My Ideal Partner: How I Met, Married, And Cared For The Man I Loved Despite Debilitating Odds

By Abbie Johnson Taylor

In September of 2005, Abbie Johnson married Bill Taylor. She was in her mid−forties, and he was nineteen years older. Three months later, Bill suffered the first of two strokes that paralyzed his left side and confined him to a wheelchair. Abbie Johnson Taylor, once a registered music therapist, uses prose and poetry to tell the story of how she met and married her husband, then cared for him for six years despite her visual impairment. At first, there was a glimmer of hope that Bill would walk again, but when therapists gave up on him seven months after his second stroke, Taylor resigned herself to being a permanent family caregiver.

She discusses learning to dress him and transfer him from one place to another, sitting up with him at night when he couldn't urinate or move his bowels, and dealing with doctors and bureaucrats to obtain necessary equipment and services. There were happy times, like when she played the piano or guitar and sang his favorite songs, or when they went out to eat or to a concert. She also explains how she purchased a wheelchair accessible van and found people to drive it, so they wouldn't always depend on the local Paratransit service’s limited hours. In the end, she describes the painful decision she and Bill made to move him to a nursing home when he became too weak for her to care for him in September of 2012. He seemed to give up on life and passed away a month later.

Abbie Johnson Taylor lives in Sheridan, Wyoming and is the author of three previously published books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbie Johnson Taylor
• Release date: Jul 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370164301

Abbie Johnson Taylor

Besides My Ideal Partner and The Red Dress, Abbie Johnson Taylor is the author of a novel and two poetry collections. She's currently working on a third novel. Her work has appeared in Magnets and Ladders, The Writer's Grapevine, and other journals and anthologies. She is visually impaired and lives in Sheridan, Wyoming. For six years, she cared for her late husband, Bill, totally blind and partially paralyzed by two strokes. Please visit her website at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE BIG DAY

This couldn’t be happening, I told myself, as, in my underwear, I paced the upstairs hall in Grandma’s house between my aunt’s old bedroom and the bathroom. It was the afternoon of September 10, 2005. In the yard, I heard strains of music from the string duo my father hired for the occasion and the chatter of arriving guests. Soon the ceremony would start. Would I have to walk down the aisle on my father’s arm in my underwear? Where was my sister–in–law, Kathleen, who agreed to be matron of honor?

She was probably still at the motel with my brother, Andy; their two sons, Dylan and Tristan, ages eight and six, who were to be ushers; and their two–year–old daughter, Isabella, who would serve as flower girl. Not only were we missing ushers and a flower girl, but my dress was with Kathleen at the motel, or so I thought. Why wasn’t she here?

The front door banged, and to my relief, I heard the excited voices of my nephews and niece.

Go out back, and don’t mess up your nice clothes, Kathleen called before rushing up the stairs to greet me.

You have my dress? I asked, noticing she wasn’t carrying a garment.

No, it’s right there on the bed, she said, pointing to somewhere I couldn’t see.

With my limited vision, I could only make out people and objects close to me, and in the heightened emotional state of any bride–to–be, I hadn’t thought to look closely for the dress. I’d been pacing the floor and wringing my hands for twenty minutes, wondering where it was, and all this time, it was right in front of me.

Just breathe, said Kathleen, as she slipped the gown over my head. That was easy for her to say.

Later, fully dressed, I sat on the toilet seat while Kathleen applied my makeup. From the yard below, the string duo’s music and the din of voices drifted up and in through the open bathroom window. When I was ready, Kathleen said, Okay, we need something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Let’s see...

While she wandered through the upstairs rooms, I made my way to the ground floor, feeling anxious. The living room was deserted. Everyone was outside, waiting. Just as I sat on the couch to compose myself, Dad appeared and said, Honey, they’re starting Pachelbel’s Canon.

I leapt to my feet and called up the stairs to Kathleen, Screw something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Let’s do this.

I took Dad’s arm, and we maneuvered through the living and dining room and kitchen and out the back door. In minutes, Kathleen was at my side.

Isabella strolled down the makeshift aisle. Oh, look, said someone in the crowd. She’s dropping rose petals and picking them up again. Isn’t that cute?

I wanted to be annoyed, but she was only two. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what else could possibly go wrong.

Finally, I heard the musical cue for my entrance. Okay, now, I whispered to Dad, and we descended the back porch steps and moved down the aisle.

At first, I didn’t see Bill. Was he still at the Mint Bar? Then, all of a sudden, there he stood with his gray hair and sunglasses, wearing a green suit to match my gown. He took my hand and said, Hello, sweetie. Are you nervous?

As usual, his touch and voice were reassuring, and I smiled and said, No, now that you’re here.

