L.A. Affairs: I finally met a good guy but then I was diagnosed with cancer. What now?
(Lori Saint Rome / For The Times)
I had been unlucky in love. I was over 40 and I had never been married. My two best friends met their boyfriends using online dating sites, so I signed up hoping to meet my match.
I found a doctor who square danced, a lawyer who made his own beer and an accountant who baked brownies. Those were good dates. They were gentlemen even though they never called me back.
The bad dates are another story. One man met me at Jerry’s Famous Deli in Encino for lunch. When the check came, he explained that he had forgotten his wallet and I would have to pay the bill. I got up ostensibly to use the restroom. I called over our waitress, asked for a separate check and paid it, leaving him to wash dishes.
I learned how to date later than almost everyone I knew. When I felt clueless, the original Gidget — who has been married since 1965 — served as my love expert.
My next date met me at a health food restaurant. We had a pleasant conversation, and he paid the bill. As he walked me to my car, our waitress came running after us, yelling about not receiving a tip. It was a scene! I left while they continued the screaming match.
I forgot about these dates, however, when I read Rick’s profile. He was an engineer working for Boeing, and his hobby was reading the Bible. The first time I met Rick, he brought me a flower — not a bouquet of flowers, but a 2-foot cotton flower with a smiley face. There was an immediate spark. He was handsome and considerate and sweet.
I had concerns about him, though. He tells bad jokes to anyone who will listen. “I’m on a seafood diet. I see food and I eat it.” When he hears someone speaking Spanish, he says, “My Spanish stops at taco, burrito and enchilada.” There used to be an Orange County shopping complex called the Block, and whenever Rick had out-of-town company, he would ask them if they’d like to take a walk around the block. Then he’d drive them to the Block. He thinks that’s hilarious.
Another thing: Rick is a very careful driver. He absolutely refuses to turn right on a red light even when traffic is clear. Some drivers behind us wait patiently, while others blow their horns and make unfortunate hand gestures. One day a police officer on a motorcycle was behind us and pulled us over. He said, “Don’t you know you can make a right turn on a red light?” Rick keeps the vehicle code in his glove box and proceeded to show the officer the line, “You may make a right turn on a red light,” not must. The officer wished me good luck with him and left in a huff.
I played coy for a few rapid-fire texts, extracting information out of him for my own amusement. It turns out my ill-fated virtual romance led me to realize my potential.
Rick had concerns about me too. He hates that I wash the dishes immediately after meals and thinks I’m crazy for talking to the TV while watching Dodgers and Angels games.
We didn’t kiss until the fifth date, and even then, it was my idea. You can’t rush a man whose hobby is reading the Bible. He also took me to meet his family. He has a lovely sister, Melinda, who is a teacher like me, a brother-in-law, Warren, with an ever-present smile, and a brother, Alan, a computer expert who runs his own business. They were very welcoming. We sat on the floor eating cheese puffs and playing Monopoly.
Because Rick lives in Stanton, we saw the sights of Orange County. We went to Disneyland and posed for pictures with Minnie and Mickey Mouse. We visited Knott’s Berry Farm, where the fried chicken is even better than the pie. At the traffic circle in Orange, we roamed the many antique stores and came across some things from my childhood that are now considered antiques. The Orange County Fair was exciting. My highlight was the goat beauty pageant. (Rick cheered for the contestants in the pig races.) Corned beef sandwiches and cheese strudel were on the menu for us at the famous Katella Bakery, Deli & Restaurant.
I live in Sherman Oaks, so we visited Universal Studios. We frequented the Studio City Farmers Market and bought baked goods from Homeboy Industries. We peered through the fence at the iconic Sunkist building, watching the construction of Citrus Commons across the street from Westfield Fashion Square.
We set a wedding date, but I wasn’t feeling well so I went for a checkup. My doctor took a CT scan and discovered I had pancreatic cancer. We saw a specialist who said I would die in a matter of months. My friends said Rick would leave me, but he did the opposite. Rick was on a mission. He spent all of his free time researching my illness and finding the best doctors.
After dinner, this charming man kissed me. My legs felt like rubber. I had trouble standing up as I unlocked my car and waved goodbye.
Best of all, Rick showed up with suitcases and moved into my home. He slept on my uncomfortable couch. He took me to every doctor’s appointment, kept track of my medications, filled my refrigerator with healthy food, composed a song for me and told me I was beautiful when my hair fell out. Melinda crocheted caps and donated them to my fellow bald patients.
My life today consists of watching television, reading, embroidering and drawing. I’m hooked on “The Bachelorette.” And I’m afraid of my mailbox because the co-pay bills are sky high. I’ve been in and out of Providence Holy Cross Medical Center, but I’m used to hospitals because I had a second job tutoring homebound and hospitalized children. At one point during my journey, my doctor was told I wasn’t eating enough, so he asked me what my favorite food was. I replied tomatoes, so he interrupted his busy schedule and went out to buy me a bag of them.
My diagnosis was 2½ years ago, and although I’m not in remission yet, I’m still fighting and I will get there. I’ve also realized two things. One is that everybody knows somebody with cancer and is anxious to tell me all about it. The second is that I’m madly in love with Rick, and all of my concerns are out the window.
My new hobbies are trying on bridal gowns and reading the Bible.
The author is a retired teacher of all levels and subjects. She lives in Sherman Oaks.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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