five hours, we had a beautiful daughter—Catherine Michele.
But, three days later—when Steve came to check us out—he had a major problem. We’d gotten a $150 refund from our income tax—and used it to pay the doctor. Now the hospital wanted $100.55. Steve’s teaching job (he’d gotten lucky and been hired at Otis Orchards High School in the Spokane Valley so we could stay in our house) wouldn’t start until September. He needed a summer job. We barely had enough money saved to buy groceries for the month.
“I can’t pay you now,” he said.
“That’s not acceptable, Mr. Matule.”
“You can’t get money out of a turnip,” he explained.
“Well! I never! Rules are rules. You can’t take your wife and baby home until the bill is paid. In full.”
“I’ll have it taken care of by the first of September.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Okay,” he said as he turned to leave. “I’ll be back to pick them up when I’ve got all the money. The hospital can give them board and room ’til then.” He began walking away.
“Now, Mr. Matule,” he heard. He continued toward the door.
“Mr. Matule. Come back. We’ll work something out.”
A half hour later, the three of us were driving north to our home on Montgomery Street.
By late August, paying $10 a week (Steve had gotten a job at Allied Truck Lines in June), I wrote the final check to Sacred Heart Hospital. We celebrated with milkshakes from The Westminster on Division Street.
Ten days later, on May 21, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. Virtually all by myself.
Steve was at class during the day. In the evening he went to a big Gonzaga shindig at the Ridpath Hotel. Although I was invited (it was one of those free things—Steve was Vice President of the Student Body that year), things had changed. My baby daughter needed me.
My mother had come on the train to help after Michele was born. But . . . She’d forgotten everything she ever knew about taking care of an infant. She couldn’t even manage the brand new automatic washer and dryer we’d bought on time. Even though the doctor said “no stairs for a month,” I still had to walk up and down daily—albeit slowly—to do the laundry. She did cook—but baking was my mother’s thing, not cooking.
I decided to have a little pity party. All by myself.
Where was my fun? Why wasn’t I dancing at the Ridpath? Why wasn’t I eating steak and lobster? Why wasn’t I enjoying a celebratory glass of champagne? You only turn twenty-one once! I told myself.
I remembered the school year of 1955-56—the year Steve and I were engaged. One fun thing after another.
As they said in the movies, Ain’t love grand? Steve and I had watched Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby in High Society on our honeymoon. I could see Steve and me on that yacht, singing True Love. I could see myself in Grace’s gorgeous gowns (some of the dresses I sewed with my own two hands were equally lovely if I do say so myself.) I’d worn those gowns. I’d danced at the best hotels, the finest country clubs. Dined at the Manito Country Club with a Gonzaga supporter—I’d enjoyed my first raw oysters that evening. At my wedding I’d worn a bridal dress that had been featured on the Modern Bride cover.
Oh, I’d been spoiled! And I’d taken it all for granted!
The baby cried. I took her in my arms, calmed her. I gazed at the perfection that Steve and I had unknowingly created while we were enjoying the beauty of our love. Her little fingernails were just forming. She clutched my thumb.
I knew right then. Life is a miracle. With ups—and downs. I was where I was meant to be. Doing what I was meant to do.
I heard the car in the driveway. Met Steve at the back door. Together we hurried to our bedroom. Made sure the latch was closed tight (my mother was sleeping across the hall). Lay beside each other and cuddled.
I celebrated the last moments of the perfect twenty-first birthday—in my love’s arms, my baby daughter two steps away.
God is good!
In the next three years I learned many things.
Daily discomfort—when I took my temperature, rectally, every morning before I got out of the bed, to see if I was ovulating.
Frustration—his and mine—as I had to say, once again, “Not tonight.”
Acceptance as we spent our first wedding anniversary eating a take-out pizza. Watching Debby Reynolds in Tammy at the drive-in movie theatre—with Michele in her detached buggy in the back seat. (I still remember every detail whenever I hear anyone sing, “Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love.”)
Toasting our first year together—after the movie—with root beers in the A&W parking lot.
Happiness when, after a year and a half, we moved to a bigger house. We still had the aqua blue cabinets. But we’d acquired a dining room “el”—we could leave the two leaves of our table up all the time. And it had three bedrooms—master, Michele’s nursery, and an extra bedroom. Plus a bigger monthly house payment—$15 more. I quickly learned how much $15 could be.
Shock as Michele stopped breathing—a hard candy lodged in her throat. But Steve knew just what to do. He banged her tiny chest. Turned her upside down. Willed the round sphere out her mouth.
Joy as she sputtered, reached for me, and said, “Mommy.”
Worry as Steve began having bouts of intense pain—and blood in his urine.
Horror when we heard the news—kidney stones. How could this be? He’d just turned 24. We had no hospital insurance (couldn’t afford it).
Desperation as the surgeon said, “This is an emergency. Steve will die if he doesn’t have surgery. Right now!”
Exhaustion as I worked at my new job in the bowels of the Old National Bank—a job taken to pay off the bill for the surgeon and Steve’s two-week stay at the hospital. Daily I worked eight hours, visited Steve, got Michele from the babysitter, and did whatever was needed at home.
And—the next day—began all over again.
During that time, I remember thinking. This isn’t what I signed up for. It’s not fair!
I’d expected good stuff in my marriage. Sure, I’d said the, “better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health” words at our wedding.
But I’d never given a thought to the worse, or poorer, or sickness parts actually happening. Not to us!
Looking back, I think I needed a taste of humility.