Nothing else mattered, not the lost and found wedding dress, the late arrival of the matron of honor, the absence of something old, new, borrowed, blue, the errant flower girl. After a long day of preparation and celebration apart, we were finally together, unaware that tragedy would change our lives in three short months.

WHAT IS LOVE?

Being warmed from within by another,

having someone with whom to share dreams,

a soothing voice that comforts you,

gentle hands that smooth life’s hardships,

strong arms that hold you close,

lips that bring you pleasure.

Love is a heart that’s yours forever.

CHAPTER 1

THE BOMB DROPS

Dear Abbie, I’m writing to ask for your hand in marriage, the letter stated.

Oh, no, I said, as the index finger of my right hand scanned the Braille words on the page.

It was a Saturday evening in January 2005. This was all a bad dream, I thought, as I sat in the living room of my apartment. Any minute, my alarm clock would ring. I would wake up, and everything would be as it was before. Instead, the talking clock in the bedroom announced that it was 8:30.

I read the rest of the letter that explained how we could live together and tossed it into the wastebasket in shock. With the help of my closed–circuit television magnification system, I finished reading the mail and perused the evening paper, all the while thinking about the letter.

How could I marry Bill? I had only met him twice after corresponding with him for two years by email and phone. We had met through Newsreel, a cassette magazine that encouraged its blind and visually impaired subscribers to share ideas and contact information. I was forty–four, and he was nineteen years my senior.

Born and raised in Fowler, Colorado, Bill lost some of his vision at an early age due to rheumatoid arthritis, which also affected his legs. Through surgery as a child, he was able to walk, but he lost the rest of his vision twenty years later. After graduating from the Colorado School for the Deaf and the Blind, he was educated at Adams State College and Colorado State University, where he received a degree in business administration. He lived in California for twenty years, where he worked for SwimQuip and JBL, before returning to his hometown. I was inspired by the fact that, despite being totally blind, he could own his own house, as well as several others he rented out, and that he could maintain these properties and make repairs.

I knew he was an expert at computers, since he owned a computer store in Fowler for another twenty years after returning from California. He and I shared some of the same music preferences. He downloaded more than two thousand songs onto his computer from various sources on the Internet and sent me tapes of these songs. His mother lived in a nursing home, and he was drawn to me because I was a registered music therapist, working at a nursing home in Sheridan, Wyoming, which I’d been doing for fifteen years.

I received degrees in music from Sheridan College and Rocky Mountain College in Billings, Montana, before going into music therapy. After two more years of study at Montana State University, which included nine hours of practicum, I completed a six–month internship at a nursing home in Fargo, North Dakota before returning to my hometown of Sheridan, Wyoming.

I wrote my first novel, We Shall Overcome, with Bill’s support. He encouraged me in my other writing endeavors and listened when I told him about problems at work. He was a good friend, but how could I leave Sheridan and live with him in Fowler, Colorado, more than 500 miles away?

According to Bill, the little farming community had none of the amenities I enjoyed in Sheridan: no public transportation, YMCA, Walmart, or theater. In Sheridan, I sang in a women’s barbershop group and attended monthly writers’ group meetings, but there was none of that in Fowler. Pueblo, Colorado, a town thirty–six miles away, had all this, but how was I to get there?

I thought back to the time we first met in person. Dad and I were driving to visit my brother, Andy, and his family in Los Alamos, New Mexico. Since Fowler wasn’t too far out of our way, we arranged to visit Bill at his home.

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in April 2004. I didn’t know what to expect as Dad and I climbed the two narrow steps that led to the front porch of Bill’s white house. I wasn’t sure we had the right address, since there were no signs of life, but when the door opened and a tall figure sporting a cane and sunglasses appeared, said hello, and extended his hand, I was put at ease. Hi, are you Bill Taylor? I asked.

Yes, he answered, and you must be Abbie Johnson.

We shook hands.

After a tour of his house, we sat at the dining room table. Dad left to get gas and look around the town. Bill asked, Do you like Dr. Pepper?

I love Dr. Pepper! I said, amazed that he had my favorite beverage in the house.

I also discovered we both liked country music and oldies. He’d never heard of National Public Radio and didn’t care for classical music, jazz, or opera. He liked to read Western novels and mysteries, which I could have done without, but that didn’t matter. I thought we could still be friends.

During the drive to New Mexico, Dad said, I think he wants to marry you.

Oh, come on, I said, and didn’t give it another thought.

The following December, Dad and I again visited Bill on our way to New Mexico. His home was decorated for the holidays, and while Dad was in the bathroom, Bill said, Let’s kiss under the mistletoe. I thought he was joking, so I laughed.

