What do you really know at 16?
We met at a youth camp twenty years ago just before my 16th birthday. He was the tall quiet guy from out of town. I was the bubbly bouncy person in charge of icebreakers and games and ensuring everyone participated – even the lone ranger from the far off Fort McMurray. After three days, where I found out that not only did he smile but he also sang (thank you mandatory talent show), I thought that was it. The good looking guy from out of town whose smile set my heart a flutter was going back home never to be seen again. After all, where was Fort McMurray? Never heard of it.
Sixteen year old me was a happy go lucky bookworm with an affinity for dancing and dramatics. Sixteen year old me had crushes but never had a need to factor in a boyfriend in my life. In fact, marriage was not something I never really considered as a part of my future – I was going to be a single carefree something, but definitely NOT married. So when I had a very vivid dream of me in a wedding dress, looking up at this boy I just met, I was perplexed. Why was I suddenly dreaming about marrying this guy?
A few days after the camp, he sent me a message through ICQ – an ancient messaging platform that was extra slow because we only had dial up connection back then. Getting to know someone from another town at this point in history required patience and consistency. There were no handy profiles to look at, no personal cell phones to communicate with, and five hours of driving between our cities. This was not at all convenient. We got to know each other through ICQ messages and late night long distance phone calls using a calling card (so as not to rack up the parental’s phone bills) and involving some ninja skills to disconnect all other phone lines in the house so that only the one I snuck into my room would ring.
This blissful stage all came to a screeching halt when after only a few weeks, he typed out the dreaded words, “I love you.”
Terrified of what those words actually mean, I refused to write anything back, not even a platonic, “Thank you.”
Because at 16, what do you really know?
I ignored his declaration of love.
I ignored his messages too. But because the hope of world peace was firmly imbedded in my 16 year old heart, I could not be the cause of someone’s distress for long.
He told me a few years later that sending those words was not a mistake, he knew he loved me very early on. He said that the few days he spent waiting for my reply was agonizing. He asked my friends (via ICQ) if he did something wrong or if I was ok. He was actually certain that because I did not return his sentiments that I did not care for him at all.
How wrong he was.
Despite ignoring his feelings and denying my own feelings towards him, our friendship grew. He continued to send me messages and call me and I truly grew to care about him.
On July 30, 2000 he came down with his family for a retreat where I was in charge of all the children’s activities. Under the guise of helping me out, he spent some time with me and a room full of children. Sometime that weekend we went for a walk during lunch. After our hands brushed a few times during our walk, he very cautiously held my hand. We sat on a park bench and just did what we did best: we talked. On that beautiful sunny afternoon he asked me a very important question: “Can I keep you?”
And that was how our long distance relationship officially began.
The next few years of high school was full of sporadic clandestine meetings (including the-day-I-skipped-class-to-go-on-the-Mindbender-at-West Ed and the-throwing-a-rock-at-my-window-incident because that IS how he rolls) and a LOT of letter writing because this was in the time before the email and the handheld mobile devices.
We both knew that once high school was done and he (finally) moved into the city maybe we would finally be in a “normal relationship.” But if you knew Stephen, you would know that he shatters all parameters of normal.
The thing about finding your soulmate when you are 16 is that there is still A LOT of growing up that needs to be done.
After 3 years of sporadic visits every other month, Stephen finally moved to Edmonton. It was September of 2003; we were in the age of flip phones, cheap gas and fillet-o-fish Fridays. We went from barely seeing each other to being together every day. His trusty blue ford ranger was a welcome sight at the end of a long day at university and a promise of another day together.
We attribute much of our value formation and character development as young adults to our youth group. We started by just attending meetings, but it wasn’t long before we were the ones planning the meetings too. It was during these late night planning sessions that I watched the boy who could talk to me until the sun came up, become a man with a vision.
Stephen was a dreamer. Not the “wouldn’t-it-be-nice-if” kind of dreamer. He was the one who envisioned something and got it done. Then he will do it again, only better and with more people. He loved music and wanted to host a Battle of the Bands on campus. So we planned it and did it. Snowboarding trip with his friends? Let’s load a whole bus and go. Fundraising to build a house for ANCOP Canada? Let’s build five and do this every year. For Stephen it was, “Go big or go home.” It was an incredible joy to work with him and grow with him. Unnerving, most certainly, but his drive was contagious. His dedication and charisma defined him.
For five glorious years we grew up together and he became a prominent fixture in my life. He was my biggest cheerleader. He talked me out of the Faculty of Business and encouraged me to pursue Education. He supported me during my 4 month mission trip to the Philippines and drove me all the way to Fort McMurray for my first job interview. Then the weekend after, we packed up all my belongings and a brand new ikea mattress into a hatchback and drove me back to Fort McMurray so I could begin my new career as teacher (at his old high school). At 23, after completing university, fulfilling my dream of doing mission work, and landing a secure teaching position, I was ready for the next phase in our very normal relationship.
