relationship” with God begins. Pretty simple really, yet so profound.
Lying to my parents is taking its toll on me. It is a constant source of guilt, stress, and regret. But my father’s condition continues to deteriorate, and as much as I want to unburden my heart and tell them the truth, I don’t want to be the cause of stress for him. He would be angry and heartbroken, and he would worry constantly about me.
The laser treatment my father underwent in California in 2003 was a temporary solution, and now the emphysema is back with a vengeance. In the early part of 2006, we begin discussing the possibility of a lung transplant. There are so many potential complications, but it is beginning to look like that might be the only option for my dad, as he has become so sick.
My beautiful, precious son is born on August 2, 2006. My mom is with me for the delivery, and it is a wonderful blessing to share the experience with her. I am sad that my dad (who is too sick to travel) can’t be here to welcome his new grandson into the world. A few minutes after my son is born, as they lay him in my arms, I look up at my mom, and I can hardly get the words out between my tears.
“Mom, his name is going to be James.” My mom bursts into tears. I have kept the name a secret all of these months. He is named James Terry Behan after my father. His nickname will be Jamie, a name I’ve liked since I was a little girl. A few minutes later, my mom calls my dad, but she has a hard time telling him because my dad is so emotional. He is elated.
I am thrilled that Jamie is born on August 2nd, because it is the same date I caught the huge walleye I told Brandon and Brody about. It was the most significant moment of my youth, and now the most important event of my adult life has happened on the same day.
During my pregnancy, I walked a couple miles every morning. While I walked, I would pray, “Dear God, I’m okay with my baby being a boy or girl, whatever you think would bless me and my family the most. I pray that he or she would look like whichever parent it would benefit the most, and I pray that it will be healthy.”
God knew what he was doing. It is so special that I was able to name him after my father. As for looks, he is the spitting image of me.
When Jamie is only a month old, I take my tiny newborn son to meet his dad in jail. I continue to make these trips every month, even in the frigid cold South Dakota winter. I believe it is the right thing to do. I blindly trust that Terry wants to overcome his drug use, and I am holding on to the belief that he did not cheat on me.
When Terry gets out of prison on January 11, 2007, I am thrilled to be back together. He moves into the condo I purchased the previous spring. I truly believe he is on a straight path to recovery. He regularly attends a Narcotics Anonymous class. I begin to harbor hope in my heart that my dreams of a happy family life are finally going to come true.
In March of 2007, my dad is so deathly ill that a lung transplant becomes his only option for survival. He is admitted to the Gift of Life Transplant House in Rochester, Minnesota, right next to the Mayo Clinic, to wait for a lung to become available. On May 7th, we get the call that a lung is available, and the next day my dad receives his new lung.
After a stay in the hospital, and three more months back at the Gift of Life Transplant House for recovery, my dad goes home — with a new lease on life. I’ve never seen my father so happy and carefree. He is like a little kid with a happy go lucky attitude. He can be active again and do the things he loves. He can breathe freely again. It is so nice to see my dad back to his old self. I hope and pray there will be no complications. My parents have been through so much in the last few years because of his illness.
My parents and I visit each other often, and they bond with their grandson. My mom and dad adore little Jamie, and love spending time with him. It melts my heart to see how my dad lights up when Jamie is around him.
While that part of my life is looking up, Terry’s carefully crafted lies and deceit finally catch up to him. I find out for certain that he has been cheating on me since the beginning of our relationship. I yell, scream, rant, and rave. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so much anger and hate towards another human being. Everything I went through the last year and a half was one big lie. I visited him in jail for a year, brought my newborn son to see him in the dead of winter, sent him money so he could call me every day, lied to my parents while my dad was near death, and, worst of all, believed in him. I always believed in him.
I kick Terry out of my home the day I find out.
It all makes sense now. A thousand images flood my mind, as I piece together the web of betrayal and deceit. I think about the day he proposed. I can’t believe how callous and indifferent he acted, and how naïve and gullible I was. I desired to be loved so badly, that I put blinders on, and saw only what I wanted to see. I was pretty naïve about the whole thing. The truth is that I’d never been around drugs or anyone who was addicted to drugs. Looking back now, I think, You idiot! How could you not know? Towards the end, before his tightly wound ball of lies and deception began to unwind, I think I did know, but I didn’t want it to be true. I loved him so much.
That night, as I am lying in bed thinking, I recall for the first time some words of wisdom I heard many years before, from my old friend, Sylvester Stallone. “DTA. Don’t trust anyone. Just give it twenty years, and you won’t trust anyone either,” Sly said to me that day as we stood in his closet. It has been almost twenty years, and my heart has been broken one too many times. I promise myself that night, “Don’t Trust Anyone” will be my new motto when it comes to men.