It's been nearly 3 years since I've told the story on my blog (and even then, I think it was in the tags of some other post?) so I might as well.
Spring of 2023, my fiance and I were going on super casual dates. Emphasis on super casual, because most of the time they were like grocery store trips with dinner attached, and I thought they were platonic hangouts. I hadn't had so much as a crush by that point, so I was pretty clueless.
He was totally in love with me though and just playing it cool, because the guys at our school have an unfortunate reputation of practically proposing marriage on the first date (which kills the chance to organically get to know a person) and because he knew I would be easily spooked (unfortunately true).
After we went on a hike together (I invited the whole friend group, but only he came), I realized we were becoming good friends. On the ride back, right as he was dropping me off in front of my dorm, I told something that I told my good friends: I have a chronic illness called fibromyalgia. He was very quiet. I said goodbye and got out of the car and we didn't speak of it again.
From then on, I was pretty open about my chronic illness. I made a billion jokes about it and such. He always got weird and quiet when I did. I was sad about that. "Great," I thought, "yet another person who is weirded out by my health issues. I hoped he would be better than that."
Once I started suspecting that he was in love with me, I used that as evidence to gaslight myself into believing that we were just friends, because clearly he was too freaked out by my crazy illness to be in love with me, right?
But then he started hardcore pursuing me and asking me to hang out with him in some small way every single day, and in general being very kind and thoughtful and caring for me in every mundane way he could.
Then, several weeks later, he confessed his love. The story of the events leading up to that love confession are also very funny (involving migraines and an impassioned rant about Sheldon Vanauken's A Severe Mercy) but I will not bog this narrative down with the details. The next day, we had a good old-fashioned DTR. I told him I reciprocated his feelings and then, because I was still bothered by how weird he got whenever I brought up my chronic illness, I said "Oh, by the way, I'm super open with talking about my fibromyalgia, so feel free to ask me any questions if you're curious about how it works!"
He said, very earnestly, "Are you dying?".
Rewind to the day we went on that hike. I say I have a chronic illness. He completely misses what it's called (I guess "fibromyalgia" doesn't stick in the brain) and just hears chronic illness. I was the first chronically ill person he had met before and the wires got crossed in his mind and he mistook it for terminal illness. He didn't want to ask, though, because he assumed it was a very sensitive matter.
A couple days later, he overheard me have a conversation with another chronically ill friend about death and suffering and Christian hope. In that conversation, I said (quoting Sarah Sparks) "you know, with this chronic illness, every day I'm learning how to die."
He took that as confirmation of his suspicions: I was dying. He told no one. He just bore that silently for weeks. When I made jokes about my terminal illness, he thought I was being very brave, but did not have the heart to joke along with me.
Fast forward back to the DTR conversation. After I find this out, I laugh in his face for like ten minutes (poor guy). I ask follow-up questions, like
Q: How did you cope with the fact I was dying?
A: I just decided I wanted to spend as much time with you as I can, for the time I had left, and then when the time came I'd cross that bridge when I get there.
Q: When did you think I was dying?
A: Well, I figured there was no way you would move to [UNGLAMOROUS COLLEGE TOWN] in your last year of life, so I figured you had like...five years, maybe?
He was so matter-of-fact about it. After I stopped laughing, I was deeply moved. Here I was, thinking that this guy was freaked out by my chronic illness, when all along he was quietly preparing to weather my terminal illness with me for the rest of my life.
A week later, in a follow-up conversation, I asked, "So is the reason why you've been so kind to me was because you thought I was dying?" and he replied, "Nope! My behavior was not conditional. I wasn't kind to you because you could die. I was kind to you because I could die at any time, and I want to be like Jesus in whatever time I have left."
Anyway, that pretty much convinced me I had to marry him and now, in a little over six weeks, I'm going to get that taken care of.
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