Little did I know that on April 18, 2008, Stephen’s life would take a different trajectory with three new words, “I have leukemia.”
What would you do if you are only given two weeks to live?
He called me to tell me he was five minutes away from my apartment and we should go out for dinner. When I went down to open the door, he told me he just got off the phone with his doctor who told him to go right to the hospital because he had acute promyelocytic leukemia. We drove five hours back to Edmonton in a snow storm and were told in the ER that without treatment, his particular type of leukemia would progress at a rapid pace. If we did nothing, he had at most 2 weeks to live. If we went with the prescribed treatment, he may get five years. He also will never have children. That is a hard pill to swallow at 23.
Over the next few months I returned to Edmonton every weekend while he underwent treatment at the hospital. We were back to late night long distance phone calls and whispered “I love you’s,” both of us trying to mask our fears, both of us trying hard to be brave. This time whenever there would be long silences on the other line, it wasn’t because he fell asleep, it was because he was crying. During the summer when we would have attended World Youth Day with our friends, I took the first bus everyday to be with him at the hospital. I created lesson plans while he was administered chemotherapy, received blood transfusions, and given antibiotics. When I pushed him around in his wheelchair, we joked about how we would have wheelchair races when we got old. We talked about what we would do when he would finally get better because at 23 there was no other alternative. His stubbornness would not let leukemia get the best of him.
In October of 2008, Stephen defied all odds and achieved complete remission.
When I came home for Thanksgiving he took me out to a very fancy restaurant. After dinner, we went to a small church and stood before a statue of our Blessed Mother which had a beautiful bouquet of fresh roses at her feet. He held my hand and asked if we could say a prayer of thanksgiving before he drove me home. He ended his prayer with the Hail Mary, then then got down on one knee and asked he if could keep me forever.
I said yes.
Stephen planned every aspect of our wedding day. It was the age before vistaprint and pinterest; I took care of all the crafty things like our handmade invitations, personalized thank you cards, children’s activity books (because I’m a teacher) and the scrapbook of our relationship. He planned our wedding like he would plan a conference, complete with transportation spreadsheets and a logistics team. For me the whole day was full of surprises! He had arranged for my hair and make up to be done at my parent’s house (I was really going to just straighten my hair); he had my bouquet delivered to my house (I didn’t even think of getting a bouquet!); we even had a decor team who moved gigantic flower columns from our ceremony to our reception!
He told me many years later that planning our wedding day was the only thing that got him through his summer with leukemia. He had prayed all summer for clarity in his life and the only thought that gave him complete consolation was the vision of our perfect wedding day.
We got married on August 22 (the Memorial of the Queenship of Mary) in the small church where he had proposed ten months before. We had a lunch reception at the Faculty Club with our family from out of town and a cocktail reception at The Timms Center for the Arts with our friends. With the worst behind us, we could once again begin to dream of a normal life.
We didn’t get the normal happy ending.
We did give it our very best shot though. One day, I will write about our cancer story, because that needs to be heard. But that’s not for today.
We were blessed with five healthy normal years, four miraculous children, and three more years battling cancer. We still had our late night talks, mostly whispered so as not to wake the children sprawled on our bed. Sometimes, we would talk until the sun came up, just like we did when we were first getting to know each other. We would always find time to slow dance in the living room despite the mess that came with four young kids
On September of 2015, just ONE month shy of being achieving complete recovery, leukemia returned with a vengeance. As I sat with him on his hospital bed with a million and one things going on through my head, he casually mentioned that the one thing he missed the most was working with me on a project. We really did find our passion when we were serving others. In an effort to find something we could both work on that would help our family and also give back to the community, he founded Foundry Room. With four small kids it was very easy to get lost in the parenting and work dichotomy and forget what brought us together; Stephen had the foresight to continue to dream bigger than I could imagine and rest his faith in a greater source. Despite facing leukemia again, we embarked on our last project together: a venue that would allow people to fulfill their dreams.
Stephen’s faith and vision still resonates strongly in my every day. There are small miracles that have happened since his death that has allowed our family to begin to heal and find purpose again. The people who visit Foundry Room and share their dreams and vision with me, the countless blessings that come our way when all hope seems lost, and the incredible business opportunities that have fallen into our laps over the last year has Stephen’s hand written all over it. I am literally in his shoes living out his dream. When I am overwhelmed with the sheer amount of work that needs to be done, I hear a very resounding, “Let’s do this April, go big or go home!”
In the last 20 years I found my soulmate, married my best friend, and buried my husband. I walked with him down the aisle at our wedding filled with joy. Then I walked with him down the aisle for his funeral in unbearable sorrow.
This could be a very tragic story. Except, it really isn’t.
More than anything, Stephen’s death has led me to realize that our time together was only a small part of a greater Love. One which I am not at all worthy of but am so humbled to receive. A Story that began long before I met Stephen and continues after his death.
The Real Love Story is still being written.
Our Extraordinary 