Now I decided to try not to think about Bill or the marriage proposal and go to bed. Needless to say, although I was tired after a long day of work, I didn’t sleep well that night. I lay awake at four o’clock in the morning while newly fallen snow was being cleared from the sidewalk outside.

I composed a Braille letter in my head. Dear Bill, although I like you and have valued our friendship over the past couple of years, I don’t see myself marrying you at this time. I hope we can still be friends. I was tempted to get up, write the letter, and mail it, but decided to try to sleep some more, since I had another long day ahead of me.

I dozed fitfully for the next couple of hours until my talking clock played a joyful tune and the synthetic male voice announced it was seven o’clock. My mind was in a fog as I showered, dressed, and heated instant oatmeal in the microwave. I listened to National Public Radio, but not even the news of the day and other human interest stories took my mind completely off Bill’s proposal.

I finally took the elevator to the ground floor of my apartment building and waited in the entry for the Minibus, the local Paratransit service I used to get to and from work and other places not within walking distance. Since it was Sunday, the Minibus would quit running at one o’clock. I worked until five-thirty, so Dad would pick me up. I somehow managed to get through the day, despite the life−changing decision weighing me down.

After work, we drove to Grandma’s house for Sunday dinner. It wasn’t much of a family meal, just me, Dad, and Grandma, but it was something we tried to do every Sunday. Dad and I picked up sandwiches and chips at a Subway shop and took them to Grandma’s house.

As we sat down to the meal, I could hold back no longer. Dad, Grandma, Bill Taylor wants to marry me.

To my astonishment, Dad said, Well, I’ll be damned. You should think about this, honey. He’s a fine fellow.

I’ve only met him twice, I said.

Grandma and I aren’t going to be around much longer. Who’s going to take care of you?

I can take care of myself. I’ve been living on my own and holding down a job for years. I can always take a taxi home from work when the Minibus isn’t running.

She shouldn’t marry him if she’s not sure, said Grandma.

Why don’t you at least go down to Fowler and spend some time with him before you make a decision? Dad said.

Maybe he was right. I composed another Braille letter in my head, suggesting I visit Bill’s hometown to see if I would like living there with him.

After I returned home, before I had a chance to write the letter, Bill called me. What are you doing? he asked.

Oh, just working on the computer and thinking about a marriage proposal I got in the mail.

He laughed. I laughed. He said, What do you think?

I was planning to write you a letter. I’d like to come down to Fowler this summer to see if I’d like living with you there.

After a long pause, he said, Actually, I’m thinking of moving to Sheridan.

Oh, but your letter said...

I’m tired of living in a little town where there isn’t much to do.

You want to live here?

Yes. We’ll have to get a bigger place. My stuff along with your stuff wouldn’t all fit in your one–bedroom apartment, would it?

No, of course not, I said, my mind reeling. Marrying him wouldn’t be so bad if I could stay in my hometown, I thought.

Maybe I could come to Sheridan for a week or so in a couple of months.

I panicked. I needed more time to get used to the idea. Wouldn’t you rather wait until June? You wouldn’t have to worry about bad roads.

I think the roads should be okay by the middle of March.

It was obvious he didn’t want to wait. Maybe in two months I could get myself in a better frame of mind about this. My thoughts were in a whirlwind. One minute, I liked the idea of being married to Bill. The next, I wondered if I was getting in over my head.

As a result of the shock and stress, I came down with a bad cold that lasted three weeks. When I told Bill, he said he wished he were there to take care of me, but this didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted my mother to take care of me and advise me, but she had died several years earlier. I had never felt so alone or confused.

WHERE IS SHE?

Always there for me,

She felt my sorrows,

celebrated my joys.

Now she’s gone.

My life is in turmoil.

Where is she?

CHAPTER 2

A VISIT FROM MY FUTURE HUSBAND

Bill researched realtors online and found houses we could look at while he was in Sheridan, much to my consternation. He emailed me at least once a day and called me every night. He even called Dad once or twice.

He’s got it bad for you, doesn’t he? said Grandma.

In February, he sent me a care package for Valentine’s Day, including the obligatory chocolates, a stuffed bear that sang Annie’s Song when her hand was squeezed, and a cassette of love songs he downloaded onto his computer. One of my favorite songs on that tape was I Want to Spend My Lifetime Loving You, from The Mask of Zorro. I marveled that there was a man who wanted to spend the rest of his life loving me. Did I want to spend the rest of my life loving him?

Another song I liked was Selena’s I Could Fall in Love. I was amazed that a man could fall in love with me. Could I fall in love with him?

When I told my boss, Margaret, the activities director at Eventide, about Bill and his proposal and impending visit, she asked, Have you had sex yet?

No, I answered, mortified.

"Then give it a